The Integral Trees - Omnibus

by Larry Niven

  Gavving tested his bonds while he absorbed that. “As what?”

  “Copsiks. Property. Servants.”

  “Huh. Better than dying of thirst. Where are we? The flying box?”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t see Clave. Or Merril.”

  “Right again.”

  “I feel wonderful,” Gavving said. “Why do I feel so good? Something was on those thorns, maybe, like the red fringe on a fan fungus.”

  “Could be.”

  “You’re not saying much.”

  The Grad said, “I don’t want to miss anything. If I know how we get to London Tree, maybe I could get us back. I had some Carther Tribe citizens convinced that we should join them.”

  Gavving turned to Minya. They spoke together at length. The Grad didn’t try to hear. It was too noisy anyway. The whistling roar had faded, but the windsong was nearly as loud.

  “Too many changes,” Minya said.

  “I know.”

  “I can’t seem to feel anything. I want to get angry, but I can’t.”

  “We’re drugged.”

  “It’s not that. I was Minya of the Triune Squad of Dalton Quinn Tuft. Then I was lost in the sky and dying of thirst. I found you and married you and joined the Dark Tuft People. We hitched a ride with a moby and got slung into a jungle. Now we’re what? Copsiks? It’s too many changes. Too much.”

  “All right, I’m a little numb myself. We’ll get over it. They can’t keep us drugged forever. You’re still Minya, the berserker warrior. Just…forget it till you need it.”

  “What will they do with us?”

  “I don’t know. The Grad’s talking escape. I think we’d better wait. We don’t know enough.”

  She found a laugh, somewhere. “At least we don’t die virgins.”

  “We met each other. We were dying, and now we’re not dying at all. We’re going to a tree, and it can move itself. We’ll never see another drought. It could be worse. It’s been worse…I wish I could see Clave, though.”

  It was dark and wet around them. Lightning marched a meandering path across the bow. The vehicle swung around. Now the wind blew up from their feet. In that direction a bushy shadow was forming.

  “There,” said Minya.

  The roar of motors resumed.

  Gavving watched for a time before he convinced himself that it was one tuft of an integral tree. He’d never seen any tree from such a vantage. They were coming up on the in branch. The tuft was greener and healthier-looking than Quinn Tuft had been, and foliage reached farther to cover the branch. The bare wooden tail sported a horizontal platform of hewn wood, clearly a work of tremendous labor.

  The roar of science-in-action wavered, rose and fell, as the flying box settled toward the platform. A great arching gap had been chopped through the branch itself, linking this platform to one on the other side. At its west end, where foliage began to sprout, a large hut had been woven.

  The whistling roar died.

  Then things happened fast. People left the hut on the jump. More appeared from underneath, perhaps from inside the flying box. London Tree’s citizens didn’t have the incredible height of the forest denizens. Some wore gaudy colors, but most wore tuftberry red, and the men had smooth faces scraped clean of hair. They swarmed to what was now the roof of the flying box and began pulling prisoners loose.

  Jinny, Jayan, Minya, and the tall Carther Tribe woman were freed in turn and escorted off the roof of the vehicle. Then nothing happened for a time.

  They took the women first. The drug on the needles still held him calm, but that bothered Gavving nonetheless. He couldn’t see what was happening on the ledge. Presently he was pulled free of the net, lifted, and walked off the roof.

  Somehow he had expected normal tides. Here was no more than a third of the tidal force at Quinn Tuft. He drifted down.

  Alfin’s eyes popped open when the copsik runners turned him loose. They were closing again when he hit the platform. He grunted in protest, then went back to sleep. Two men in tuftberry red picked him up and carried him away.

  A copsik runner, a golden-haired woman of twenty or so with a pretty, triangular face, held up the Grad’s reader and tapes. “Which of you belongs to these?” she demanded.

  The Grad called from above Gavving’s head; he was still falling. “They’re mine.”

  “Stay with me,” she commanded. “Do you know how to walk? You’re short enough to be a tree dweller.”

  The Grad staggered when he touched down, but stayed upright. “I can walk.”

