A

SHIP

WILL

COME

ROBERT F. YOUNG

The boy had already been the man he was to become!

THAT night Skim stayed on the house with his two hundred thousand brothers and sisters and listened excitedly to his father's voice. The night was cold and windless and all the stars were out, sharp and stabbing in the black sky. The three moons were abroad too—the big one, the middle-sized one and the little one. The latter had just risen over the Great Sea and its light lay in a silvery patina upon the waste of water and the littoral. Farther inland the little moon's light combined with the light of the other moons, and the combined light of the three moons rained softly down upon the house where Skim lived with his two hundred thousand brothers and sisters, and upon the other houses in the valley and upon the houses on the hills.

"A ship will come," Skim's father was saying in his deep rustling voice. Actually Skim's father and the house were one and the same, but Skim never thought of them that way. "A great and shining ship from far away, and it will descend from the heavens like a huge and wingless bird and come to rest on the shore of the Great Sea."

Skim knew that his father was quoting from the Santhrith just as he did every night when it was time for Skim and his two hundred thousand brothers and sisters to go to sleep. So his father's words alone were not responsible for Skim's excitement. The reason behind his excitement was that unknown to his father and his two hundred thousand brothers and sisters —and the hundreds of thousands of brothers and sisters on the other houses, and their fathers—a ship had come. It had come that very day. Of all the members of the community, Skim alone had seen it.

But he couldn't break the news to his father and his two hundred thousand brothers and sisters, for a very good reason: the ship had arrived when all the school-age kids had been attending school, or should have been, and to reveal his knowledge of the ship would be tantamount to admitting that he had broken one of the Overseer's most stringent rules—he had played hookey.

And that would never do.

HE HAD begun loitering from the moment he detached himself from the house and, in mere minutes, he had fallen way behind the others. Then, as though loitering weren't enough, he began turning somersaults in the air and describing aerial figure eights. By the time he wafted over the last hill, the other kids had already arranged themselves around the big green schoolhouse and were awaiting the voice of the teacher.

He hadn't been able to help himself—such a lovely day, such a matchless morning. The sun was coming up, pale and pink beyond the morning mists, and a breeze was tiptoeing from the sea, carrying the sea smell with it, begging him to take a ride high into the sky—up where the fluffy clouds were, the kind that never turned to rain beneath you though you lay on them the whole day through.

Why, oh why does it have to be autumn? Skim thought. Why can't it be summer instead? Maybe in summer he did have to work, but at least he didn't have to go to school and at least there were a few hours each day when he could detach himself from the house and go where and do what he wanted to.

And then he thought, Why oh why does it have to be Monday? Why can't it be Saturday or Sunday instead?

His small green face crinkled in exasperation. All day Saturday waterspouts had walked the horizon and his father had made everyone stay near the house. There hadn't been a thing to do except play wind-tag with his younger brothers and sisters or help his older brothers and sisters turn sunshine into sugar for the house. He hadn't felt like playing wind-tag and he hadn't seen why he should work in the fall after working so hard all summer.

Yesterday, when the water spouts had disappeared from the horizon and the sky was clear and blue and the wind brisk and begging to be ridden on, who had shown up but ten thousand of his cousins from down the valley, and he'd had to stick around the house all day and help entertain them. And now, when the horizon was free of waterspouts and his ten thousand cousins were gone, he had to go to school! It was too much.

He glowered at the green schoolhouse with all the other kids clustered dutifully around it. The least they could do was share his misery. But maybe their fathers were modern and knew that waterspouts never came in over the land, and maybe their cousins knew enough to stay home. Probably they'd spent their weekend captaining cloud rafts and riding elevator winds and doing all the other intriguing things that weekends were made for.

And then, the little breeze from the sea had turned into a wind and sent Skim tumbling down the opposite side of the hill. He righted himself quickly, but did not return to where he'd been. Instead he levitated and lay on his back a few feet above the ground and stared wistfully into the sky where a flock of gulls were winging their way seaward. He lay like that for some time. Presently he realized that he would not be going to school.

