Lt. Leary, Commanding by David Drake

Sentino held the cup out to Daniel. “Here you go, sir,” she said. “You get the cherry.”

Rather than argue that he’d wait his turn—and besides, he was thirsty—Daniel took the cup and had it almost to his lips when the smell hit him. If he’d been out in the wind, he might have swallowed down most of the cup unawares, which would have been a great deal worse than going thirsty.

“Stop!” he said. “The water’s contaminated. We’ll have to discard the container, I’m afraid, because we don’t have a means of cleaning it here.”

Sun pushed Sentino aside and put his nose to the jerrican’s wide mouth. He rose with a look of white rage. “God damn Pettin’s shit-eating chicken-fucking whoreson excuses for spacers!” he shouted. His near stupor of moments before had passed. “And God damn me for accepting the cans without checking them!”

He picked up the jerrican by one of the paired handles on top and slung it a good twenty feet into the bushes. That was a remarkable throw for five gallons of water with the weight of the container.

“We got the jerricans from the Winckelmann, sir,” Barnes explained softly. He and Dasi looked as miserable as Sun was angry. “The Sissie didn’t have anything suitable, but the cruiser’s outfitted for ground operations so we figured . . .”

“Traded them a bottle of brandy,” Dasi said. Stolen from Delos Vaughn’s baggage, no doubt. “It wasn’t Mr. Sun’s fault, sir, it was me and Barnes did it. And we didn’t check the cans.”

One of which had been used for some petroleum product, probably extra kerosine for the fuel cells of the Winckelmann’s big aircar; and hadn’t been properly cleaned afterwards. Nobody on the Princess Cecile had noticed the smell before filling the container with water. They’d been in a hurry, of course.

“I think we can blame Commodore Pettin for the difficulty,” Daniel said mildly. “Though such a trivial business doesn’t seem worthy of an officer of the commodore’s demonstrated ability. Vesey, take two men and get the pump working.”

“Sir, the flow back where we camped was only a gallon an hour,” the midshipman said. “And that was in the rivercourse proper.”

“Yes,” Daniel said, “but I’m hopeful that we can find a more bountiful source in the meantime. Hogg, what do you think of the block of limestone right over . . .”

As Daniel spoke, he pushed his way along the edge of the ravine, to the right of the collapsed bank. For the first twenty feet it was merely a matter of muscling through twigs as dry as old bones. Just this side of the sandstone inclusion he’d seen as he entered the ravine grew a plant the size and shape of a wicker hassock. Its body consisted of strands curving up from the base to a central stem. A few had released their upper attachment and lay like whips on the ground.

“Ah,” said Daniel. “Bring me one of the empty jerricans soonest.”

The one filled with contaminated water would be even better, but Daniel didn’t blame Sun for letting out his anger. Besides, the thing was done.

Dasi tossed an empty plastic container to Hogg, who passed it in turn to Daniel. “Everybody get down,” Daniel said.

He squatted, judged the distance, and threw himself flat as he lobbed the jerrican. It landed in the center of the plant. There was a whap-pap-pap as all the remaining strands released simultaneously. The seeds at the ends of each, glass-hard and the size of marbles, flew forty feet in all directions. The can spun into the air, then dropped onto the ruins of the plant.

“A much better idea than bumping into it,” Daniel said; preening himself on his observation, but doing it in so quiet a voice that not even Hogg could have heard him. He stepped past the plant to the rock plug.

“I think it’s another burrow,” Daniel said to his servant. “And I think there must be water inside, don’t you? The creatures dig, and it wouldn’t be any great trick to trench down into the aquifer so they could lap it up at need.”

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