We were in the star ship, clustered around a bell jar. The jar contained a small specimen of the killer that I'd dug up gingerly and brought back for evidence. I'd introduced water into the jar, and the first reaction had just taken place. "Watch closely," I cautioned. Again it happened--innocently at first and then too swiftly for the eye to follow. One of the little protuberances seemed to swell slightly--_Ping._ Something struck the wall of the bell jar hard enough to evoke a clear, sharp, resonant note. "I don't know the exact range of a mature specimen," I said, grimly, "but I saw leaves shake a good twenty yards away." "A seed," one of the crewmen breathed. "Nothing but a tiny, insignificant _seed_." Moya shook his head. "A deadly missile, son, wearing or containing a virulent poison. And people used to blather about curare." I began to draw concentric arcs on the chart. "I kept fetching water and testing and retreating all the way back to the plain. Pretty soon there's not going to be any place safe within miles of where these mutants can take root. Near the plain's camp, they're still innocuous--the original species. The propagation response is triggered by rain, all right, but the seeds just pop out, and, of course, the poison is undoubtedly weak--a bother only to insects." "But they weren't a problem--" Moya interjected. "Time," I said. "Five years. Look here on the chart. I figured this to be the center: the first team's permanent camp on the hill. Now what happened there? Heaters to destroy immediate vegetation, and _Radio-Frequency_ beams to kill insects and their larvae over a wider area. R-F--don't you see? Cells react to certain portions of the radio spectrum. Some are destroyed, depending upon intensity. Some behave strangely--the 'marching protozoa,' the 'dancing amoeba.' In others, chromosomal aberrations occur, resulting in mutations. Remember the experiments with yeasts, garlic, grains? The growth of some microorganisms is stimulated by R-F irradiation." "Then these glorified flytraps got mad at what was happening to their innards and decided to fight even harder for survival?" "You're anthropomorphizing," I told Moya, "but that's the way I see it. They just responded along already established lines." I paused and noted the expressions on the faces of the crew. Maybe it was that, and maybe it was the fact that my leg hadn't held up very well under the beating I'd given it. And maybe it was twelve good men--Anyway, I spent the next half hour pulling no punches. When I'd finished, Interstel had regained its reputation. Nobody--neither short-timer nor veteran--likes to hear dead comrades characterized as "stupid." But I figured the crew would remember. Moya seemed unfazed, as if he'd paid scant attention to my speech; he rubbed his chin reflectively. "The bug suits--" "Were they any protection? At long range, probably. But up close--" Moya apparently could think of nothing more to say.