He felt the flow of the wind around him, building up its strength. He sucked it through his stomata, letting it permeate the spongy cells and the palisade cells that took up most of his interior and that at the moment were manufacturing only enough carbohydrates for his own needs. He waited until the wind grew even stronger; then, after making sure the Overseer wasn't in sight, he rode the wind straight into the sky.

When the flow abated he leveled, not looking down, waiting for an elevator wind. Presently one came. He let it lift him tumbling skyward, higher still and higher, till he was on an even plane with the lower clouds and the wind faded away. He levitated, lay in the sky like a small green star and looked down at the world below.

The schoolhouse was a tiny green burr directly beneath him, barely distinguishable from the tiny green burrs of the innumerable houses that dotted the hills and the valley. To his right, the countryside spread out as far as he could see; to his left lay the sparkling sea. Inland, a blue teardrop of a lake caught the morning sunlight. A silvery liana of a river slowly turned to gold.

He found a wind path leading seaward and wafted along it till he was high over the littoral. He climbed a wind slope and slid down its other side. He levitated over a lazy cloud, then dropped through its cool white mists. He caught another elevator wind and again rode it into the blue till he was sure he had reached the top of the sky.

Breathless, he paused to rest.

Long and swift and shining, it rode the sky buoyantly as though the sky were a sea and the far patches of ground below were the sea bottom and as though the clouds were fluffy accumulations of white seaweed. Its wake was orange and blue, and there were little round windows all along its sides, only Skim didn't think of them that way, because he had never before seen windows.

He had never seen a ship either, but he had heard his father quote the Santhrith's description so many times that he hadn't the slightest trouble in making identification. Only he hadn't thought the ship would be so big. Why, it was as big as a house . . . as big as two houses . . . as big as—as—why, it was almost as big as the valley!

It was also very close. Too close, Skim realized belatedly as the air flow caught him and sucked him toward the shining hull. He fought frantically to be free, but he was helpless. He went tumbling past the windows all the way to the tail, narrowly missing the orange and blue fire of the jets. The wake caught him, tossing him this way and that till he no longer knew up from down. When it finally released him and left him lying limply in the air, the shining ship was gone.

Skim had known it would be back. He had waited patiently all day in the clouds, safely out of the Overseer's sight. Sure enough, back it came, but not till after the sun had set and the stars were in the sky. The ship had descended as the Santhrith had prophesied it would, and had come to rest on the shore of the Great Sea; and Skim, terrified at having broken another of the Overseer's rules—the sunset curfew this time—had hurried home and surreptitiously attached himself to the house.

SKIM's father had finished quoting from the Santhrith, and a great rustling began as Skim's two hundred thousand brothers and sisters commenced settling down for the night. The majority of them were either too young or too old to go to school. Still, so many pupils were in attendance that the others had not missed him, which was a good thing, because Skim's father set great store by school, almost as much as he did by the Santhrith. This was owing in large part to the Overseer's contagious enthusiasm for the school system. Having established it—and taken over the duties of truant officer—he naturally wanted to see it work, and never lost an opportunity to let the various fathers know how important the system was to the future of their race.

The Overseer had also established the calendar, subdividing the four seasons into five months per season, the months into six weeks each, and the weeks into seven days apiece. It was said that he'd had a hand in the creation of the Santhrith, but of course no one knew for sure. Certainly Skim didn't. He'd never cared much for the Santhrith anyway, except for the part about the ship. The rest of it was mere repetition: first there had been the great darkness, and then there had been the seeds, and after the seeds had come the fathers, and after the fathers, the children.

Now, of course, the part about the ship had become the most important part of all—or would when the news of its arrival spread around. Even as the thought crossed Skim's mind, a vast rustling began in the distance and swept swiftly inland across the valley. Presently the rustling reached Skim's house, and his two hundred thousand brothers and sisters added their voices to it, chanting the magic words. “A ship, a ship has come, just like the Santhrith said! It has descended from the sky and come down to rest on the shore of the Great Sea—

"And it is filled with overseers!"

A sizable quantity of Skim's smugness went Poof! and vanished into thin air. Even he hadn't known that there were beings in the ship. As a matter of fact, he hadn't even dreamed of such a thing, for the simple reason that he'd taken it for granted that the ship was solid all the way through. The Santhrith hadn't said anything about its being hollow.

