Flowering Evil by Margaret St. Clair

Captain Bjornson shook a grizzled head. “I never saw a plant I liked the looks of less,” he said. “I don’t know how he got it through the planetary plant quarantine. You take my advice, Amy, and watch out for it.” He took another of the little geela nut cookies from the quaint old lucite platter, and bit into it appreciately.

Mrs. Dinsmore sniffed. “I don’t know what you’re driving at,” she said coldly, “or why you’re so prejudiced against my poor little Rambler. You know perfectly well that Robert would never send me anything the least bit dangerous.”

Captain Bjornson paused with another cookie half-way to his lips and looked at her. “Wouldn’t send you anything dangerous !” he exclaimed. “Why, Amy, have you forgotten how your face was swelled up for two weeks from that tree cutting he sent you? The doctor said it was a contact poison worse than sumach, and he tried to get you to go to the hospital. What about the time that cactus from the Blue Desert went to seed, and I spent thirty-six hours picking spines out of you? What about—” Mrs. Dinsmore gave a warning sniff.

“Well, all right,” Bjornson said. “I know how fond you are of Bob, and I know you don’t like me to mention his mistakes. I’ll grant you he means well. So what? He’s Mighty, scatter-trained, and brash. To use an expression that u as current when I was a boy, Bob is a twerp.”