I shook my head. "No good, Miss Barstow. Even if I knew I wouldn’t tell you, and since I don’t know we might as well look at the flowers." As I opened the door to the passage Horstmann appeared from the potting room. "All right, Horstmann. May we look around a little?" He nodded and trotted back.
As many times as I had been there, I never went in the plant-rooms without catching my breath. It was like other things I’ve noticed, for instance no matter how often you may have seen Snyder leap in the air and one-handed spear a hot-liner like one streak of lightning stopping another one, when you see it again your heart stops. It was that way in the plant-rooms.
Wolfe used concrete benches and angle-iron staging, with a spraying system Horstmann had invented for humidity. There were three main rooms, one for Cattleyas Laelias and hybrids, one for Odontoglossums, Oncidiums and Miltonia hybrids, and the tropical room. Then there was the potting room, Horstmann’s den, and a little corner room for propagation. Supplies-pots, sand, sphaguum, leafmold, loam, osmundine, charcoal, and crocks-were kept in an unheated and unglazed room in the rear alongside the shaft where the outside elevator came up.
Since it was June the lath screens were on, and the slices of shade and sunshine made patterns everywhere-on the broad leaves, the blossoms, the narrow walks, the ten thousand pots. I liked it that way, it seemed gay.
It was a lesson to watch the flowers get Miss Barstow. Of course when she went in she felt about as much like looking at flowers as I did like disregarding her mother’s ad, and down the first rows of Cattleyas she tried to be polite enough to pretend there was something there to see. The first one that really brought her up was a small side-bunch, only twenty or so, of Laeliocattleya Lustre. I was pleased because it was one of my favorites. I stopped behind her.
"Astonishing," she said. "I’ve never seen one like that. The colors-amazing."
"Yes. It’s a bi-generic hybrid, they don’t come in nature like that."