Robert Sauique was having sex. He had been having sex every day for the last month, and he was sick of it.

It wasn't even fun; it was plant sex. Every day he walked through the rows of tomatoes, cucumbers, pumpkins, and all the other kinds of vegetables growing in Dover's gardens, wielding a tiny brush, brushing pollen from one open bloom to another. He hated it; it was the most boring, tedious work imaginable, but he did it, mostly because he liked having food in his belly. Besides, he knew his father would give him a hard time if he slacked off.

Robert stopped for a moment and brushed the sweat off his face. Strands of hair stuck to his skin, and he smoothed it back into his braid. Well, it wasn't a braid yet, just a stubby little ponytail, but it would be, someday, and it would hang down to his waist, or longer. Just three months ago, the fourteen year old had informed his mother that he was not going to cut his hair anymore, and that she couldn't stop him. He smiled slightly to himself as he recalled her reaction. Carla Sauique had started to argue with him, then had just thrown up her hands in resignation and shook her head. A victory! He imagined himself in a year or so, with a respectable braid down his back. He would weave beads in it, he decided, since he could not decorate his hair with feathers in a traditional Paiute manner.

He had been reading up on everything to do with his native American heritage, and he was trying to live as many of the traditions as possible. He wished there were wildlife on Loki, so that he could hunt like his ancestors did. He wished that he had a wise shaman to instruct him, but all he had was his stupid dad who had forgotten more of the Paiute ways than he could remember. Pete seemed to be irritated with Robert's questions, too, and was always telling him to keep his mind on his work.

Work, work, work. Robert kicked a stone into the steaming compost bin at the end of the row. All anyone ever did around here was work. Robert read a lot, and watched all the videos he could get his hands on, and he knew that on Earth, before breakaway, kids his age were only expected to go to school and weren't expected to choose a career until they were in their twenties. Here, everyone was always talking about work, and most kids his age were being carefully steered into specialties that they would probably work at their entire lives.

As his parents were trying to do to him, he thought disgustedly, and as his parents had successfully done with his dolt of an older brother. Farmer Ken. That's all he'd ever be was Farmer Ken. I want to go to the mall, he thought sourly, although why that was fun, I don't know. I want to ride a skateboard, or have rollerblades, or play Nintendo. I don't want to be pollinating stinking zucchini!

"Robert, this storage room needs to be inventoried. I'm not really sure what all is in here any more, and somehow the original inventory was wiped from the computer. You need to go through each box, assign it a number and itemize what's in it," Pete Sauique explained to his son.

"What is all this crap, anyway?"

"Young man, I will not tolerate your speaking to me in that tone of voice or using that kind of sloppy language." Pete checked his anger. He had been having too many conversations like this with his youngest son lately. "Not only am I your father, but when we are in the agricultural area, I am also your supervisor. And I will not hesitate to discipline you if I have to."

What will you do, ground me? Robert sneered inwardly. Not like there's anything worth doing around here anyway. Out loud he said, "I'm sorry, dad. What is all this stuff?"

"It looks like it's non-essential items that were sent down here from Alpha quite a while ago for storage. I'm not really sure what's here, and that's why we need a complete inventory. There might be something that we'll find useful now that we've got the Ag area thriving so we can concentrate on some other things. Or there might be some things that can be recycled." He patted his son's shoulder on the way out. "Try to have it finished by tomorrow evening," he said. "We have a lot of plants blooming and we'll need your pollination skills again."

Robert rolled his eyes and made a face at his father's departing back. More plant sex. Great. He wondered if he could draw this inventory thing out for a week.

He opened the first box and sat down on the floor in front of it, taking up his slate. "Box One," he said aloud. "Contents: A brass name plate with 'Dr. Brundle' on it. Oh, great, this is some dead scientist's desk contents." He made a disgusted noise as he pulled two mugs from the box that still had the remnants of coffee in the bottoms. "Two coffee cups, dirty. One picture frame with a picture of an ugly woman. Two ball point pens."

