* * *
—
Possibly my uncomfortable distinction of getting myself stung so early in the triffid era had the effect of stimulating my interest, for I seemed to have a sort of link with them from then on. I spent—or “wasted,” if you look at me through my father’s eyes—a great deal of fascinated time watching them.
One could not blame him for considering this a worthless pursuit, yet later the time turned out to have been better employed than either of us suspected, for it was just before I left school that the Artic & European Fish Oil Company reconstituted itself, dropping the word “Fish” in the process. The public learned that it and similar companies in other countries were about to farm triffids on a large scale, in order to extract valuable oils and juices and to press highly nutritious oil cake for stock feeding. Consequently, triffids moved into the realm of big business overnight.
Right away I decided my future. I applied to the Arctic & European, where my qualifications got me a job on the production side. My father’s disapproval was somewhat qualified by the rate of pay, which was good for my age. But when I spoke enthusiastically of the future he blew doubtfully through his mustache. He had real faith only in a type of work steadied by long tradition, but he let me have my way. “After all, if the thing isn’t a success, you’ll find out young enough to start in on something more solid,” he conceded.
There turned out to be no need for that. Before he and my mother were killed together in a holiday airbus crash five years later, they had seen the new companies drive all competing oils off the market and those of us who had been in at the beginning apparently well set for life.
One of the early comers was my friend Walter Lucknor.
There had been some doubt at first about taking Walter on. He knew little of agriculture, less of business, and lacked the qualifications for lab work. On the other hand, he did know a lot about triffids—he had a kind of inspired knack with them.
What happened to Walter that fatal May years later I do not know—though I can guess. It is a sad thing that he did not escape. He might have been immensely valuable later on. I don’t think anybody really understands triffids, or ever will, but Walter came nearer to beginning to understand them than any man I have known. Or should I say that he was given to intuitive feelings about them?
It was a year or two after the job had begun that he first surprised me.
The sun was close to setting. We had knocked off for the day and were looking with a sense of satisfaction at three new fields of nearly fully grown triffids. In those days we didn’t simply corral them as we did later. They were arranged across the fields roughly in rows—at least the steel stakes to which each was tethered by a chain were in rows, though the plants themselves had no sense of tidy regimentation. We reckoned that in another month or so we’d be able to start tapping them for juice. The evening was peaceful; almost the only sounds that broke it were the occasional rattlings of the triffids’ little sticks against their stems. Walter regarded them with his head slightly on one side. He removed his pipe.
“They’re talkative tonight,” he observed.
I took that as anyone else would, metaphorically.
“Maybe it’s the weather,” I suggested. “I fancy they do it more when it’s dry.”
He looked sidelong at me, with a smile.
“Do you talk more when it’s dry?”
“Why should——” I began, and then broke off. “You don’t really mean you think they’re talking?” I said, noticing his expression.
“Well, why not?”
“But it’s absurd. Plants talking!”
“So much more absurd than plants walking?” he asked.
I stared at them, and then back at him.