by Jack Vance
Four more Ballenkarts, acting in grim concert, charged the Son, six others followed. The tendrils thrust, snapped and ten bodies lay stiff and white on the ground. The Son expanded as if it were being magnified.
Prince Harry's light assured voice said, "Step aside… Now then, step aside."
Harry stood looking at the plant —twenty feet to the top of the fronds while the fuzzy white ball reared another ten above them.
The Son pounced, with a cunning quasi-intelligence. Tendrils unfurled, trapped a dozen roaring men, dragged them close. And now the crowd went wild, swayed back and forth in alternate spasms of rage and fear, at last charged in a screeching melee.
Sabres glittered, swung, chopped. Overhead the fuzzy white ball swung unhurriedly. It was sensate, it saw, felt, planned with a vegetable consciousness, calm, fearless, single-purposed. Its tendrils snaked, twisted, squeezed, returned to drain. And the Son of the Tree soared, swelled.
Panting survivors of the crowd fell back, staring helplessly at the corpse-strewn ground. Harry motioned to one of his personal guard. "Bring out a heat-gun."
The Arch-Thearchs came forward, protesting. "No, no, that is the Sacred Shoot, the Son of the Tree."
Harry paid them no heed. Gameanza clutched his arm with panicky insistence. "Recall your soldiers. Feed it nothing but criminals and slaves. In ten years it will be tremendous, a magnificent Tree."
Harry shook him off, jerked his head at a soldier. "Take this maniac away."
A projector on wheels was trundled from behind the Residence, halted fifty feet from the Son. Harry nodded. A thick white beam of energy spat against the Son. "Aaah!" sighed the crowd, in near-voluptuous gratification. The exultant sigh stopped short. The Son drank in the energy like sunshine, expanded, luxuriated, and grew. A hundred feet the fuzzy white ball towered.
"Turn it against the top," said Harry anxiously.
The bar of energy swung up the slender stalk, concentrated on the head of the plant. It coruscated, spattered, ducked away.
"It doesn't like it!" cried Harry. "Pour it on!"
The Arch-Thearchs, restrained in the rear, howled in near-personal anguish. "No, no, no!"
The white ball steadied, spat back a gout of energy. The projector exploded, blasting heads and arms and legs in every direction.
There was a sudden dead silence. Then the moans began. Then sudden screaming as the tendrils snapped forth to feed.
Joe dragged Elfane back and a tendril missed her by a foot. "But I am a Druid Priestess," she said in dull astonishment. "The Tree protects the Druids. .The Tree accepts only the lay pilgrims."
"Pilgrims!" Joe remembered the Kyril pilgrims—tired, dusty, footsore, sick— entering the portal into the Tree. He remembered the pause at the portal, the one last look out across the gray land and up into the foliage before they turned and entered the trunk. Young and old, in all conditions, thousands every day…
Joe now had to crane his neck to see the top of the Son. The flexible central shoot was stiffening, the little white ball, swung and twisted and peered over its new domain.
Harry came limping up beside Joe, his face a white mask. "Joe—that's the ungodliest creature I've seen on thirty-two planets."
"I've seen a bigger one—on Kyril. It eats the citizens by the thousand."
Harry said, "These people trust me. They think I'm some kind of god myself—merely because I know a little Earth engineering. I've got to kill that abomination."
"You're not throwing in with the Druids then?"
Harry sneered. "What kind of patsy do you take me for, Joe? I'm not throwing in with either one of 'em. A plague on both their houses. I've been holding 'em off, teasing 'em until I could get things straightened out. I'm still not satisfied —but I certainly didn't bargain for something like this. Who the hell brought the thing here?"
Joe was silent. Elfane said, "It was brought from Kyril by order of the Tree."
Harry stared. "My God, does the thing talk too?"
Elfane said vaguely, "The College of Thearchs reads the will of the Tree by various signs."
Joe scratched his chin.