Robert quickly came to the conclusion that most of the boxes held the forgotten belongings of workers long ago rotated off Alpha, before breakaway. Still, he supposed there might be some useful things in here, to someone. If nothing else, it was kind of interesting going through this stuff. More interesting than plant sex, he reckoned.

"Box Four. One 'Far Side' desk calendar, 1998." He sat and read all of the cartoons, not understanding a lot of them, and laughing out loud at others.

"Felt tipped marker. One legal pad. One boring scientific report in a box." Robert stopped for a moment and reread the caption on the box before moving to the next item. "The Effects Lunar Soil on the Cultivation of Cannabis Sativa."

Robert started to chuckle, then read the memo summarizing the proposal. He knew from his reading and watching movies exactly what cannabis was.

"The active element in cannabis sativa, THC, has long been known to alleviate the debilitating symptoms of terminally ill patients. There is abundant clinical evidence to show that THC helps to alleviate pain, nausea, anxiety and lack of appetite suffered by cancer patients and others with serious illnesses. Our study proposes to find ways to increase the THC levels in the cannabis plant and to develop a rapid, 'non-smoked' delivery method to these patients. Our study then, is two-fold: to increase the THC levels beyond those currently available in the cannabis sativa plant, and, once this has been done, to study methods of the delivery of this THC to terminally ill patients. We believe that the chemical makeup of lunar soil contains the necessary alkalinity and other mineral properties to enhance the THC production in cannabis sativa."

Robert flipped the page and found a handwritten memo, scribbled in an angry hand, the letters bold and slanted. It was dated August 18, 1999. "Dr. Gordon, I have told you repeatedly that I will not accept these hare-brained proposals from you. We are not going to grow pot on the moon. I have put in for your transfer back to Earth on the next shuttle. Perhaps they have time for such things at Berkeley, but I assure you Dr. Gordon, we do not have time for it here on Alpha." The memo was signed "Commander Gorsky."

Poor guy, Robert thought to himself as he closed the report. It didn't sound so screwy to me. Of course, at least the guy was apparently saved from being blasted through space a month later with everyone else because of it.

As he put the report back in the box, he felt something thick tucked into the pages of the bound document. He pulled out a large envelope with "cannabis sativa seeds" written across the front.

"Whoa!!" he said as he sat back. Pot seeds. And a lot of them, he thought as he opened the envelope. He smoothed his stray hairs back into his ponytail as he thought for a moment. I wonder if these will grow. They're at least 32 years old.

He remembered his dad telling them how lucky they had been after breakaway to have had a scientist on Alpha doing research on plants and how they would fare in lunar soil. It was the second part of a project to try to make Alpha more self sufficient, and it had saved the Alphans' lives after the moon had hurtled from orbit. Hundreds of edible seeds had been present on Alpha at breakaway, in tiny quantities, and the botanists and hydroponicists had been able to cultivate that seed into the abundant crops that they enjoyed today. He had asked his dad why the seed was still able to grow, as some of it was rather old by the time the scientists had gotten to all of it. His father had explained that many varieties of seeds could remain viable for years, even decades. Pete had told him about plants that grew in the desert from seeds lying dormant in the sand for 50 years, and about wheat seeds recovered from the Pyramids of Egypt sprouting in modern times.

"Let's see if cannabis sativa is one of those hardy varieties," Robert said to himself, tucking the entire box into a corner to be taken home later. He conveniently left that particular item off of his inventory list. Life at Dover had just become a bit more interesting.

Every day Robert found a reason to walk by a certain compost bin. That was where he had decided to try his altered version of old Doc Gordon's experiment. Compost took a long time to work, and he had chosen a new bin that had just been started. No one would be coming around here for a while.

He had read the proposal from start to finish several times, and thought he had followed the instructions to the letter for the successful cultivation of this new plant. Unfortunately, Dr. Gordon had not included any information as to the germination time of the seeds. It had been a little over a week and nothing had happened yet, so Robert was ready to write the seeds off as duds. Still, he checked his row behind the bin.