Breathless, he waited for his father to say something appropriate to the moment, but all his father said was "Humph!" It took a lot to shake up his father, or, for that matter, any of the fathers in the community.

But Skim himself was shaken up and, he could tell from their frenetic rustlings, his brothers and sisters were shaken up too. He didn't dare leave the house now, but first thing tomorrow morning he'd head for the shore of the Great Sea as fast as he could waft, to see with his own eyes the beings that had come on the ship, and—and—

And then he remembered—tomorrow was Tuesday! Tomorrow, at the break of day, he had to go to school.

Well he wouldn't go to school! Father or no father, Overseer or no Overseer, he wouldn't. He'd play hookey again!

A SMALL boy named Archie was on the ship. His light brown hair went this way and that whenever the wind blew. He had eyes the color of asters in autumn. Like most small boys, he liked to go exploring.

On the morning following the ship's arrival on Experimental Station B-6671-A (as the planet was referred to in the Extraterrestrial Agricultural Catalogue) he was one of the first through the locks and down the Jacob's stairway.

"Don't go far from the ship, Arch," his father called from the top of the stairs as Archie stepped to the ground.

"I won't, dad," Archie called back.

Archie's father was a silviculturist and so were all the rest of the grownups who had come on the ship, with the exception of the crew. It was vacation time on Earth and Archie's father had brought Archie along as a reward for doing well in school. Archie had enjoyed the trip immensely, but he missed having kids his own age to play with.

As he stepped to the ground, he saw that several of the silviculturists, including the Senior Silviculturist himself, had already disembarked and were standing under a tree talking a mile a minute. The entire Silvicultural Team was tremendously excited over the aerial photos the ship had taken during the in-close orbit the previous day and they were more excited yet over the possibility that the trees might be intelligent. This latter eventually had come into being last night when the Senior Silviculturist and two of his assistants had gone outside the ship for a look around and every leaf in the forest, or so it had seemed to them, had begun to rustle.

Archie walked slowly toward the forest, marveling at its magnificence. He wasn't in possession of all the facts pertaining to the experiment, but he was in possession of some. For instance, he knew that this was the second visit the Silvicultural Team had made to Experimental Station B-6671-A. On the first trip they had traveled at faster-than-light velocity so that they could go back in time to plant the maple-tree seeds that formed the basis of their experiment, and they had arrived on Station B-6671-A seventeen years ago. After planting the seeds, they had returned to Earth at inverse ftl—a form of space travel that pushed the traveler ahead in time—arriving there only a few days after their original departure. Then, on the second trip to Station B-6671-A—the one Archie's father took him on—they had traveled by way of conventional spacewarp—a form of space travel that caused neither negative nor positive temporal distortion. Thus, the Silvicultural Team had been able to return to the scene of the planting seventeen years later without having to wait seventeen years.

Archie also knew that the law forbade ftl and inverse-ftl velocities, and that you had to have special permission to use them. Like most laws, the ban was sometimes ignored—usually by professional "transseemen" who, for a price, would ferry anyone either into the future or into the past. The Silvicultural Team, though, had had no need to break a law. They had had a long range experiment to carry out. Obtaining permission had been a breeze.

Why would anyone go to so much trouble just to plant maple-tree seeds and observe the result? Archie knew the answer to that one too. The Congress of Galactic States—or COGS, as everybody called it—was honeycombed with "extraterrestrial" bureaus. Each bureau was in constant competition with all the other bureaus and, in order to keep itself funded, had to have a project in the works at all times. Otherwise, COGS might put it on the inactive list, which would automatically throw its members out of a job. To be out of a job in Archie's era meant social ostracism and economic disaster. Gone were the days when a doting government would tide you over till tomorrow.

Gone also were the days when bureaucrats sat behind desks. Today, bureaucrats had to be qualified professionals and had to move out and earn the funds the government allocated to them.

