ox hesitated.

"Yes? Said what?"

"He said that work was unnatural. That it was a waste of time. That the
only worthwhile thing was to sit and contemplate--outside."

"What then?"

"Then they asked him how he got that idea, and then he revealed to them
that he had become a plant."

"I'm going to have to talk to him again, I can see," Harris said. "And
he's applied for a permanent discharge from the Patrol? What reason did
he give?"

"The same, that he's a plant now, and has no more interest in being a
Patrolman. All he wants to do is sit in the sun. It's the damnedest
thing I ever heard."

"All right. I think I'll visit him in his quarters." Harris looked at
his watch. "I'll go over after dinner."

"Good luck," Cox said gloomily. "But who ever heard of a man turning
into a plant? We told him it wasn't possible, but he just smiled at us."

"I'll let you know how I make out," Harris said.

* * * * *

Harris walked slowly down the hall. It was after six; the evening meal
was over. A dim concept was coming into his mind, but it was much too
soon to be sure. He increased his pace, turning right at the end of the
hall. Two nurses passed, hurrying by. Westerburg was quartered with a
buddy, a man who had been injured in a jet blast and who was now almost
recovered. Harris came to the dorm wing and stopped, checking the
numbers on the doors.

"Can I help you, sir?" the robot attendant said, gliding up.

"I'm looking for Corporal Westerburg's room."

"Three doors to the right."

Harris went on. Asteroid Y-3 had only recently been garrisoned and
staffed. It had become the primary check-point to halt and examine ships
entering the system from outer space. The Garrison made sure that no
dangerous bacteria, fungus, or what-not arrived to infect the system. A
nice asteroid it was, warm, well-watered, with trees and lakes and lots
of sunlight. And the most modern Garrison in the nine planets. He shook
his head, coming to the third door. He stopped, raising his hand and
knocking.

"Who's there?" sounded through the door.

"I want to see Corporal Westerburg."

The door opened. A bovine youth with horn-rimmed glasses looked out, a
book in his hand. "Who are you?"

"Doctor Harris."

"I'm sorry, sir. Corporal Westerburg is asleep."

"Would he mind if I woke him up? I want very much to talk to him."
Harris peered inside. He could see a neat room, with a desk, a rug and
lamp, and two