He sucked in his breath. Several tiny green plants had poked through the soil since he had checked them yesterday. Success! He actually whistled for the rest of the day as he pollinated the watermelons.

Robert checked the progress of his personal crop daily, and began to realize that he was more of a farmer than he'd every realized. Over the next few weeks, the plants thrived.

Part of him wanted to share his success with his dad; this was the first time Robert had ever grown a plant on his own, and he thought his dad would be kind of impressed. But of course he couldn't. He thought about telling his brother, but knew that Ken would immediately tell their father. The two of them just weren't as close as a lot of other siblings Robert knew.

He decided to tell his friend Chris Vincent about his successful crop and one day he clandestinely took his friend to the compost bin to show off the green plants that were now over a foot tall.

"So, what's the big deal?" Chris stared dubiously at Robert's accomplishment.

"They're a drug! Pot. Weed. Marijuana. Back on Earth people dried it, rolled it up and smoked it. They got high. A buzz." Robert searched his brain for words that he had heard from the old movies and videos. "Stoned. Zoned. Toasted."

"Why would we need this? If we wanted to feel that way, we could drink beer or something. Those gross mushrooms in Dover cocktails are probably better than this."

"Yeah, but that stuff is for the adults! This is our secret--we can smoke it and no one will know." He couldn't understand why Chris wasn't more interested.

"Well, you do what you want, but I bet it's not very good for you."

Robert shook his head at Chris's back. Chris was just a year older, but lately he was acting more like Ken, or even his dad. Like a grown up. He was considering going into medicine, or being an engineer, and it was like the pal that Robert had his whole childhood was just gone. Oh, well, Robert decided, it leaves that much more pot for me if I don't have to share.

He was surprised the plants were getting so big; he did not realize that they would grow this tall. He consulted Dr. Gordon's report again. They would soon be taller than the top of the compost bin, and that would invite investigation by someone. He decided to attempt his first harvest, and cut about 8 inches off the top of each plant.

Robert stuffed the plant tops into the deep pockets of his coveralls and smuggled them back to his room. He hung them upside down, like they did with other herbs in the Ag section, in his closet, behind some clothes. He prayed his mom wouldn't find them.

He stood at the mirror and adjusted his ponytail. Over the last month, it had grown out enough that he could capture all of the stray hairs into it, so his appearance was much tidier. He really favored his father, he thought. His Paiute features were prominent, and the only concessions to his mother's genes were his light eyes and a smattering of freckles across his nose. His hair was growing fast, and soon he could have the braid that he wanted. He would have to make some beads.

He decided that as soon as his cannabis was ready, he would use it to go on a vision quest. He was not quite certain if this was a Paiute tradition or not, since the library information on his tribe was extremely minimal. However, as one of only three native Americans left in the whole universe, possibly, he decided that it wouldn't matter too much if he mixed up tribal traditions. He knew that some tribes chewed something called peyote to get the visions; he wondered what the cannabis would do to him when he smoked it. He had watched a video one time called "Animal House." One of the characters had smoked marijuana and asked if he would get psycho. Is that what the plant did?

Robert had a giddy feeling of trepidation and excitement combined. In just a few days, his plants would be dry and he would smoke them. Perhaps he would have a vision like his ancestors, a vision that would help him determine the direction for the rest of his life. He certainly wasn't all that happy with the way it was going right now.

Pete had forgotten his slate on his desk and walked back to get it. He wanted to go over some figures at home tonight after dinner. He stopped for a moment as a distantly familiar sickish sweet smell wafted toward him from a store room. "What the hell?" he muttered as he opened the door of the room that Robert had inventoried a few months before.

There was his son, with what looked to be a fat cigarette clamped between his lips. He looked at his father and began coughing deeply.

