“All right,” Schmidt said, smiling. “But if something doeshappen, I have my PDA set to accept your call.”

“Will you please get out of here now and go be useful to someone,” Wilson said. “Before I have Tuffy here mate with your boot.”

Tuffy looked up at Schmidt, apparently hopefully. Schmidt left hastily. Tuffy looked over to Wilson.

“You leave myboots alone, pal,” Wilson said.

*   *   *

I have a problem,Wilson sent to Schmidt, roughly an hour later.

What is it?Schmidt sent back, using the texting function of his PDA so as not to interrupt the talks.

It would be best explained in person,Wilson sent.

Is this about the dog?Schmidt sent.

Sort of,Wilson sent.

Sort of?Schmidt sent. Is the dog okay?

Well, it’s alive,Wilson sent.

Schmidt got up as quickly and quietly as possible and headed to the garden.

“We give you one thing to do,” Schmidt said, as he walked up to Wilson. “One thing. Walk the damn dog. You said I didn’t have to worry about anything.”

Wilson held up his hands. “This is not my fault,” he said. “I swear to God.”

Schmidt looked around. “Where’s the dog?”

“He’s here,” Wilson said. “Kind of.”

“What does that even mean?” Schmidt said.

From somewhere came a muffled bark.

Schmidt looked around. “I hear the dog,” he said. “But I can’t see it.”

The bark repeated, followed by several more. Schmidt followed the noise and eventually found himself at the edge of a planter filled with fleur du roi flowers.

Schmidt looked over to Wilson. “All right, I give up. Where is it?”

Another bark. From inside the planter.

From below the planter.

Schmidt looked over to Wilson, confused.

“The flowers ate the dog,” Wilson said.

“What?”Schmidt said.

“I swear to God,” Wilson said. “One second Tuffy was standing in the planter, peeing on the flowers. The next, the soil below him opened upand something pulled him under.”

“ Whatpulled him under?” Schmidt asked.

“How should I know, Hart?” Wilson said, exasperated. “I’m not a botanist. When I went over and looked, there was a thingunderneath the dirt. The flowers were sprouting up from it. They’re part of it.”

Schmidt leaned over the planter for a look. The dirt in the planter had been flung about and below it he could see a large, fibrous bulge with a meter-long seam running across its top surface.

Another bark. From insidethe bulge.

“Holy shit,” Schmidt said.

“I know,” Wilson said.

“It’s like a Venus flytrap or something,” Schmidt said.

“Which is not a good thing for the dog,” Wilson pointed out.

“What do we do?” Schmidt asked, looking at Wilson.

“I don’t know,” Wilson said. “That’s why I called you in the first place, Hart.”

The dog barked again.

“We can’t just leave him down there,” Schmidt said.

“I agree,” Wilson said. “I am open to suggestion.”

Schmidt thought about it for a moment and then abruptly took off in the direction of the entrance to the garden. Wilson watched him go, confused.

Schmidt reemerged a couple of minutes later with an Icheloe, dusty and garbed in items that were caked with dirt.

“This is the garden groundskeeper,” Schmidt said. “Talk to him.”

“You’re going to have to translate for me,” Wilson said. “My BrainPal can translate what he says for me, but I can’t speak in his language.”

“Hold on,” Schmidt said. He pulled out his PDA and accessed the translation program, then handed it to Wilson. “Just talk. It’ll take care of the rest.”

“Hi,” Wilson said, to the groundskeeper. The PDA chittered out something in the Icheloe language.

“Hello,” said the groundskeeper, and then looked over to the planter that had swallowed the dog. “What have you done to my planter?”

“Well, see, that’s the thing,” Wilson said. “I didn’t do anything to the planter. The planter, on the other hand, ate my dog.”

“You’re talking about that small noisy creature the human ambassador brought with it?” the groundskeeper asked.

“Yes, that’s it,” Wilson said. “It went into the planter to relieve itself and the next thing I know it’s been swallowed whole.”

“Well, of course it was,” the groundskeeper said. “What did you expect?”

“I didn’t expect anything,” Wilson said. “No one told me there was a dog-eating plant here in the garden.”

The groundskeeper looked at Wilson and then Schmidt. “No one told you about the kingsflower?”

“The only thing I know about it is that it’s a colony plant,” Wilson said. “That most if it exists under the dirt and that the flowers are the visible part. The thing about it being carnivorous is new to me.”

“The flowers are a lure,” the groundskeeper said. “In the wild, a woodland creature will be drawn in by the flowers and while it’s grazing it will get pulled under.”

“Right,” Wilson said. “That’s what happened to the dog.”

“There’s a digestion chamber underneath the flowers,” the groundskeeper said. “It’s big enough that a large-size animal can’t climb out. Eventually one of two things happens. Either the creature starves and dies or asphyxiates and dies. Then the plant digests it and the nutrients go to feed the entire colony.”

“How long does that take?” Schmidt asked.

“Three or four of our days,” the groundskeeper said, and then pointed at the planter. “This particular kingsflower has been in this garden since before the disappeared king. We usually feed it a kharhn once every ten days or so. Tomorrow is a feeding day, so it was getting a little hungry. That’s why it ate your creature.”

“I wish someone had told me about this earlier,” Wilson said.

The groundskeeper gave the Icheloe equivalent of a shrug. “We thought you knew. I was wondering why you were letting your, what do you call it, a dog?” Wilson nodded. “Why you let your dogwander through the kingsflowers, but we were informed ahead of time to allow the creature free rein of the garden. So I decided that it was not my problem.”

“Even though you knew the dog could get eaten,” Wilson said.

“Maybe you wantedthe dog to get eaten,” the groundskeeper said. “It’s entirely possible you brought the dog as a treat for the kingsflower as a diplomatic gesture. Idon’t know. All I do is tend to the plants.”

“Well, assuming we didn’t want the dog to get eaten, how do we get it back?” Wilson asked.

“I have no idea,” the groundskeeper said. “No one has ever asked that question before.”

Wilson glanced over to Schmidt, who offered up a helpless gesture with his hands.

“Let me put it this way,” Wilson said. “Do you have any objection to me tryingto retrieve the dog?”

“How are you going to do that?” the groundskeeper wanted to know.

“Go in the same way the dog did,” Wilson said. “And hopefully come back out the same way.”

“Interesting,” the groundskeeper said. “I’ll go get some rope.”

*   *   *

“You should probably rub against the flowers a bit,” the groundskeeper said, motioning to the fleur du roi. “Your dog was not especially large. The kingsflower is probably still hungry.”

Wilson looked doubtfully at the groundskeeper but nudged the flowers with his feet. “It doesn’t seem to be doing anything,” he said, kicking at the plant.

“Wait for it,” said the groundskeeper.

“How long should I—,” Wilson began, and then dirt flew and fibrous tentacles wrapped around his legs, constricting.

“Oh, that’s not good,” Schmidt said.

“Not helping,” Wilson said, to Schmidt.

“Sorry,” Schmidt said.

“Don’t be alarmed when the plant starts cutting off the circulation to your extremities,” the groundskeeper said. “It’s a perfectly normal part of the process.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Wilson said. “You’re not losing feeling in your legs.”