“Fine.” Hafas sounded relaxed but tired.

“No problems? Nothing on any of the monitors?”

“No. Quiet as ever. Why?”

“Just checking in.” The tendril was now rapidly widening its area of search.

Reaching over, he removed one of the hand cases holding the invaluable pharmaceuticals and placed it on the floor between his feet and the probing tendril. It felt around a moment longer until it impacted the case. As Manz looked on respectfully it quickly explored the entire exterior. With a normal shipment, he surmised, it would have cut out a hole in the bottom of the shipping case itself. In this instance there were several cases inside a much larger container. How would the tendril react to this unprecedented approach?

His answer came a moment later as the green strand vanished back down the hole it had made and returned an instant later with a tiny industrial sonic cutter. The noiseless, invisible beam went to work on the side of the composite case, wielded with skill and precision by the tendril. Try as he would, Manz could find no glint of an eye or other visual pickup. As near as he could tell, the tendril was operating entirely by feel. It had to be remarkably sensitive and precise to violate the integrity of the shipping case without harming any of the priceless pharmaceuticals packed inside.

He was careful to keep his legs well clear of the tendril and the tool gripped in its coiled tip. The cutter could slice through his shoes and toes as easily as it did the wall of the shipping case.

When a two-centimeter-wide hole had been made in the case, a second tendril appeared alongside the first to feel of the new opening. Satisfied, the first tendril withdrew, taking the cutter with it. The second entered the hole, poked around inside a while, then emerged. Gripped in its sensitive tip was a vial of some foul-looking, urine-colored liquid that was probably worth more than Manz made in a decade. As it slid with its prize into the hole in the floor the other tendril reemerged, entered the hole in the case, and repeated the procedure. Alternating their intrusion, the two tendrils proceeded to extract the entire contents of the case.

When they’d finished, he suspected they’d start hunting for the next portion of the shipment. He had no intention of waiting around to see what their reaction would be if instead of composite and padding they coiled around one of his ankles.

“Everything still okay out there?” he whispered into his pickup.

“Sure,” came the inspector’s unperturbed reply. “You getting antsy in there?”

“Something like that. Tell me, Hafas, how does the landscaping around the shed look?”

There was a pause. “The landscaping.”

“Uh-huh. The landscaping.”

A longer pause. “Manz, maybe we’d better get you out of there. Check the status on your rebreather. You sure you’re getting enough fresh air?”

“I may be sucking a little more than usual, but other than tasting lousy there’s nothing wrong with it. You’d be pulling a few extra ‘O’s’ yourself if you were seeing what I’m seeing.”

“I’m looking at the monitors right now. It’s as quiet as a monastery on Charon inside that shed. Nothing’s happening.”

“Not outside my doghouse it isn’t. But you oughta be in here.” As he watched, the tendril reemerged from the hole in the floor and began feeling around for a fresh, untouched shipping case. Reaching up and across, he wrapped his fingers around container number two, but before he could position it between the tendril and himself, the probing coil flicked the bottom of his right foot. Reflexively, he kicked at it.

The green rope jerked back and hesitated. Even as he made a grab for the end, it retreated. A disc of matching, severed composite was jammed up into the hole in the floor as something began to heat-seal it from beneath.

The adjuster started yelling into his pickup. “Hafas, Vyra, get me out of here! Seal off the atrium!”

“What?” came the inspector’s startled voice. “What’s going on, what’s happening? Everything’s quiet out here.”

“Not in here it ain’t! Hafas, I just watched a couple of goddamn roots rifle a Braun-Roche-Keck pharmaceutical case. It’s the plants, man! You’re gonna have to arrest the landscaping.” As he twisted violently within the container a new thought made him add, “And probably the landscapers as well. Get me out of this!”

Suddenly the once peaceful atrium was filled with armed guards, all hunting for imagined jackers, waving their weapons about and generally looking determined but confused. Most of them felt as foolish as they knew they must have looked. A couple of startled clerks gaped wide-eyed at the sudden infusion of heavy firepower and rushed for the nearest doorway. A couple of the guards ran to intercept them, but Vyra waved them away.

“Let them go! You heard Broddy. It’s the plants.” The two guards who’d been planning to make an arrest eyed her blankly.

She loped toward the central planter, clearing the freeform arcrete wall in one bound. “Shut off the beams!” Feeling a little left behind, mentally as well as physically, Hafas gave the order. No sirens wailed as she approached the shed.

They had Manz out of the container in less than two minutes. He showed them where the case had been holed, then helped Hafas wrestle the big container aside. The opening in the floor of the shed had been artfully resealed, but the location was still slightly warm to the touch.

“What’s under here?” Manz eyed the Port tech who’d accompanied Hafas.

The man looked dazed but replied readily enough. “You know: the floor, then an open space, then dirt.”

The adjuster mulled this over, then glanced to his left. “Minder, analyze and report on possibilities.”

The sphere bobbed silently. “Matter transmission.”

“Discard,” his owner instructed impatiently.

“Metaphysics. Atmospheric transmigration. Optical opacity. Mass hypnosis.”

“Discard,” Manz said dismissively, “and get real.” There was a brief delay. “Is the floor solid?” the sphere inquired. Its owner stared expectantly at the tech. So did Hafas and Vyra.

“Uh, I don’t believe so. There’s a gap, sort of an air sandwich. Room for fibering and other equipment, conduits. That sort of thing.”

“How about the four pillars that hold this vacuum palace off the ground?” Manz asked him.

“All solid, except the one that’s ducted for the aforementioned equipment.”

“Where do the lines run?”

The tech sounded defensive without knowing why. “Under the atrium floor, of course. Outside. Air exhaust to the pumps that maintain the vacuum inside the shed, fiberops to control, and so on.”

Manz rushed out of the shed, shoving his way through the miniature jungle, and halted at the top of the wall.

“They can’t go on forever.” He stared at the smooth, paved floor.

“What can’t go on forever?” Hafas asked him. “What happened in there? Where are the contents of that case?”

“Maybe right here. Maybe right under our feet. Maybe already on their way out of the Port.” He spared the inspector an impatient glance. “Roots, Hafas. Roots. How long can they grow?”

The florid-faced officer looked blank. “How the hell should I know? I’m a cop, not a gardener.”

“This might be a good time to take it up.” The adjuster’s gaze rose to the nearest decorative planter located outside the atrium, beyond the double set of security doors. “Looks like about thirty meters.”

“What does?” Hafas sputtered.

“From this planter in here to that one out there. Maybe, Inspector, you ought to have some of your people turn in their guns for pruning shears.” He shook his head in amazement. “Next thing you know, pussywillows will be picking our pockets.”

“Manz, I wish you’d explain yourself.”

“I’m trying to. I’m trying to explain it to me, too. Right now I’m feeling pretty cramped from being boxed up in there. Time for a walk.” He jumped off the retaining wall and headed for the doors. Bemused, the inspector followed.

A third decorative planter, healthy and well watered, was situated some twenty meters from the one located immediately outside the Administration Center. A fourth formed a bright, colorful barrier between the bustling main storage bay and a passing serviceway. Cargo carts and self-propelled flatbeds hummed back and forth along the pavement.

Manz halted alongside the planter that fronted the road. Looking back the way they’d come, he could just make out the entrance to the distant Administration Center and its vulnerable atrium in the middle. One heavily foliated planter inside, three more positioned in a rough line outside, terminating in this one beside the service road. He turned to study the dense growth. A cart or two-person transport could pull up right alongside and remove anything from the base of the trees and bushes without being observed. Anything at all.