The Secret of Spring (6 page)

"Zygote-my heart. Can't take this," he said, clutching at his chest. "My medication. In the cabinet in my office. Green label."

"Get them!" Zygote snapped to Elton.

"No, make him talk first," Elton said sadistically.

"Get them!" repeated Zygote. "He can't say anything if he dies, you imbecile!"

Elton sulked off into the other room and returned with the bottle which he flipped to the prone magician. Gabriel fumbled with the cap and finally managed to slide one tablet beneath his tongue.

"Feeling better, I trust, Doctor?" asked Zygote. "This sort of violence appalls me. I am a physician, too, you know. Come, give me the information and we can surely work something out like civilized beings. There is enough in this for both of us. We can work together."

Gabriel eyed Zygote contemptuously, if blearily. "You shall never have the Secret. Never!" The blood had gathered in his throat, forcing him to cough violently. He tried to stand, but slid back down the wall, closing his eyes against the pain. Then, realizing that there could be no compromise with such ilk, he played his trump. He swallowed the rest of the pills. It was a relief. The pain faded, leaving only his hearing, for a while.

"Talk, you doddering old fool!" Elton screamed, kicking him viciously in the rib cage with his pointed shoes. "I can make you talk!"

Zygote gave an exasperated sigh and shut his eyes momentarily before glaring at his companion. "I seriously doubt that, Elton," he said dryly. "This man is dead."

5

Palli
Parlour

Herb had been wandering aimlessly, trying to focus his swirling
  
thoughts
  
into
  
a
 
coherent
 
pattern.
  
The encounter with Lily at the Hall still weighed heavily on his mind. He wondered if he would find himself returning to her to propose a union after
all?
All this time that he had been so certain that it was over between them, Lily had been patiently biding her time, not giving up on him.

Herb began to lose conviction. Seeing her again had triggered a chain reaction. See Lily, want Lily. There had been a time he had not thought her so unsuitable. Even though he had been the one to transplant, deep down he knew she would be waiting should he decide to commit. Not fair, but true. Was that the real reason he had never officially ended it? Had he wanted her to wait?

From their last conversation, it was plain the door was wide open, the ground still fertile. Lily was a nice girl. Perhaps too nice for her own good. Herb would choose to remain friends, but knew in his heart that was impossible. Lily was a union-or-nothing girl.

Herb felt suddenly lonely. It was growing late. The tri-moons were rising. He had been walking without noticing where his feet had taken him. It had seemed important only to keep moving. Now as he turned the corner, he saw it was one of several streets in a seedy part of town. Potted plants leaned against doorways of disreputable establishments or sat along the curbs talking to each other. One specimen came toward Herb from the opposite direction, wobbling uneasily on his feet, and reeled into him as he passed.

"
Par'n
me-" he slurred, weaving drunkenly onward.

Herb moved aside to give him ample passing space, then continued on. As he approached one of the local
polli
parlours
, a top heavy female
Treeple
boldly beckoned with her branches and called out to him.

"Evening greetings, Sugarcane. Come on in." Her leaves waved most enticingly.

Herb paused, amused, but shook his head. He had never been inside one of those places, considering them a haunt of last resort for males unable to satisfy their needs within normal relationships.

"Oh, come on. Don't be so shy," she coaxed. "There's a free show inside, and you don't have to spend a scent. Costs nothing to look." She stuck out her mounds, which were blatantly outlined beneath the tight, thin garment. "You do like to look, don't you?"

Herb allowed curiosity to overcome embarrassment for the moment. "What type of show?" he asked.

The
Treeple
girl beamed. She could tell when she had a ripe one on the vine. "No, no, you have to see for yourself, Hot Pepper," she said, pushing him inside with her branches and closing the door behind him before he realized what had happened.

Herb decided to look around, since he was there. On the surface it looked like an ordinary book store, but on closer examination of the stock he realized he'd never seen books like those in the Public Botanical Library.

There were rows and stands of books and
magazinias
with lewd
photosynthegraphs
of all Paradise varieties in every imaginable pose. "
Ip
!
Ip
!
Ip
!" read the covers. Herb blushed deeply as he opened a
zinia
portraying his own
Veganoid
species in graduating steps of infertile pollination, or
Ip
, for short. A lovely green
Veganette
lay
with her limbs fully spread, tied up to stakes, revealing the open blossom. He slammed the
zinia
shut and put it quickly back on the shelf. He was no prude about
Ip
, as his recent vacation had proved, but there was a better way to express it than in these degrading
zinias
.

He almost fell into the stands as a young
Vinese
girl sidled up to him, allowing some of her tender firm vines to brush against his leg. He moved back, thinking he was in the way. She repeated the action and he realized it was intentional flirting on her part.

"Greetings, Green God. Want to go get potted? Afterward, we can roll together. Wouldn't you like that?" she asked seductively.

The strong fragrance of her blossoms assailed Herb's senses. He had never cross-pollinated, but she was alluring in a strange, foreign sort of way. It was a temptation, but he reflected sensibly that he probably couldn't afford her anyway. His prolonged vacation had depleted his savings, if not actually rendering him financially barren.

"How much?" he asked, more from curiosity than intent.

"Only five
merrygolds
," she purred, wrapping her slim vines possessively around one leg.

Herb wished she hadn't done that. Even though they were quite different in appearance, he had chlorophyll in his blood. Her close proximity was evoking automatic male reactions he wasn't prepared to handle.

"Sorry. I'm unscented," he said apologetically.