"Hmph," said Harry. "Fancy decoration for a nice tight little tyranny. But that's not the problem. This thing's got to be killed!" And he muttered, "I'd like to get the main beast too, just for luck."
Joe heard—he looked at Elfane expecting to see her flare into anger. But she stood silent, looking at the Son.
Harry said, "It seems to thrive on energy… Heat's out. A bomb? Let's try blasting. I'll send down to the warehouse for some splat."
Gameanza tore himself loose, came running up with his gray robe flapping around his legs. "Excellency, we vehemently protest your aggressions against this Tree!"
"Sorry," said Harry, grinning sardonically. "I call it a murderous beast."
"It's presence is symbolic of the ties between Kyril and Ballenkarch," pleaded Gameanza.
"Symbolic my ankle. Clear that metaphysical rubbish out of your mind, man. That thing's a man-killer and I won't have it at large. I pity you for the king-size monster you've got on your own rock—although I suppose I shouldn't." He looked Gameanza up and down. "You've made pretty good use of the Tree. It's been your meal ticket for a thousand years. Well, this one is on its way out. In another ten minutes it'll be an acre of splinters."
Gameanza whirled on his heel, marched twenty feet away, where he conversed in low tones with Oporeto Implan. Ten pounds of explosive, packed with a detonator was heaved against the Son's heavy trunk. Harry raised the radiation gun which would project trigger-frequencies.
On sudden thought, Joe jerked forward, caught his arm. "Just a minute. Suppose you make an acre of splinters —and each one of the splinters starts to grow?"
Harry put down the projector. "That's a grisly thought."
Joe gestured around the countryside. "All these farms, they look well taken care of, modern."
"Latest Earth techniques. So what?"
"You don't let your bully-boys pull all the weeds by hand?"
"Of course not. We've got a dozen different weedkillers—hormones…" He stopped short, clapped Joe on the shoulder. "Weed-killers! Growth hormones! Joe, I'll make you Secretary of Agriculture!"
"First," said Joe, "let's see if the stuff works on the Tree. If it's a vegetable it'll go crazy."
The Son of the Tree went crazy.
The tendrils twined, contorted, snapped. The fuzzy white head spat chattering arcs of energy in random directions.
The fronds hoisted to a grotesque two hundred feet in seconds, flopped to the ground.
Another heat projector was brought. Now the Son resisted only weakly. The trunk charred; the fronds crisped, blackened.
In minutes the Son of the Tree was an evil-smelling stump.
Prince Harry sat on his throne. The Arch-Thearchs Gameanza and Oporeto Implan stood with pallid faces muffled in their cowls. The Redbranch Mangs waited in a group to the side of the hall in a rigid system of precedence—first the Magnerru in his chased cuirass and scarlet robe, then Erru Kametin and behind him the two proctors.
Harry said in his light clear voice, "I haven't much to announce—except that for some months now there's been a widespread uncertainty as to which way Ballenkarch is going to jump—toward Mang or toward Kyril.
"Well," he shifted in his seat, put his hands along the arms of his throne, "the speculation has been entirely in the minds of the Druids and the Mangs, there was never any indecision here on Ballenkarch. Once and for all we will team up with neither planet.
"We'll develop in a different direction and I believe we'll end up with the finest world this side of Earth. Insofar as the Son of the Tree is concerned I hold no one personally responsible. You Druids acted, I believe, according to your best lights. You're victims of your beliefs, almost as much as your Laity.
"Another thing—while we won't enter any political commitments we're in business. We'll trade. We're building tools—hammers, saws, wrenches, welders. In a year we'll s
tart building electrical equipment. In five years we'll have a spaceyard down there on the shore of Lake Alan.
"In ten years we'll be running our cargo to every star you can see in the night and maybe a few more. So— Magnerra, you can return and convey my message to your Ampianu General and the Lathbon. As for you Druids I doubt if you'll wish to return. There might be quite some turmoil on Kyril by the time you'd arrive."