  “Wait with me. We’ll use the carm to reach the Citadel.”

  Strangers were among them, leading Gavving and Alfin toward the big hut. The Grad’s eyes followed them, and Gavving would have waved, but his wrists were still tied. A smallish, fussy-looking man in red pushed a bird’s carcass into his hampered arms—it was nearly his own mass—and said, “Take this along. Can you cook?”

  “No.”

  “Come.” The copsik’s hand shoved against the small of his back. He moved in that direction, toward where the fin flowered into tuft. But where were the women?

  The flying box had blocked his view. Now he saw the women through the arch, on the other ledge. Minya began struggling, crying, “Wait! That’s my husband!”

  The drug slowed him down, but Gavving threw the bird into the copsik’s arms, sending him tumbling backward under its mass, and tried to jump toward Minya. He never completed the first step. Two men stepped in from either side and caught his arms. They must have been waiting for just such a move. One clouted him across the head hard enough to set the world spinning. They hustled him into the hut.

  The copsik was studying Lawri as she studied him. He was thin, with stringy muscles; three or four ce’meters taller than Lawri herself, and not much older. His blond hair and beard were raggedly cut. He was dirty from head to foot. A line of dried blood ran from his right eyebrow to the corner of his jaw. He was very much the kind of copsik who might come spinning from the sky on a sheet of bark, and hardly a convincing man of science.

  But his eyes inquired; they judged her. He asked, “Citizen, what will happen to them?”

  “Call me Scientist’s Apprentice,” Lawri said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the Quinn Tribe Scientist,” he said.

  That made her laugh. “I can hardly call you Scientist! Don’t you have a name?”

  He bristled, but he answered. “I did. Jeffer.”

  “Jeffer, the other copsiks don’t concern you now. Get aboard the carm and stay out of the pilot’s way.”

  He stood stupidly. “Carm?”

  She slapped its metal flank and pronounced the syllables as she had been taught. “Cargo And Repair Module. CARM. In!”

  He got through both doors and a few paces beyond, and there he stopped, gaping, trying to see in every direction at once. For the moment she left him to it. She didn’t blame him. Few copsiks ever saw the interior of the carm.

  Ten chairs faced into a tremendous curved window of thick glass. Images were there that couldn’t be outside the glass, nor could they be reflections. They must be in the glass itself: numbers and letters and line drawings in blue and yellow and green.

  Behind the chairs was thirty or forty cubic meters of empty space. There were bars set to swivel out of the walls and floor and ceiling, and numerous loops of metal: anchorage for stored goods against the jerky pull of the motors. Even so, the cabin was only a fifth the size of the…carm. What was the rest?

  When the carm moved, flame had spurted from nostrils at the rear. It seemed that something must burn to move the carm…a good deal of it, if it occupied most of the carm’s bulk…and pumps to move the fuel, and mysteries whose names he’d glimpsed in the cassettes: attitude jet, life support system, computer, mass sensor, echo laser…

  The calm left by the needle had almost left his blood. He was starting to be afraid. Could he learn to read those numbers in the glass? Would he have the chance?

  A man
in blue lounged before the box window. A big-boned man of average height, he was still too tall for the chair; what would have been a curved head rest poked him between the shoulder blades. The Scientist’s Apprentice spoke briskly. “Please take us to the Citadel.”

  “I don’t have orders to do that.”

  “Just what are your orders?” Her voice was casual, peremptory.

  “I don’t have orders yet. The Navy may be interested in these…scientific items.”

  “Confiscate them, if you’re sure enough. And I’ll tell the Scientist what happened to them, as soon as I’m allowed to contact him. Will you confiscate the copsik too? He says he knows how to work them. Maybe you’d better confiscate me, to talk to him.”

  The pilot was looking nervous. His glance at the Grad was venomous. A witness to his discomfiture…He decided. “Citadel, right.” His hands moved.

  The girl, forewarned, was clutching the back of a chair. The Grad wasn’t. The lurch threw him off balance. He grabbed at something to stop his fall. A handle on the back wall: it twisted in his hand, and dirty water spilled from a nozzle. He turned it off quick and met the girl’s look of disgust.

