"Learning is overrated in science these days," St. Clair said as Dr. Schumar entered a second code into the next security pad. "The smartest people I've ever known are complete morons."

Another hiss and the main greenhouse doors whooshed open.

The first thing that hit Hubert St. Clair was the smell. It burned his nostrils and seared his eyes. "Sweet Georgia Brown, what is that?" St. Clair demanded, gagging on the fumes. His eyes watered. "Ammonia with a touch of methane," Schumar explained.

The burning air didn't seem to bother the young scientist. He had spent too many hours in the greenhouse to even notice it any longer. He ducked inside. Dr. St. Clair trailed reluctantly.

"Smells like my grandma's bathroom closet," St. Clair complained, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his corduroy coat. He stuffed the hankie over his nose and mouth.

"She stored cleaning materials there, I imagine," Schumar said. "The skylights and fans can clear most of the air in here in less than a minute, but the ammonia lingers. We might have made this greenhouse unusable for future projects."

St. Clair merely grunted beneath his handkerchief. The CCS greenhouse was colossal. Sunlight sparkled off the angled roof far above. Fans, sprinklers and sensory equipment were attached to the fat girders that spanned the massive structure. All helped to carefully control and maintain the artificial environment.

The skylights were all open, a necessity given the unique danger the greenhouse presented.

At the center of the huge greenhouse, hundreds of trees were lined up like patient soldiers. Schumar led St. Clair into the meticulously maintained forest.

The trees in the CCS greenhouse were unlike any seen in nature. Although the shapes of leaf and trunk were familiar, the color was all wrong.