Bill 5 - on the Planet of Zombie Vampires Read Free Page B

okra is what the uncouth call it. This particular variety is rather pulpy when mature, but it thrives under conditions of sandy soil. However, it does not do well when chomped upon before it has reached full growth.”
    “What's this stuff here?” asked Bill, walking over to the next raised bed, prodded on by transient memories of his agricultural youth.
    “Abelmoschus gigantis: Butter crunch okra,” said Caine. “Rather misnamed, if you ask my opinion. Not a crunch in the bunch. A soggy mess, no matter how it is prepared.”
    “And that over there?”
    “Abelmoschus abominamus: Honey blossom okra. Tastes like turpentine. One of the captain's favorites.”
    “It would be. And that?”
    “Abelmoschus fantomas: Banana ear okra. Known for its insect-killing properties, if not for its completely unforgettable taste.”
    “And all the rest of these?” Bill swung one of his right arms, the black one, in a sweep around the room.
    “Okra, okra, and more okra. Four hundred and thirty-two raised beds of okra. For an amateur, the captain pursues his hobby with impressive vigor. Of course, he's got me to do the scat-work, so that helps as far as he's concerned.” It whined a high-pitched androidal whine of self-pity. “You have no idea how much time it takes to fertilize four hundred and thirty-two raised beds, no you don't, and that's not to mention weeding, thinning, and maintaining a normal cycle of watering....”
    Suddenly, about a thousand overhead actinic lights crackled on. The temperature instantly rose thirty degrees and sweat burst in torrents from every pore on Bill's body.
    “What's going on?!” he gasped.
    “High noon,” said Caine with a humorless smile. “Right on time. The captain runs a tight ship and — this is important to you but not to me — it also means we've got liftoff in thirty seconds. Oh, how time does fly when I'm with my plants. Lay down on this bag of potting soil instantly or you'll get squashed flat and you'll be no good for anything but the compost heap.”
    Bill barely had time to do a belly flop on the bag of stinking potting soil before all the G-forces started piling on top of each other, threatening to turn him into compost-bait. As it was he gasped and gurgled and was okay until the bag broke and he sank into the noisome mass it contained.
    “I can't stand it!” shrieked Bill. “The smell!”
    “You'll get used to it,” smiled Caine, still standing, his tungsten steel skeleton impervious to the acceleration. “The smell goes away after a few days. It's all those wonderful nutrients, you know. Plants just love them.”
    “I hate them!” yelled Bill, though truth to tell, at the moment he hated phase-loop drive even more. That outmoded method of space travel had gone out with spats and shaved heads. There was no need to get squashed into compost when a modern drive would get you anyplace in no time at all in relative comfort.
    Just when he couldn't take it anymore, the crushing forces of acceleration ceased, leaving him weak and sick to his stomach. Being encased in a broken bag of stinking potting soil did nothing to improve the state of either his mind or his stomach.
    “My quarters,” Bill moaned, dragging himself to his foot and knocking lumps of poorly sifted, rotting dirt from his uniform. “I've got to shower and disintegrate my clothes. Not to mention I might take a minute off and throw up.”
    “No time,” yodeled Caine gleefully, bent over a raised bed and thinning okra with a practiced, professional hand. “We have a lunch engagement with the captain.”
    “But —”
    'The captain runs a tight ship,“ smirked Caine. ”Everything goes by the book, and the book goes by the clock. Right now the clock says lunch."
    After a hurried walk, Bill sat down at the captain's table and eyed his plate with mounting suspicion. The mound of boiled okra looked a lot like the mass of limp steamed okra that snuggled up next to it. He tried the fried okra and almost