Gameanza asked sharply, "How is that?"
Harry's mouth twitched. "Call it a guess."
From Harry's private sundeck, the water of Lake Alan glowed in a thousand shades of sunset. Joe sat in a chair. Beside him sat Elfane, in a simple white gown.
Harry paced up and down, talking, gesticulating, boasting. New reduction furnaces at Palinth, a hundred new schools, power units for the new farmer class, guns for his army.
"They've still got that barbarian streak," said Harry. "They love fighting, they love the wildness, their spring festivals, their night fire-dancing. It's born and bred into 'em and I couldn't take it out of 'em if I tried."
He winked at Joe.
"The fire-breathers I send out against the clans of Vail Macrombie —that's the other continent. I kill two birds with one stone. They work off all their belligerence against the Macrombie cannibals and they're gradually winning the continent. It's bloody, yes—but it fills a need in their souls.
"The young ones we'll bring up differently. Their heroes will be the engineers rather than the soldiers and everything should work out about the same time. The new generation will grow up while their fathers are mopping up along Matenda Cape."
"Very ingenious," said Joe. "And speaking of ingenuity where's Habbleyat? I haven't seen him for a day or so."
Harry dropped into a chair. "Hableyat's gone."
"Gone? Where?"
"Officially, I don't know—especially since we have Druids among us."
Elfane stirred.
"I'm—no longer a Druid. I've torn it out of me. Now I'm a"—she looked up at Joe—"a what?"
"An expatriate," said Joe. "A space-waif. A woman without a country." He looked back to Harry. "Less of the mystery. It can't be that important."
"But it is! Maybe."
Joe shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"No," said Harry, "I'll tell you. Hableyat, as you know, is in disgrace. He's out and the Magnerru Ippolito is in. Mang politics are complex and cryptic but they seem to hinge a great deal on prestige—on face. The Magnerru lost face here on Ballenkarch. If Hableyat can perform some remarkable feat he'll be back in the running. And it's to our advantage to have the Bluewaters in power on Mangtse."
"Well?"
"I gave Hableyat all the anti-weed hormone we had— about five tons of it. He had it loaded into a ship I made available to him and took off." Harry made a whimsical gesture. "Where he's going—I don't know."
Elfane hissed softly under her breath, shivered, looked away out over Lake Alan, pink, gold, lavender, turquoise in the sunset. "The Tree…"
Harry rose to his feet. "Time for dinner. If that's his plan—to spray the Tree with hormone—it should be quite a show."
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Virgil Finlay artwork
I
IT WAS assumed as a matter of course that visitors came to Iszm with a single purpose: to steal a female house. Cosmographers, students, babes-in-arms, notorious scoundrels: the Iszic cynically applied the same formula to all— microscopic inspection of mind and body and detailed surveillance.
Only the fact that they turned up so many house-thieves justified the procedure.
From a distance, it seemed simple enough to steal a house. A seed no larger than a grain of barley could be sewn into a strap; a seedling could be woven into the pattern of a shawl; a young shoot could be taped to a rocket-missile and launched into space. There were a thousand fool-proof ways to steal an Iszic house; all had been tried, and the unsuccessful thieves had been conducted to the Mad House, their Iszic escorts courteous to the last. As realists, the Iszic knew that some day—a year, a hundred years, a thousand years—the monopoly would be broken. As fanatically secretive controllers of the monopoly they intended to postpone this day as long as possible.
Aile Fair was a tall, gaunt man in his thirties, with a droll, corded face, big hands and feet. His skin, eyes and hair were a dust-colored monochrome. More important to the Iszic, he was a botanist, hence an automatic object of the utmost suspicion.