Sometimes they had to resort to trivial projects to keep the money rolling in, but at least they had to earn it. They stocked alien lakes, introduced new elements into alien soils, planted seeds and what have you. They did these things to the best of their ability, because COGS took as dim a view of inefficiency as it did of inactivity.

Archie knew all these things, and in addition he knew that the present experiment had gone wrong somewhere. It had to have gone wrong, because the trees he was looking at were full grown instead of seventeen-year-old saplings.

They were unusual in other ways too, he saw as he neared them. They were more symmetrical than terrestrial maples, and their leaves were greener. They had a vibrant quality that terrestrial maples lacked. They weren't moving and yet somehow they seemed to be moving—to be marching down to the sea in undisciplined yet somehow orderly ranks.

Archie's gaze traveled up the straight dark holes to the foliage. The leaves had begun to quiver, which was odd, since there was no wind. Also, this was autumn, yet none of them had lost its chlorophyllic hue. He could almost see them imbibing the first rays of the sun and mixing the rays with oxygen and carbon dioxide and moisture and turning out food for themselves and the trees.

As he stood staring at them, some began to fall—or so he thought at first. Then he saw that they weren't really falling but were separating from the trees and wafting inland, as though an off-shore wind were blowing them away. But no offshore wind was blowing.

Archie wasn't alone in staring at the leaves. The silviculturists were staring too. The exodus took at most a minute. When it was over, only half of the leaves remained on the trees. The rest had wafted inland and out of sight.

Archie abruptly remembered something he had seen in one of the blown-up aerial photos—a big spreading tree that stood apart from the others and had literally millions and millions of leaves arranged in orderly rows around it. Was it toward this tree that the leaves were wafting now?

By this time all of the silviculturists had disembarked and under the direction of the Senior Silviculturist were moving inland in groups of five, each group carrying a portable soil-sampling kit.

Archie moved inland too. Soon he was walking among the long shadows of morning in the park-like forest. A leaf floated down and came to a hovering pause twelve inches from his face.

Archie stared at the leaf. After a moment he could have sworn that it, too, had a face—that he saw a pair of little eyes in the greenness, and a tiny nose and a minuscule mouth. He found it hard to believe his senses. Was he supplying the physiognomy out of his mind?

The leaf shot upward, turned three somersaults in air and returned to its original position. It looked at Archie expectantly—or at least gave him that impression.

Archie couldn't do somersaults in air, but he could do them on the ground. He did three of them. Springing to his feet, still not quite believing what was happening, he faced the leaf.

The leaf turned three more somersaults, then stood on its head or, more accurately, hovered in an upside-down position, its petiole pointing straight up and its centermost scallop pointing toward the ground.

Archie stood on his head.

The leaf commenced a series of complicated aerial maneuvers that Archie couldn't even begin to imitate. The leaf seemed to understand his limitations for soon it resumed its first position, did three and a half somersaults, and ended by standing on its head again.

Archie responded in kind.

The leaf ascended to a height of fifty feet—as a prelude, Archie thought to more aerial acrobatics. It paused, seemed to gaze inland at something hidden from Archie's sight. Then, as though scared, it soared rapidly, skimmed over the treetops and was out of sight.

For some time Archie stood where he was, the implications of his experience registering on his mind. Before long he could no longer contain himself. He had to tell someone about the leaf—and about his conversation with it—right away. His father was the logical candidate.

HE BEGAN running toward the nearest group of silviculturists. They had discarded their soil-sampling kit and had gathered into a tight circle reminiscent of a football huddle. The Senior Silviculturist was the quarterback and Archie's father was the second leading line-rusher. Archie's momentum decreased as he approached the perimeter of the huddle, ceased altogether as the men's voices reached him.

THE FIRST ASSISTANT OF THE SENIOR SILVICULTURIST: "The soil accounts for the rapidity of maturation but it simply won't account for the other phenomena. We may as well face the truth, men. When we failed to provide proper shielding for the seeds, we goofed. Radiation, must have penetrated when the ship went through that storm. They mutated."

THE SECOND ASSISTANT OF THE SENIOR SILVICULTURIST: "I think the so-called P-660 enzyme was affected—possibly transformed into something higher on the scale of awareness. (This was Archie's father speaking.) "And when the P660 enzyme transmuted to P-730, even greater transformation probably took place.

