it could be detected miles away.
Before and after its blooming season it is only less deadly that it can
be safely approached. To cut or break the sappy stems and foliage would
be only to court prompt disaster without the use of adequate poison
masks. The newly cut plant exhales the same deadly perfume as the bloom,
one deep breath of which would frequently be fatal to human life. The
cuts in the foliage heal up quickly, however, and after a day's delay
its transport could be safely undertaken. The reference here is to
transport in the open air. The green harvest once stored in a confined
space again becomes actively dangerous. All stores containing it should
be carefully locked up, and isolated, and should only be entered by
those with poison masks carefully adjusted. The only moment at which
Adresol, in its native conditions, is perfectly innocuous is in its dead
season, when the bulbous root lies dormant. The proportion of the drug
contained in the dried foliage, however, is infinitely small.'"

Steve looked up from his reading.

"That," he said, "is all we need to convince us of the Sleepers' lack of
understanding of the nature of the plant. I'd say right here they've
never seen the plant in growth. If they had they'd be scared to get next
it by a thousand miles. Whatever we don't know of Adresol, we do surely
know Indians. But I guess there's a heap more importance in that writing
than that. How do these folk get the dead stuff in the growing
season--the blooming season? How can they face that deadly scent?
They've no scientific poison masks. Yet year after year an outfit makes
the summer trail and they get back when things freeze up with enough
Adresol for their own doping, and a big bunch for trade to us. Your
father doesn't answer that. He leaves us guessing, and thinking of
winter when the whole darn country is covered feet thick in snow and
ice."

The interest in Marcel's eyes was profound, and he drew a deep breath as
Steve paused. He had no question, however. He sat leaning forward in his
chair expectantly, waiting, his pipe dead out and forgotten.

Steve's face suddenly lit with a smile.

"Now I'm going to give you a crazy man's answer to all those things. I'd
hate for your father to hear me. I'm going to say the growing, blooming
season of this queer stuff is _dead, hard winter_. At least up here. I'm
going to say the foliage lies dead the whole of the open season, and the
root is dormant. I'm going t