"Oh, my God, that's marijuana! Where the hell did you get pot?" He grabbed his son by the arm and pulled him up, slapping the cigarette out of Robert's mouth, and stamping on the smoking butt angrily. Robert's eyes were fearful and red-rimmed as he stared up at his father. Pete noted with a shock the red welt on his son's cheek where he had slapped his son in his haste to remove the cigarette. Neither he nor his wife had never struck either of their children.

"I grew it," Robert said, summoning up pride in his accomplishment and grinning insolently at his father.

Pete looked at his youngest son and shook his head. The kid that killed every plant he touched managed to grow marijuana, of all things. Where did he get the seeds? "We're going home, NOW." Pete dug his fingers painfully into Robert's arm and began walking to their quarters. His son lagged behind, obviously stoned beyond understanding. The bruises, however, in the shape of Pete's fingers on his upper arm would be a reminder for two weeks of his father's anger, and his ears would ring for days from the yelling his father did on the way home, joined by his mother's voice a little later that evening.

Dr. Ofori tucked the sample bag into her pocket. "I'll take this back to the lab and analyze it," she said. "Don't destroy the plants. It did have medicinal value on Earth, and we can probably use it here. I think we should cultivate a small amount. It may prove useful in the future." She patted Pete's arm as she walked away; she knew he was about to have a long serious discussion with his son.

"Damn it, Robert," Pete said softly to his son standing quietly nearby.

"But dad, I just....." Robert whined.

"Let's walk and talk." They walked out of the Ag area onto one of the paths worn by numerous walkers around the outskirts of the settlement. "You don't know what it was like on Earth, kid. You really don't. You know I grew up on the Reservation?" He saw Robert nod from the corner of his eye. "Did you know I had a brother, too? I don't talk about him much, but I had a brother named Kenneth, who was two years older than me. Ken is named for him, but you look and act so much like him, it's scary. Especially since you started growing out this damned thing." He tugged on his son's ponytail.

"Ken was bored on the Res, just like you're bored here. He always felt like he didn't fit in there, that he wasn't interested in anything going on around there. He started hanging out with what our mother called a 'fast crowd,' doing fast things. He started drinking, and smoking pot, and then he graduated on to harder drugs. He was arrested for the attempted murder of an armored car guard, and was sent to prison. He got out, kept getting into trouble. I hadn't seen him for about 4 years when I came to Alpha." His eyes clouded. "And I'll never see him again."

"Dad, I would never try to hurt anyone!"

Pete hugged him for a moment. "I know you wouldn't. But I guess my point is, when I smelled that marijuana, it was like Paradise Lost for me. We lost so much when the moon went out of orbit and eventually sent us here. We lost good things, but we lost a lot of bad things, too. The only diseases we have are the ones we brought with us, and fortunately they are few. We have no drug problems, and none of the kinds of problems that came with money or the lack of it. We lost Earth, but we also lost wars, we lost crime, we lost poverty, we lost inequality and discrimination.

"When I saw you with that thing hanging out of your mouth, I felt like we somehow were on the way to getting it all back. And I didn't like it. I don't like it." Pete stopped and turned to his son. "You have to find your place in this world, kid, and I can't find it for you. I can help you, but you can't resist me every step of the way. But you can't hide from your problems and your boredom and your bad feelings by inhaling a cloud of rancid smoke. You understand?"

Robert nodded slowly.

"The other thing you have to remember is that work is king here. If we don't work, we and others don't eat. We don't live. You have been protected a lot from seeing how tenuous life really is here, and I suppose that's my fault and your mother's. Parents always want to protect their kids, I suppose. But if you start smoking that garbage, then you start neglecting your work, and when you neglect your work, not only you, but everyone, suffers." He poked his son lightly in the chest. "Everyone has to pull their weight, and then some. Can you see that?"

Robert nodded again.

"Go on home, now, and help your mom with dinner. Tell her I'll be home soon." Pete watched his son's back and felt like his words were lost on the boy. How could he understand when all he knew of the past were the silly videos he watched all the time? Pete walked a little further, then turned heavily and headed for home. He knew that Robert's issues were not resolved and had a feeling that this was just the first in a string of problems with the boy.