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Updated: May 9, 2025
This one, by the plasmoid standards of Luscious, was a regular monster, some twenty-five inches high; a gray, mummylike thing, dead and half rotted inside. It was the first plasmoid with the possible exception of whatever had flattened itself out on Quillan's gravity mine known to have died.
Because that was what it was, at least in the area where they were camping. She rolled over from her side to her face and gave herself a push away from the rock she'd been regarding contemplatively for the past few minutes. Feet first, she went drifting out into a somewhat deeper section of Plasmoid Creek. None of it was very deep.
Trigger put out a hand to touch his shoulder and then drew it back. She glanced up for a moment at the plasmoid station in the screen, seeming to turn slowly as they went orbiting by it. She noticed that one of the space flares they'd planted there had gone out, or else it had been plucked away by a passing twister's touch.
"In some way," Holati Tate said, "this little item here seems to be at the core of the whole plasmoid problem. Know what it is?" Trigger looked at the little item with some revulsion. Dark green, marbled with pink streakings, it lay on the table between them, rather like a plump leech a foot and a half long.
"I've heard," she said, "the eggheads have terrific pull when they want to use it. You don't hear much about them otherwise. Let me think just a little." "Go ahead," said Holati. A minute ticked away. "What it boils down to so far," Trigger said then, "is still pretty much what you told me on Maccadon. The Psychology Service thinks I know something that might help clean up the plasmoid problem.
"And that plasmoid unit now appears to have been almost certainly the key unit of the entire Old Galactic Station the unit that kept everything running along automatically there for thirty thousand years." He glanced at Quillan. "Someone at the door. We'll hold it while you see what they want."
In those specimen crates Mantelish has been lugging into the dome the past couple of days. It looks like the prof's been hypnotized up to his ears for months." The last five hours of her day of recuperative rest Trigger spent asleep, her cabin door locked and the plasmoid purse open on the bunk beside her.
"When did you decide it would be better if nobody ever got to see that king plasmoid again?" Holati Tate said, "About the time I saw the reconstruct of that yellow monster of Balmordan's. Frankly, Trigger, there was a good deal of discussion of possibilities along that line before we decided to announce the discovery of Harvest Moon.
There were eight or nine passages leading out of here, through walls, ceiling, floor. "Repulsive!" she cried plaintively. Silence. She glanced once more at the king plasmoid against the wall. It stayed silent too. And it was as if the two silences cancelled each other out. She remembered the last feeling of moving downward and lifted the suit toward a passage that came in through the ceiling.
"Eight weeks ago I get pulled off my job in the Manon System and sent here to arrange the organizational details of this Plasmoid Project. The only reason I took on the job, as a temporary assignment, was that Commissioner Tate convinced me it was important to him to have me do it.
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