Donald Moffitt - Genesis 02

the last of a half million gallons of chemical solution was forced deep into Yggdrasil’s sapwood.
    The tree systems officer and her hovering assistant gave him bland stares. “I thought the best way to calm Yggdrasil down would be to smooth out the peaks and valleys in phytochrome balance,” the TSO said with professional briskness. “There was too extreme a swing between the two pigment forms, and it was driving Yggdrasil crazy.”
    She gauged his expression for signs of comprehension, apparently decided in his favor, and went on. “You see, the problem is the growing Doppler shift. Unfortunately, all the far-red light comes from the same direction as the fusion light, so that side of the tree’s overstimulated. The phytochrome keeps changing back and forth between the far-red-absorbing form and the sunlight-absorbing form, then back again.”
    Her assistant, even younger than she was, nodded agreement. They were both being patient with the old dodderer.
    “Yes, yes,” Bram said quickly. “I’m sure you took the right approach.”
    The assistant cleared his throat and glanced at his boss before speaking. “And at the same time, there’s the problem of blue light tropisms at the opposite side of the tree. Where the band of up-shifted light is. Yggie’s hormones are working overtime to cope. And you can imagine what that does to his biorhythms.”
    “I can understand why your department was so concerned,” Bram told them in his best sober manner.
    They both beamed at him.
    “So we added a healthy dose of vitamin A to the tranquilizer to damp down beta-carotene activity,” the assistant finished triumphantly.
    “Fine,” Bram said with a judicious nod. He looked around for a way to make his escape. “Well, that seems to take care of it, so I’ll—”
    “Of course, you’ll want to review our total hormone strategy while you’re here, Captain,” Jao’s granddaughter said. “Shall we start with the tree-turning maneuver?”
    Bram gave in to the inevitable and let her lead him over to the far end of the hollow, where a battery of young technicians, wearing the leaf tabards that seemed to be the working costume of the new generation, busily tended the array of giant fermentation tanks where hormone synthesis started.
    A half hour later, his eyes slightly glazed, Bram found himself blessedly alone in the brilliant corridor that ran through the trunk’s heartwood. Alcoves branched off on either side, each with its neatly painted street sign. Here, forty miles beneath Yggdrasil’s bark, a lot of specialized work went on—plastics manufacturing using leaf sugars as feedstock, the Message broadcasting facility whose vital work could not be interrupted by yearly bough migrations, the central observatory.
    There was also a recreation complex with guest suites, increasingly popular with the younger set and the advanced retroyouth crowd, with facilities for sports, swimming, and small-craft sailing. After Yggdrasil left the galaxy and acceleration ceased, it would be a center for such weightless pursuits as flying, flat-trajectory handball, three-dimensional ballet, and, Bram didn’t doubt, free-fall sex.
    Bram paused to look at the bulletin board. Some members of the trunk staff were choosing up sides for a game of teamball in what would eventually be the flydome. Bram was tempted to join them. But he knew that he’d be invited only through courtesy and deference to his position. At his present chronological age, he’d only be a liability to whatever team was willing to suffer him; better stick to playing with his peers on the occasional Tenday.
    Feeling pleasurably sorry for himself—refraining from reminding himself that he was not as old as he had been twenty years ago—he gave the bulletin board a regretful last glance and set off down the long arcade toward the observatory.
    At least that was one treat he could give himself.
     
    Jun Davd looked up from his work and smiled at Bram with a third set of teeth that were as white and flawless as they had been when he had grown them a quarter century ago.
    “Nice of you to play truant just so’s you can come visit an old man,” he said.
    “The captain never plays truant,” Bram said, smiling back. “Everything I do is always in the line of duty.”
    He raised both hands, and they touched palms in the old gesture.
    Jun Davd chuckled. “So your duty brought you up to Yggdrasil’s attic to rummage through the stars.”
    He was bent, frail,