A Great Day for the Irish

								

and with no insects either to make life miserable. But let you and me
be living there a while and we'll make it New Ireland for sure!"
And he planted a kiss on her mouth without a thought of who was looking
at them.



       *       *       *       *       *
As their tablemates drank their health, Bridget blushed and her eyes
shone, and after dinner Patch escorted her to the stereo where they sat
very close together in the dark. But as the pictures flashed across
the screen and as Patch's arm went across her shoulder and drew her
close, her mind was besieged by an army of little doubts. Shamrock ...
shamrock ... what had she read about the shamrock?
"Patch," she whispered. "Where did you get it?"
"Get what?" Patch murmured, bending over to kiss her.
"The shamrock, Patch? I don't believe they have it in hydroponics."
"Sure, they must have it." Patch's lips brushed hers and she found it
difficult to think clearly.
"I never saw it there. Patch! Are you sure?"
"Saw what? I don't see anything but you. That's enough for me."
"About the shamrock, Patch!"
"It looks beautiful on you. Sure and I wouldn't be without a shamrock
on St. Patrick's Day."
Bridget gave up. She lay back in the sanctuary of his arm and basked in
the warm feeling of his lips on her hair. But the doubts kept crawling
about in her mind. What was the matter with her? Couldn't she be happy
when everything was perfect? Had she been a cut-and-dried inspector for
too many years? But she remembered the words of Professor Schwarzkopf,
the day she received her degree: "The inspectors are the watchdogs of
the planets. Without them, all that man has built can be destroyed."
When Patch had kissed her good night outside her cabin and his
footsteps had died away along the corridor, she crept out into the
passage and made her way to hydroponics.
"Why, no," said the chief gardener, "we never carry clover of any sort.
Why do you ask?"
On her way to the control room, Bridget tried not to think. She found
the young officer from her table on duty with the captain, and the two
men listened in surprise as she outlined her fears.
"I don't want to accuse Mr. Maguire of anything," she said. "I'm sure
he doesn't realize how serious--and of course there may be nothing
to it. It's just that I remember that shamrocks harbor the golden
nematode--that is, in the soil around the roots. And it seems likely
that if Mr. Maguire has live shamrocks--and I remember what a serious
plague they once brought over from Ireland to America...."
The captain pulled his mustache. "It's clearly against regulations. I
can't imagine how he'd get it past inspection. But then, Maguire's a
very persistent man and he's got pull in odd places. I don't want to
rouse the ire of the Irish, but I see your point."
"Couldn't you search his cabin--without his knowing I said to? Oh, I'm
sure he'd be very angry. But if I could only look at his plants, then