  After perhaps twenty heartbeats the pilot lifted his fingers. The familiar whistling roar—barely audible through the metal walls, but still fearfully strange—went quiet. The Grad immediately made his way to one of the chairs.

  The carm was moving away from the tuft, east and out. Were they leaving London Tree? Why? He didn’t ask. He was uncharacteristically leery of playing the fool. He watched the pilot’s hands. Symbols and numbers glowed in the bow window and in the panel below it, but the pilot touched only the panel, and only the blue. He could feel the response in shifting sound and shifting tide. Blue moves the carm?

  “Jeffer. How did you get those wounds?” The blond girl spoke as if she didn’t care very much.

  Wounds? Oh, his face. “The tree came apart,” he said. “They do that if they fall too far out of the Smoke Ring. We had a close encounter with Gold some years ago.”

  That touched her curiosity nerve. “What happens to the people?”

  “Quinn Tuft must be dead except for us. Five of us now.” He’d accepted that Clave and Merril were gone too.

  “You’ll have to tell me about it sometime.” She tapped what she was carrying. “What are these?”

  “Cassettes and a reader. Records.”

  She thought it over, longer than seemed necessary. Then she reached to plug one of the Grad’s cassettes into a slot in front of the pilot. The pilot said, “Hey—”

  “Science. My prerogative,” she said. She tapped two buttons. (Buttons, permanent fixtures in a row of five: yellow, blue, green, white, red. The panel was otherwise blank, save for the transitory glowing lights within. A tap of the yellow button made all the yellow lights disappear; the white button raised new symbols in white.) “Prikazyvat Menu.”

  The familiar table of contents appeared within the glass: white print flowing upward. She’d chosen the cassette for cosmology. The Grad felt his hands curling to strangle her. Classified, classified! Mine!

  “Prikazyvat Gold.” The print shifted. The pilot was gripped by terrified fascination, unable to look away. The Scientist’s Apprentice asked the Grad, “Can you read?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Read.”

  “‘Goldblatt’s World probably originated as a Neptune-like body, a gas giant world in the cometary halo that circles Levoy’s Star and Tee-Three, hundreds of billions of kilometers…klomters out. A supernova can spew its outer envelope asymmetrically due to its trapped magnetic field, leaving the remaining neutron star with an altered velocity. The planetary orbits go all to hell. In Levoy’s s-scenario Goldblatt’s World would have dropped very close to Levoy’s Star, with its per…perihelion actually inside the neutron star’s Roche Limit. Strong Roche tides would quickly warp the orbit into a circle. The planet would have continued to leak atmosphere to the present day, replacing gasses lost from the Smoke Ring and the gas torus to interstellar space.

  “‘Goldblatt estimates that Levoy’s Star went supernova a billion years ago. The planet must have been losing atmosphere for all of that time. In its present state Goldblatt’s World defies description: a world-sized core of rock and metals—’”

  “Enough. Very good, you can read. Can you understand what you read?”

  “Not that. I can guess that Levoy’s Star is Voy and Goldblatt’s World is Gold. The rest of it—” The Grad shrugged. His eye caught the pilot’s, and the pilot flinched. He seemed shrunken into himself.

  Dominance games. The Scientist’s Apprentice had assaulted the pilot’s mind with the wonders and the cryptic language of science. Now she was saying, “We have that data on our own cassettes, word for word, as far as I can remember. I hope you brought us something new.”

  A shadow was congealing in the silver fog around them. They were drifting back toward London Tree.

  The carm’s free-falling path had curved back toward the tree’s midpoint. East takes you out. Out takes you west—He had a great deal to learn about flying the carm. Because he must learn. He would learn to fly this thing, or end his days as a copsik.

  There were structures here. Huge wooden beams formed a square. Inward, four huts in a column, not of woven foliage, but of cut wood. Cables and tubes ran down the trunk in both directions, further than the Grad could follow. A pond had touched the trunk: a silvery globule clung to the bark, and that seemed strange. A single pond in this region of mist? Men in red moved around it, feeding it water carried in seed pods. It too must be artificial.