THE FIRST ASSISTANT OF THE SECOND ASSISTANT OF THE SENIOR SILVICULTURIST: "Be that as it may, our problem remains the same. If we report our negligence to COGS we'll be called on the carpet and accused of inefficiency. Everybody here knows what that means.

THE SECOND ASSISTANT OF THE FIRST ASSISTANT OF THE SENIOR SILVICULTURIST (gloomily): "Deactivation."

THE SENIOR SILVICULTURIST: "I'm afraid it's definitely a matter we'll have to take into consideration."

THE SECOND ASSISTANT OF THE SENIOR SILVICULTURIST: "But the alternative to making a report is to make no report at all, and that's unthinkable!"

THE FIRST ASSISTANT OF THE SENIOR SILVICULTURIST: "Oh, but we would make a report. We'd simply leave certain—ah—items out of it."

THE SECOND ASSISTANT OF THE SENIOR SILVICULTURIST: "But that's equally unthinkable! If we fail to make known to COGS that we've inadvertently created intelligent trees, then no steps will be taken to provide a cultural supervisor for them. All of us know the odds against a primitive culture evolving into a useful and self-sustaining civilization. Leaving this one to shift for itself would be tantamount to abandoning a baby."

THE FIRST ASSISTANT OF THE SECOND ASSISTANT OF THE SENIOR SILVICULTURIST: "In view of the fact that a cultural supervisor would be sent here via ftl and in view of the fact that we haven't seen one, it's obvious that no steps will be taken, which means that we're debating a dead issue, that we're soul-searching ourselves for nothing. The only decision we can come to is one that fits the facts, and the only one that fits the facts is that we're not going to report our brave new young world to COGS or anyone else."

THE SECOND ASSISTANT OF THE SENIOR SILVICULTURIST: "Not necessarily. It's perfectly possible that we haven't—"

THE SENIOR SILVICULTURIST: "I think this is something each of us should think over individually. Since it's time for brunch anyway, I suggest that we adjourn to the ship for a bite to eat and deep cogitation afterward. Later in the day we'll have a conference and come to a final decision."

The football huddle broke up and its components started toward the ship. In stooping to pick up the portable soil-sampler, the Second Assistant of the Senior Silviculturist saw Archie. "Come along, Arch. We'll have ham and eggs.”

Dutifully Archie accompanied his father back through the forest to the shore of the sea. All the while he kept thinking of the leaf he had "talked" to, wondering over and over whether the silviculturists really would let it down. Somehow he couldn't believe they would. By the time he sat down to brunch he felt better. Afterward, remembering his father's allusion to P-660 and P-730, he borrowed a microfilm book titled Our Friends, The Trees from the ship's library, retired to the cabin he shared with his father and lay back in a viewchair to read.

THE reason for Skim's abrupt departure was the Overseer. Skim had had no idea he was in the vicinity until, rising above the ground in maneuvers designed to impress his new-found friend, he caught a glimpse through the foliage of a telltale green shirt and beret.

All the while he'd been "talking" to the little overseer the big Overseer had been silently watching the proceedings from the concealment of the houses. Skim couldn't leave the scene fast enough.

The Overseer was watching and listening to the group from the ship. Nevertheless, he had noticed Skim, and Skim knew it. The Overseer could single out one leaf from among all others, one of his many abilities.

Skim decided to make himself scarce for a while. He spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon playing cloud-pirate by himself. It was lonely without the other kids, but better than sticking around the school and listening to the teacher. Actually the schoolhouse and the schoolteacher were one and the same, but nobody ever thought of them that way. School was all about the birds and the bees and the buds, and about an invisible hormone that enabled Skim and his two hundred thousand brothers and sisters and his father and all the other kids and their fathers to think and see and do. Attending school was a little like hearing the Santhrith. The dull parts, at that.

What difference did it make why he could see and do? The important thing was that he could.

By mid-afternoon he was tired of playing alone. He remembered the little overseer he had seen during the morning, hitched a ride on a seaward wind, left the littoral and drifted down to the ship.

