Chena’s client led her through the foyer door marked with parallel white lines on a black background. A warm smell of antiseptic and perfume touched her, followed by a morass of voices. Trying not to stare, she followed her client into a huge open space filled with hothousers of every age, wearing every shape and style of clothing, although all of it remained some variation on black and white. Some of them stood by workstations that looked a lot like Nan Elle’s plant-covered work-table. Some sat behind multi-comptrollers with dozens of screens and input pads surrounded by flickers and shivers of light that must have been video displays projected onto angled glass.
The woman, her client, walked Chena rapidly through this maze of equipment and activity. Chena kept her eyes focused on the woman’s back, sneaking only occasional glances at the bustle around her. She glimpsed hothousers laboring over green plants in troughs of soil. She saw them observing hives of live insects, and sorting seemingly dead ones from piles of leaves and loam. She passed hugely magnified images of bacteria, DNA, or protozoa projected onto glass walls. Still other glasses showed images of crystals, or dirt, or hothousers.
Her client led her up a slender open staircase toward the second tier of offices. On the way up, they passed a work area where three hothousers fussed with the wires connected to a set of flesh-colored pears about half the size of Chena’s torso. She flicked a glance at the glass screens as she climbed past, and her step faltered. The glasses displayed images of human embryos. She gripped the railing hard to remind herself where she was and who watched her, and kept on going.
Her client led her into one of the tiny glass-walled laboratories. A double thickness of door sealed behind them, but did nothing to cut off the constant babble of voices. Her client slid two fingers down one of the walls, making a brief command of some kind, and the voices dimmed. Only then did she turn around to look at Chena.
“What do you have for me?”
Chena opened her waistband pocket and turned out a small envelope, which she handed to her client. Her client broke the wax seal and slid in one finger. She drew it out a moment later and inspected the brown powder clinging to the tip.
She sniffed the powder and then stuck out the tip of her tongue as if she meant to taste it.
“I wouldn’t do that,” cautioned Chena. “Not unless you’re ready for a truly epic light show.”
Her client nodded once, as if Chena had said something only mildly interesting. She closed the envelope again, laid it on a counter, and washed her hands thoroughly in the miniature sink. “How is it used?”
“Do you know what sourdough is?” Chena leaned back against a high stool.
Without turning around, her client nodded again. She reached for a thick towel and wiped her hands dry.
“You mix two pinches of the powder with a quarter cup of sourdough starter. Then you add six or eight pieces of fresh fruit. Should be an Old Earth import, nothing native. I like bananas.” She waited for a moment to see if her client would make some comment. But no reaction was forthcoming, so she shrugged and went on. “Then you mix in an additional cup of warm water. You leave that to soak for two days, and you drink it. Preferably while lying down. It works very quickly.”
Her client brushed her fingertips over the envelope, as if she were scanning it with her hand. “And the effect is?”
Chena’s mouth twitched. “If you haven’t used too much of the fungus, the effect is euphoria and hallucinations, followed by at least four hours of complete numbness.” Mushrooms, Nan Elle always said, were the most precious plant in God’s garden. Nothing else produced such a range of useful effects, from wholesome to deadly.
Client cocked one eye toward Chena. “And if you have used too much?”
“It’s a good thing you washed your hands,” Chena told her. She pulled out a thick piece of homemade paper covered on both sides with the closest, most careful handwriting she could manage. “Here’s everything we know about its species, its preferred environments, the fermentation effects, and what chemical data we could work out.”
Client took the page and opened it. As she read, she ran her finger down the page, as Chena had seen Nan Elle do to keep track of where she was. But Chena could not shake the idea that Client was reading with her finger as well as her eyes.
Buying into the hothouse mystique, she told herself. I’m starting to think they can do anything.
Client folded the page up again and laid it next to the envelope. “It is what we agreed on, and it is all satisfactory.” A small smile formed on her face as she gazed possessively at what Chena had brought. “Do you know, many of my colleagues believe it is a waste of time to study the ways in which the villagers have adapted to their environment over time?”