  With all these artificial structures, London Tree made Quinn Tuft look barbaric! But was it wise to—“Scientist’s Apprentice, do you cut the wood for these structures from the tree itself?”

  She answered without looking at him. “No. We bring it from other integral trees.”

  “Good.”

  Now she turned, startled and annoyed. He wasn’t expected to judge London Tree. The Grad was developing a dislike for the Scientist’s Apprentice…which he would try to keep in check. If she was behaving as a typical citizen toward a copsik, it augured badly for Quinn Tribe.

  The trunk was coming at them, too fast. The Grad was relieved when he heard the motors start and felt the carm slowing. Those wooden beams would just about fit against the carm’s windowed end…and that was what the pilot was doing, tapping at blue lights, fitting the window into that wooden frame. Watch his hands!

  Chapter Fourteen

  TREEMOUTH AND CITADEL

  In the large hut the women were stripped naked and examined by two women taller than humans, like Ilsa of Carther Tribe. Their long hair was white and thin enough to expose scalp. The skin seemed to have withered on their bones. Forty to fifty years old, Minya thought, though that was hard to judge; they looked so strange. They wore ponchos in tuftberry-juice scarlet, closed between the legs. Their walk was easy, practiced. Minya judged that they had spent many years in the tide of London Tree.

  “It looks like people live a long time here,” she whispered to Jayan, and Jayan nodded.

  The supervisors would not answer questions, though they asked many.

  They found dirt and wounds in plenty, but no disease. They treated Minya’s bruises, and brusquely advised her to avoid offending citizens in future. Minya smiled. Offended? She was sure she had broken a man’s arm before they clubbed her unconscious.

  Ilsa was clearly pregnant. Jayan was also declared pregnant, to her obvious surprise, and sent off with Ilsa. Minya gripped Jinny’s arm, afraid that she would attempt a futile battle for her twin.

  One of the supervisors noticed Jinny’s distress. “They’ll be all right,” she said. “They carry guests. One of the Scientist’s apprentices will have to look them over. Also, the men won’t be allowed near them.”

  The what would what? But she would say no more, and Minya had to wait.

  The Grad watched through the small windows; the big bow window now gave on to
rugged bark four ce’meters distant. Things were happening outside.

  A man in a white tunic was talking to men in blue or red ponchos that fit like oversized sacks. Presently the others all launched themselves along the bark toward the lowest of the column of huts.

  “Who’s that?” the Grad asked.

  The Scientist’s Apprentice disdained to answer. The pilot said, “That’s Klance the Scientist. Your new owner. No surprise there, he thinks he owns the whole tree.”

  Klance the Scientist was arguing with himself as he approached the carm. His white smock reached just below his hips; the ends of a citizen’s loose poncho showed below. He was tall for a tree dweller, and lean but for a developing pot belly. Not a fighter, the Grad thought—forty-odd, with slack muscles. His hair was thick and white, his nose narrow and convexly curved. In a moment the Grad heard his voice speaking out of the air.

  “Lawri.” Sharp, with a peremptory snap in it.

  The pilot tapped the yellow button and spread two fingertips apart over the resulting pattern of yellow lines (remember), beating Lawri to it. The carm’s two doors swung out and in.

  The Scientist was already in conversation as he entered. “They want to know when I can move the tree. Damn fools. They only just finished topping off the reservoir. If I moved it now the water would just float away. First we have to—” He stopped. His eyes flicked to the pilot’s back (the pilot hadn’t bothered to turn around), then to the Grad, then to Lawri. “Well?”

  “He’s the Scientist of a ruined tribe. He carried these.” Lawri held up plastic boxes.

  “Old science.” His eyes turned greedy. “Tell me later,” he said. “Pilot.”

  The Navy man’s head turned.

  “Was the carm damaged in any way? Was anything lost?”

  “Certainly not. If you need a detailed report—”

  “No, that will do. The rest of the Navy party is waiting for the elevator. I think you can still catch it.”

  The pilot nodded stiffly. He rose and launched himself toward the twin doors. He nearly brushed the Scientist, who held his ground, pulled himself through the doors and was gone.