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glowed.
    “This is a smoke-analyzing probe,” I explained. “It’s being used here first, to look for constituents that shouldn’t be here, and second, to see what constituents are present that would indicate a specific botanical family or group.”
    “Looks good,” Don said again. He activated an adjoining device which clattered and then spat out a sheet of paper. “A readout for the records.”
    Even Cartwright looked more relaxed now and Don continued with the testing. Occasionally, he explained what he was doing and when he didn’t, I took over. Eberhard walked off briskly, as if he were going somewhere vital but it was probably another of his patrols. Simpson came back and stood watching. At a lull in the proceedings, he said apologetically, “None of my business but some of the special goods that come through customs have to be accompanied by an analysis. They use a piece of equipment called a quantometer which does it real fast. I was wondering—”
    “No,” Don said. “You can’t analyze plants that way. They contain mostly the same elements and in the same approximate percentages. An analysis would tell us nothing.”
    “Sorry,” murmured Simpson. “Just a thought …”
    “What we do have, though, is this,” Don went on, patting an instrument that looked like a small hi-fi unit. It bristled with gauges, needles, knobs and digital readout displays, and was connected to a computer next to it.
    “It’s called an HPLC. That’s high pressure liquid chromatograph. It can separate the components of the plant, some of which fluoresce. It exposes this fluorescence to a light beam which … well, you’ll see in a minute.”
    Don took the sample in the alcohol flask and carefully set it in an opening in the machine. He pushed a button and a shutter snapped closed as the sample disappeared. He twisted a couple of knobs, pushed some buttons and a pattern flickered into view on the computer screen. It looked like a seismograph—all peaks and valleys.
    “There,” Don said. “That’s the pattern which represents this sample. Now, we superimpose”—he pushed more buttons—“the pattern of the plant that the Mecklenburg Institute examined.”
    Everyone crowded closer for a better look.
    “As you can see, they’re almost identical.”
    One or two sighs sounded, a blend of relief and approval.
    Arthur Appleton rejoined us with a Did-I-miss-anything? look but no one moved to enlighten him.
    Don had recovered his usual good spirits and he went through the remaining tests with just enough comments. At last, looking around like a lecturer, he said, “Now, Ko Feng could easily become the most valuable food flavoring ever used by man. So it’s important that we establish now”—he spread his hands—“how does it taste?”
    He brought over a sealed container and set it on the infrared heater, adjusting the temperature. He removed the lid and looked at us with a half smile.
    “Looks like spaghetti,” muttered Arthur Appleton.
    Karl Eberhard came into the bay, sniffing. “Something burning,” he said. “Hasn’t triggered the smoke alarms, though …” A couple of grins must have informed him because he looked at the crucible and the heater and nodded acceptance.
    Don was chopping a few of the stamens in a portable blender. He squeezed the button and the machine whirred. Over the gentle noise, Don said, “The trick is to use only a very tiny quantity. Many of the spices we use today are like this—you need to use only a minimal amount to generate the maximum taste, use more and it will taste bitter. Saffron, cardamom, ginger, cayenne and the chile spices are all examples.”
    He shook out a little finely ground powder, separated a microscopic quantity and sprinkled it carefully into the now steaming spaghetti.
    “Pasta is a suitable medium as it’s bland and acts only as a means for carrying the taste,” he explained. He stirred a few times.
    “Most spices and flavorings need to be cooked for