Her scent faded as she abruptly removed her vines, shrugged, and moved on to better prospects. She was a working girl with no time for dead beets. Herb watched her roll away with a sigh of regret. He saw her attach herself to an aging
Treeple
with dried leaves. The old bark pulled some yellow coins from his trunk and they left together.

Herb wandered over to the counters containing union aides. There were hoes and spades of all sizes for every need of each species. Sprinkling cans and small bags of "Fertilize
Her
" were piled high. Rubber plants were also popular items. Herb had never seen so many varieties. He reached out curiously, stretching a leaf. It snapped back with a loud pop. He looked up to see the eyes of nearby customers leering at him. Ducking his head, he moved quickly to another part of the store, his ears glowing emerald.

Pausing at a new counter, he discovered he was no better off there. It was devoted to appliances for self-pollination, or Sip, as it was crudely termed. Narcissus powder, kissing tulips, clinging vines, sweet-scented potpourris, and leaf wax lay blatantly beneath the bright lights of the display. Herb's color expanded to his lower regions. How could anyone find the nerve to purchase such items he
wondered.

Just then an attractive
Treeple
woman reached past him and gathered up a variety of the tulips and other items in her branches. She winked at him.

"
Polli
Party tonight," she explained, and looked Herb up and down appreciatively. "We can always use an extra male, if you're free?"

"Uh, sorry. I have a date," he lied.

She sighed with regret and carried her selections off to the clerk. She was joined by a couple of her friends who helped carry the purchases. Herb noted their attire and decided they were
Ippies
, members of a sexual cult that believed in free
Ip
, roaming from place to place in brightly painted conveyances, smoking weeds and using potting soil. His friend, Cling Ling, had joined such a caravan briefly, and told him all about it.

He started to leave,
then
noticed a concession stand at the back of the shop. Wandering over, he saw it sold potting soil and distilled water, though he doubted seriously if they had a license for it. The Patrol
were
lax these days. Maybe he should buy a pint of water and save a trip to the liquor shop.

"Finding what you need?" asked the proprietor, appearing at his elbow. He looked as if he didn't care for browsers. It was a hard business and those who ran it had thick stalks.

"The girl outside," Herb stuttered, "Uh, she mentioned a free show. No obligation." He felt ridiculous and out of place. He wished he had kept walking.

The manager became
more friendly
. "Sure, we have two shows tonight. Good for business." He blew the smoke of his suspicious-smelling
leaferette
into Herb's eyes. "The shows put the customers in the mood. Know what I mean?" He winked.

Herb didn't know, but he winked back. He didn't want to seem like a sapling.

"I know what you want," the manager said, putting a finger to his lip, and looking around cautiously before reaching beneath the counter for a small
zinia
. He handed it to Herb, winking again.

Curious, Herb accepted it and flipped open the cover. He gasped in disbelief. It was a seed catalog! The Patrol might be tolerant of most of these establishments, for sex played a large role in many of the new imported offworlder religions, but this was incredible. Child
pollinography
was an instant cancellation of license and closedown. Herb handed it back, disgusted.

"No?" The owner took it back, disappointed that his top draw had come up losers. "Just don't talk it around, huh, Sprout?"

Herb grimaced. As if he'd tell anyone he had looked at that filth. He turned to leave. The clerk grabbed him by the sleeve.

"Hey, you haven't seen the show yet. Two tender young sprouts, hardly out of the hot house." He noted Herb's frown. "Oh, wait. The second show is just the ticket for a sophisticate like
yourself
, sir. Vivacious Violet is performing in the Orchid room." He grabbed Herb around the shoulders before he could speak and guided him down a dimly lit corridor and shoved him through a curtain of wallflowers.

Herb was left at the back of the small dark room with hard chairs filled with different varieties of males. He took a seat near the exit and slumped
down,
hoping no one there knew him. But if they were there, he was seeing them too, he reasoned. Even so, he kept low as the strains of the Chlorophyll Harmonica orchestra began. The harmonicas whined in rhythm as the main attraction entered and began her bump and grind.

Herb's eyes popped out on stems, figuratively speaking. He had never seen anyone like her. Not only was she a fully matured
Treeple
, but her leaves had been pruned, revealing the smooth dark bark of her branches. They swayed wantonly above her head in a
scentual
rhythm. Sap oozed from her exposed mounds and ran down the torso of her bare trunk. Her hips moved wildly to the music as it ended in a building crescendo. The crowd of males cheered and stomped while Herb sat in shock.

And then it happened. Herb gasped as the
Treeple
peeled back the bark opening from the center of her trunk to display the tender bud beneath. Never had he been exposed to such lasciviousness! Even as he was repulsed intellectually, he could feel his stamen unrolling. Herb clenched his teeth together and swallowed, forcing it to the back of his mouth, and stumbled out into the bright light of the store front.

The manager, swift to observe the effect his acts had upon the customers, offered him a private room upstairs with one of several passionflowers, retained for such purposes. Herb almost wished he had the
merrygolds
, but declined with a shake of his head. It was difficult for him to speak at the moment so he shrugged and gestured to his pockets. The manager got the message but wasn't ready to give up yet.

"Then how about a booth? You know. For a green thumb," he said, leering.

Herb was appalled. It was a long walk home, but self-pollination was not something to be indulged in public houses. He had heard about such booths in school. They called them Sippers. They were provided for the exclusive use of unruly stamen. The practitioner would place the distended member over his thumb and blow until the yellow pollen erupted in a cloud of ecstacy. It could happen to the best of
Veganoids
, but was not something one spoke of in mixed company.

"These are class
A
booths. For a little extra we can run a hologram show while you enjoy your privacy," the clerk pressed.