Not much was going on. Some of the beings who had come from the ship were lolling in its shade, either resting or lost in thought.

Then he noticed something else, barely within the fringe of houses near the beach. A green shirt and a green beret.

He made a wide detour and wafted into a clearing well out of sight of the Overseer. Hovering half a househeight above the ground, he decided to stay for a while.

The Overseer must really be interested in that ship.

OUR Friends, The Trees was a long microfilm and hours passed before Archie reached the part about P-660 and P-730.

An important organic substance—known variously as an enzyme, a plant hormone and a phytochrome—is present in deciduous trees and decides when the first leaf will bud in spring and when the first tree flowers will appear. This substance makes a timepiece more complex than any devised by man. Its "Swiss movement" is dependent for accuracy, on the length of days and nights. When the days are exactly long enough and the nights precisely short enough, this catalyst commences the yearly cycle of rebirth and deciduous trees are born anew.

This substance is present in every seed a tree drops. After reaching the ground, most seeds go through a waiting period before coming to life. How long they wait is decided by the enzyme—or plant hormone or phytochrome or clock—which is present in each of them in a form called P-660. P-660 is inert during the waiting period. When the time comes to activate the seed it turns into P-730 and brings the seed to life.

We might go so far as to say that P-730 is a tree's thinkability . . .

Archie understood now what his father had meant about the mutation engendered by the radiation storm. Radiation could have transformed P-660 into something higher on the scale of awareness. The transmutation of P-660 into P-730 might have produced even greater awareness.

Was the Silvicutural Team a little like God? If so, they had to assume responsibility for their creation.

But would they?

The Senior Silviculturist called a conference a short while later. Archie wasn't invited, but he went anyway. Order was called in the shade of the ship. The Senior Silviculturist presided, standing with his back to the ship, facing the forest. All the others, except for the crew, who held themselves aloof from such matters, sat facing him. Everyone knew that this would be a conference in name only. Whatever the Senior Silviculturist decided, he would be unopposed. But conferences were a bureaucratic must—unthinkable not to have one.

Archie had reached a state of turmoil. He wanted desperately to help the new species which the silviculturists had brought into being, but what could a mere boy do? If only he weren't so young—if only he were a graduate forester like his father—if only—

His attention was captured by the Senior Silviculturist's words.

“. . . safe to rule out idealism right from the start. All of us here are hard-headed practical men who have fought for and won rightful niches in the economic hierarchy. It's only natural that we should want to retain those niches at any cost. I have a wife and children myself. I know that the rest of you have similar economic responsibilities, so—"

"That sort of let's you off the hook, doesn't it?"

The clear strong voice had come from the forest. The Senior Silviculturist turned to stare at the broad-shouldered man who emerged from among the trees.

Everybody stared.

After stepping onto the beach, the broad-shouldered man advanced across the sand and halted at the edge of the gathering. He was wearing a forest-green beret, a forest-green shirt, forest-green breeches and black knee-high boots. He was somewhere in his thirties.

He looked at Archie and smiled. A sort of wistful quality came into his blue eyes. Then he looked at the Senior Silviculturist and the smile vanished. "I," he said, "am the cultural supervisor. Better known in these parts as the Overseer.”

The Senior Silviculturist seemed visibly to age. "Then we made a full report after all," he lamented. "We betrayed ourselves.”

The Overseer shook his head. "No, you didn't betray yourselves—perish the thought.” His face had a gentle aspect, Archie noticed, but it also held stubbornness. His blue eyes were cold and fearless. "I came here on my own.”

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to do whatever needs to be done. You and your subordinates can stop worrying about your jobs and your consciences. Go ahead. Board ship. Return to Earth.”

"Before we do, I wonder if you would be more specific as to what you've done.” Archie recognized his father's voice. His father was standing up and questioning the Overseer eagerly. "Also, I wish you'd explain how a deciduous forest like this one is ecologically possible.”

The coldness faded in the Overseer's eyes as he looked at Archie's father. A quality came into his voice that Archie couldn't identify. "Certainly. I'll be glad to elaborate.

