"If that happens," I broke in, "who gets the contract, Cap? Is there any provision for deadlock in the Space Regulations?" The Skipper fumbled with the loose-leaf pages of his memory. "Yeah," he finally decided, "there is. The Interplanetary Commerce Code rules that whenever two companies effect a simultaneous landing, their product shall be offered the governing board of the newly opened territory in direct competition." I snorted loudly. "A hell of a lot of good that does us! It'll be a matter of choosing seeds against seeds. And if I know those Cosmic Corporation crooks, they'll bribe the Iapetus governing board blue in the face." "Wait!" cried Biggs. "It may not be seeds against seeds. It may be seeds against--flowers!" "Huh!" gasped the Old Man. "What was that, boy?" "My ... er ... horticultural experiment," said Lancelot. "By the time we arrive there--perhaps by _now_--we may actually have flowers to show them. Exhibit A of the sort of thing our seeds will produce. It should provide a clinching argument." Hanson stared at him bewilderedly. "You mean them seeds you swiped are growing flowers in three days?" "That's what I hope," nodded Biggs. "Let's find out. Come down to my growth chamber and we'll see." We needed no second invitation. In minus zero seconds the three of us were galloping down the ramp to the room wherein Lancelot Biggs had installed his hydroponic tank. We waited breathlessly as he fumbled with the lock ... then gasped and choked as the door opened and a steamy mist gushed out to smack us in the pans with an almost ponderable force. Then regardless of the heat the three of us were crowding into the narrow cubicle and-- [Illustration: A welter of tropic growths tumbled out of the door.] "Great snakes!" I gasped. "Good goddlemitey!" croaked Cap Hanson. "Oh, my gracious!" bleated Biggs. For we had stepped not into the metal chamber of a space-craft bunkroom--but into what seemed the foetid fen of some steamy swampland jungle! * * * * * It's hard to describe what that room looked like. Imagine a Gauguin painting come to life ... a tropical hothouse gone berserk. That gives you some idea. The original tank wherein Biggs had sprinkled the rose seeds was completely invisible, submerged beneath a crawling octopus of greenery. Writhing fronds spewed from the container to twist in tumultuous entanglement beneath our feet ... up the walls ... across the ceiling. Twining and spiraling around every piece of furniture, every bracket, any support to which suckered tendrils could cling. A heady perfume thickened the air; perfume from monstrous growths that no more resembled a rose than _I_ look like a wasteland Martian.