Arriving at Jhespiano atoll aboard the Red Ball Packet Eubert Honore, he encountered suspicion remarkable even in Iszm. Two of the Szecr, the elite police, met him at the exit hatch, escorted him down the gangway like a prisoner, and ushered him into a peculiar one-way passage. Flexible spines grew from the walls in the direction of passage. A man could enter the hall, but could not change his mind and return. The end of the passage was closed by a sheet of clear glass and at this point Farr could move neither forward nor back.
An Iszic wearing bands of wine-red and gray stepped forward and examined him through the glass. Farr felt like a specimen in a case. The Iszic grudgingly slid the panel back and led Farr into a small private room. With the Szecr standing at his back, Farr turned over his debarkation slip, his health certificate, his bond of good character, his formal entry application. The clerk dropped the debarkation slip into a macerator, inspected and returned the certificate and bond, and then settled himself to a study of the application.
The Iszic eye, split into major and minor segments, is capable of double focus. The clerk read with the lower fraction of his eyes, appraising Farr with the top section.
" 'Occupation…' " he turned both segments of his eyes on Farr, then flicking the bottom one back, read on in a cool monotone. " '… research associate. Place of business—University of Los Angeles, Department of Botany.' " He lay the application form to one side. "May I inquire your motives for visiting Iszm?"
Fair's patience was wearing thin. He pointed to the application. "I've written it all down."
The clerk read without taking his eyes from Farr, who watched in fascination, marveling at the feat.
" 'I am on sabbatical leave,' " read the clerk. " 'I am visiting a number of worlds where plants contribute effectively to the welfare of man.' " The clerk focused both eye fractions on Farr. "Why do you trouble yourself to this extent? Surely the information is conveniently available on Earth?"
"I am interested in first-hand observations."
"To what purpose?"
Farr shrugged. "Professional curiosity."
"I expect that you are acquainted with our laws."
"How could I avoid it?" said Farr in irritation. "I've been briefed ever since the ship left Starholme."
"You understand that you will be allowed no special privileges—no exhaustive or analytical study… You understand?"
"Of course."
"Our regulations are stringent—I must emphasize this. Many visitors forget, and involve themselves with severe penalties."
"By now," said Farr, "I know your laws better than I know my own."
"It is illegal to lift, detach, cut, accept, secrete or remove any vegetable matter, vegetable fragment, seed, seedling, sapling or tree, no matter where you find it."
"I intend nothing illegal."
"Most of our visitors say the same," responded the clerk. "Kindly step into the next chamber, remove all your clothes and personal effects. These will be returned to you at your departure."
Fair looked at him blankly. "My money —my camera —my—"
"You will be issued Iszic equivalents."
Farr wordlessly entered a white enameled chamber where he undressed. An attendant packed his clothes
in a glass box, then pointed out that Farr had neglected to remove his ring.
"I suppose if I had false teeth you'd want them too," growled Farr.
The Iszic quickly scanned the form. "You assert quite definitely that your teeth are integral to your body, natural and without modification." The upper segments regarded Farr accusingly. "Is this an inaccuracy?"
"Of course not," protested Farr. "They are natural. I merely put forward as a hypothesis… a joke."
The Iszic muttered into a mesh and Farr was taken into a side room where his teeth were given an exacting inspection. "I'll learn not to make jokes," Farr told himself. "These people have no sense of humor."
Eventually the medics, shaking their heads glumly, returned Farr to the outer chamber, where he was met by an Iszic in a tight white and gray uniform, carrying a hypodermic.
Farr drew back. "What's this!"
"A harmless radiant."
"I don't need any."
"It is necessary," said the medic, "for your own protection. Most visitors hire boats and sail out upon the Pheadh. Occasionally there are storms, the boats are blown off course. This radiant will define your position on the master panel."
"I don't want to be protected," said Farr. "I don't want to be a light on a panel."
"Then you must leave Iszm."
Farr submitted, cursing the medic for the length of the needle and the quantity of radiant.
"Now—into the next room for your tri-type, if you please."
Farr shrugged and walked into the next room.
"On the gray disk, Farr Sainh—palms forward, eyes wide."
