A Great Day for the Irish

								

"Never mind the plants," the lieutenant told her. "I've put them where
he won't find them in a hurry. As a matter of fact, we aren't going
to land. We're in orbit now and they're to send a rocket shuttle. They
aren't worried about what we're bringing in this time. It's what we
might take out. There's a howling plague on New Eden after all. Several
of our passengers have changed their minds about landing."
"A plague?" said Bridget stupidly. It was hard to concentrate on
anything more deadly than the golden nematode.
"Oh, nothing you or I could catch. Something to do with agriculture
and the plants. Which reminds me, I've a batch of telegrams for you.
The authorities are delighted to learn we've a registered entomologist
aboard. Very few of them have come this way."
By the time Bridget had read the sheaf of papers, she had made the
transition from the world of shipboard romance to her accustomed world
of science and order. There was work to be done. Her talents were
needed in a dozen places at once. She left orders for the confiscated
clovers to be destroyed and went to her cabin to pack. She was on the
first shuttle to leave the ship.



       *       *       *       *       *
The weeks that followed were filled with hard work with test tube
and microscope, at her desk and in the field. The majority of her
co-workers were men, but none had time to look for a laughing eye or
a smiling mouth. The beautiful garden planet of New Eden was being
reduced to a desert by a mysterious something that was swiftly
attacking all the cultivated areas. Starvation was looming and there
was talk of hasty evacuation. The situation was passing out of control.
The villain could not be isolated. Was it an insect, a virus, a
chemical in the soil? Some of the few native insects were caught and
subjected to experiment. The soils were analyzed and tested. Those were
not the answer. The only thing certain was that the previously lush
brown loam was turning to a yellow, chalky sand, and everything that
grew in it withered and died.
Bridget visited farm after farm and trudged from field to field. She
looked at worried faces and tried to think of words of encouragement.
Back at the laboratory she studied her specimens far into the night
and fell asleep at her desk. She was too tired to think about Patch
Maguire, who, she concluded, had never left the spaceship. What would a
grower of gardens, a breeder of plants do in a spreading desert? He had
gone on to some more flourishing planet.
She was called to the office one day.
"I hear there's a farm that claims they don't have the plague," said
the harassed young scientist behind the desk. "Better get over there
and see if it's any more than a rumor. Take the heli and bring back all
the usual samples. Here's the directions on getting there."
He shoved a torn piece of paper at her and turned back to his cluttered
desk. Bridget picked up her collecting kit and climbed into the cab