Like all her other plants from far-off
worlds, Aunt Amy hoped the Venusian Rambler
would win a prize. It hoped so too.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1950.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Captain Bjornson shook a grizzled head. "I never saw a plant I likedthe looks of less," he said. "I don't know how he got it through theplanetary plant quarantine. You take my advice, Amy, and watch out forit." He took another of the little geela nut cookies from the quaintold lucite platter, and bit into it appreciatively.
Mrs. Dinsmore sniffed, "I don't know what you're driving at," she saidcoldly, "or why you're so prejudiced against my poor little Rambler.You know perfectly well that Robert would never send me anything theleast bit dangerous."
Captain Bjornson paused with another cookie half-way to his lips andlooked at her. "Wouldn't send you anything dangerous!" he exclaimed."Why, Amy, have you forgotten how your face was swelled up for twoweeks from that tree cutting he sent you? The doctor said it was acontact poison worse than sumach, and he tried to get you to go to thehospital. What about the time that cactus from the Blue Desert wentto seed, and I spent thirty-six hours picking spines out of you? Whatabout—" Mrs. Dinsmore gave a warning sniff.
"Well, all right," Bjornson said. "I know how fond you are of Bob, andI know you don't like me to mention his mistakes. I'll grant you hemeans well. So what? He's flighty, scatter-brained, and brash. To usean expression that was current when I was a boy, Bob is a twerp."
Mrs. Dinsmore pulled the lucite platter so far over to her own sideof the table that Bjornson couldn't get another cookie from itwithout getting up and stretching out along the table cloth. "I don'tagree with you," she said distantly. "Robert is a splendid fellow,so thoughtful and considerate. He takes a real interest in my soapcarvings, and how many young men with an important position like his,third mate on a space freighter with a regularly scheduled run, wouldremember to send back plants from every port of call to an aunt onearth? I shouldn't be surprised if I won a blue ribbon at the flowershow again this year; my Golden Rain plant is about to bloom. Roberttells me it's a lovely thing."
The captain cast a wistful look at the cookie plate. "Well, don't say Ididn't warn you," he replied. "When's Bob due in port?"
Mrs. Dinsmore's face relaxed. "Around the twenty-fifth," she said, "hesent me a 'gram. Here, have another cookie. I must think up some littlething to cook for him as a surprise."
The captain snaffled a handful of cookies from the plate and stood upto go. "Your ordinary cooking's good enough for me," he declared, "but,if you mean something like those little shrimps fried in batter youhad the last time he was here, go ahead. And watch for that plant." Hestalked off across the lawn.
He's getting old, thought Amy Dinsmore, watching the gruff old codgerlimp around a flower bed (Bjornson had had prosthetic surgery after helost his foot and, though it had been successful, grafts were neveras flexible as natural members), positively old. He ought to see ageriatrician right away. She'd tell him so the next time he came to seeher. Talking about Robert that way!
She set the dial on the robot gardener on the front lawn to "Weeding:dandelions" and started along the path that led to the little hothousewhere most of the plants Robert had sent her were growing; even inthe deep tropics Terra was, with few exceptions, too cold and dry forthem. The Martian sub