One Minute of Orchid Time

The greenhouse module of Station Larkspur was the quietest room in space. It had forty shelves of plants and one long window. The light was soft and green. A big clock hung on the far wall. It showed only minutes. Orla loved it more than any other place on the station.

She was fifteen, and she was the youngest crew member. Her job was to care for one plant. It was a night orchid called Pearl.

Pearl was famous on the station. She had one flower, and the flower opened once every thirty days. It stayed open for one minute only. During that minute, someone had to touch it with a tiny brush. Without the brush, Pearl made no seeds.

"Do not miss it," said Cordelia, the station gardener. She was twenty. She wore a hat with a leaf pinned to it. "Pearl has no more chances this month."

"I will not miss it," said Orla.

"Do you have a clock?" Cordelia asked.

Orla held up her wrist. There was no clock there. Instead, she showed an old brass stopwatch. It hung on a string around her neck.

"It came with the room," said Orla. "It is older than the station."

"Does it work?" asked Cordelia.

"I think so," said Orla. "It runs a little slow. But it works."

On the day of the flower, Orla woke very early. She put on clean gloves. She took the small brush from its box. She set the stopwatch in her left hand. Then she sat on a stool in front of Pearl. She waited for the bud to move.

The bud was shut, round, and silver. At ten o'clock it trembled. A thin line appeared along its side.

"Now," Orla whispered. She pressed the button on the stopwatch.

The petals opened like a white hand. A soft blue light spread across the shelf. The flower smelled of cold water and honey. Orla raised the brush. She looked at the stopwatch. The hand showed only twenty seconds.

"Plenty of time," she told herself.

She moved the brush with great care. She wanted every touch to be perfect. The flower trembled, and a little gold dust fell from its middle. The hand on the stopwatch showed forty seconds. Orla smiled.

Then the petals began to close.

"No, no, no," Orla said. She leaned forward and touched the flower again and again. The petals folded one by one. The blue light faded. Pearl became a small silver bud once more.

She checked the time. The stopwatch said forty seconds.

Cordelia ran into the room. "How did it go?"

"It closed early," Orla said sadly. "I still had twenty seconds."

Cordelia looked at the bud and then at the stopwatch. She bit her lip.

"Did you touch her enough?" she asked.

"Maybe," said Orla. "But I do not know. The flower was too fast."

"The flower was not fast," said Cordelia. "Your watch was slow."

She took the stopwatch. She held it next to the big clock on the wall. They both watched. The big clock moved one whole minute. The stopwatch showed only forty seconds.

"It is not a little slow," said Cordelia. "It loses a third of every minute."

Orla put her face in her hands. "So Pearl made no seeds?"

"A few, maybe," said Cordelia. "But not enough. We have to try again."

"In thirty days?" Orla asked. "That is a long time."

"We do not have to wait," said Cordelia.

She pointed at the shelf. Next to Pearl, a second small bud sat in a pot. It was pale, and it was only the size of a pea.

"Her sister," said Cordelia. "She opens in three days. If you touch her well with the brush, we get many seeds."

"And if I miss again?"

"Then we will have a very sad greenhouse," said Cordelia.

For three days, Orla did not sleep well. She thought about the stopwatch. She thought about the twenty lost seconds. She tried a new watch from the station store. It stopped working in an hour. She tried to count aloud, but she lost her place every time.

On the third night, she sat in the greenhouse. The old brass watch was in her hand. At last she had a different idea.

In the morning, she told Cordelia.

"I will not fight the watch," she said. "I will use it as it is."

"What do you mean?" Cordelia asked.

"The watch loses a third of every minute," said Orla. "That never changes. So the flower's whole minute is only forty seconds on my watch. I will plan my work in forty seconds, not sixty."

Cordelia tilted her head. "That is clever."

"It is only counting," said Orla. "From the start, the left petals. At ten, the right petals. At twenty, the middle. At thirty-eight, I stop."

"And the big clock?" Cordelia asked.

"It shows no seconds," said Orla. "Only my watch can count them."

The second bud trembled at ten that morning. The petals opened, and a pale gold light filled the room. Orla pressed the button. She did not hurry. She brushed the left petals in slow, even lines. At ten seconds, she moved to the right. At twenty, she touched the middle with the tip of the brush.

Gold dust rose into the air and sparkled around her glove.

At thirty-eight seconds, she stopped. She held the brush still.

At forty, the petals began to close.

Orla did not move. She watched the flower fold, one petal after another. Soon only a small silver bud was left. The blue light faded from the shelf.

"Did it work?" Cordelia whispered from the door.

Orla checked the stopwatch. Then she looked at the pale bud. A tiny gold seed already grew at its base.

"Yes," she said. "Every petal. Every second."

Cordelia clapped her hands. "You did it. You really did it."

"The watch did most of the work," said Orla.

Cordelia took the brass stopwatch off its string. She looked at it for a long moment. Then she hung it around her own neck.

"At last," she said, "a clock that makes my meetings shorter. I will wear it everywhere."