"My first problem was communication—not as difficult as you might imagine. Once I'd mastered it I selected one of the more intelligent trees and programed it with everything I thought a burgeoning young culture should have. This tree functions as both our schoolhouse and our schoolteacher.

“I prepared my charges for the coming of your ship by incorporating the idea in their bible, which I helped them to create. The bible is in oral form, as there's no written language as yet. I hope that some day they'll have one. Meanwhile the eidetic memories of the trees make retention a simple matter. I'm not fond of tradition-directed societies, but I know of no safer way to start one out.

"To strengthen familial ties I've conditioned the individual leaves of each parent tree to think of the tree as their father and to think of each other as brothers and sisters, although strictly speaking no sexual demarkation exists. The trees regard themselves as parents. They feel responsible for the welfare of their respective offspring.

"The leaves work during the summer months much as ordinary leaves do. At a certain age, they go to school during the autumn and spring. I've relatively few graduates as yet, but the ones I have seem contented with their lot. As yet, I've no idea of the longevity of either the trees or the leaves.

"During the cold months the leaves remain on the trees in suspended animation. In spring they awake and school is resumed until the services of the leaves are required by the parent trees.

"Reproduction takes place in the same way as on Earth, but I personally plant the seeds. In this way I not only can control population but see to it that each family has room enough for growth. Since no annual leaffall occurs, no humus builds on the forest floor. In fact, in the botanical sense of the term no forest floor exists. But the soil itself, as you've already discovered, contains properties unknown on Earth. These properties not only provide for an accelerated growth rate but also obviate any need for humus.

"I think that covers your question. Any others?"

THE Overseer surveyed his audience, clearly awaiting further interrogation.

Again, only Archie's father spoke. "How did you learn about the trees?"

A warmth showed in the Overseer's face. However he might disapprove of the other silviculturists, he clearly liked Archie's father. "Let's say a little leaf told me about them," he said. He remained where he was for a few more minutes, looking from face to face; then, after a final glance at Archie's father, he turned and walked back to the forest. A moment later he disappeared among the trees.

"Well, he certainly let us off the hook," Archie's father said. "I wonder, though—"

"You should be rejoicing, not wondering," said the Senior Silviculturist. "Alert the captain, someone. Inform him that we're leaving at once.”

Archie was staring at the place in the forest where the Overseer had disappeared. The thoughts were moving so fast in his mind that he could hardly keep up with them. And as though to confuse himself still more, he kept thinking of the Overseer's final words: Let's say a little leaf told me about them ...

In a way a little leaf had told Archie about the trees too. A remarkable coincidence, to say the least; even more remarkable, he and the Overseer had another thing in common.

They both liked Archie's father.

Archie stared even harder at the forest, but he was no longer seeing the trees; he was seeing space and time.

What was to prevent him from coming back here after he grew up and graduated from forestry school, and helping the Overseer out? No law said there couldn't be two Overseers.

What was to prevent him, as far as that went, after he grew up and graduated, from coming back here via faster-than-light travel and arriving at the same time the original Overseer arrived, then helping him out from scratch? Certainly his father wouldn't object to the idea. On the contrary, his father would he all for it.

Archie's thoughts rushed on, attaining ftl velocity themselves—and came to an abrupt halt. Because if he did come back—if he had come back—via ftl travel, there would be two Overseers here now; and it was clear from the Overseer's speech that there was only one. So he couldn't come back—couldn't have come back. Unless—unless—

Suddenly Archie knew who the Overseer really was—or rather, would be.

FROM his hiding place in the forest Skim saw the ship rise above the trees, soar into the sky and twinkle for a moment like an evening star. He saw it disappear.

He was bitterly disappointed. He'd wanted the ship to stay forever so that he and the little overseer could become fast friends.

He glanced away from the sky and gave a little start. The big Overseer had entered the clearing and was standing just beneath him. He returned Skim's glance with one of his own—not the stern forbidding look usually reserved for such occasions, but a warm and friendly one. Skim leveled, not understanding. Did rules and regulations have more dimensions than he had been aware of?

A moment later the Overseer looked up at him again—and winked.