by Jack Vance
Farr growled, “Keep away from me I’m not cat’s-paw for anybody.”
Omon Bozhd said, “The Thord anchored six seeds under the skin of Farr Sainh’s scalp. It was an ingenious hiding place. The seeds are small. We searched for thirty minutes before we found them.”
Farr pressed his scalp with distaste.
Penche said in his hoarse harsh voice, “Sit down, Farr. Let’s find out where we stand.”
Farr backed against the wall. “I know where I stand. It’s not with you.”
Penche laughed. “You’re not throwing in with the Iszic?”
“I’m throwing in with nobody. If I’ve got seeds in my head, it’s nobody’s business but my own!”
Penche took a step forward, his face a little ugly.
Omon Bozhd said, “The seeds were removed, Penche Sainh. The bumps which Farr Sainh perhaps can feel are pellets of tantalum.”
Farr fingered his scalp. Indeed—there they were: hard lumps he had thought part of the scab. One, two, three, four, five, six… His hand wandered through his hair and stopped. Involuntarily he looked at Penche, at the Iszic. They did not seem to be watching him. He pressed the small object he found in his hair. It felt like a small bladder, a sac, the size of a grain of wheat, and it was connected to his scalp by a fiber. Anna, the blonde girl, had seen a long gray hair…
Farr said in a shaky voice, “I’ve had enough of this… I’m going.”
“No you’re not,” said Penche, without heat or passion. “You’ll stay here.”
Omon Bozhd said politely, “I believe that Earth law prohibits holding a man against his will. If we acquiesced, we become equally guilty. Is this not correct?”
Penche smiled. “In a certain restricted sense.”
“To protect ourselves, we insist that you perform no illegalities.”
Penche leaned forward truculently. “You’ve delivered your message. Now get the hell out!”
Farr pushed past Penche. Penche, raising his arm, put his palm flat on Farr’s chest. “You’d better stay, Farr. You’re safer.”
Farr stared deep into Penche’s smoldering eyes. With so much anger and frustration and contempt to express, he found it hard to speak. “I’ll go where I please,” he said finally. “I’m sick of playing sucker.”
“Better a live sucker than a dead chump.”
Farr pushed aside Penche’s arm. “I’ll take my chances.”
Omon Bozhd muttered to the two Iszic behind him. They separated and went to each side of the sphincter.
“You may leave,” Omon Bozhd told Farr. “K. Penche cannot stop you.”
Farr stopped short. “I’m not kicking in with you either.” He looked around the pod, then went to the stereo-screen.
Penche approved; he grinned at the Iszic.
Omon Bozhd said sharply, “Farr Sainh!”
“It’s legal,” Penche crowed. “Leave him alone.”
Farr touched the buttons. The screen glowed and focused into shape. “Get me Kirdy,” said Farr.
Omon Bozhd made a small signal. The Iszic on the right sliced at the wall, cutting the communication tubule. The screen went dead.
Penche’s eyebrows rose. “Talk about crime,” he roared. “You cut up my house!”
Omon Bozhd’s lips drew back to show his pale gums, his teeth. “Before I am through—”
Penche raised his left hand; the forefinger spat a thread of orange fire. Omon Bozhd reeled aside; the fire-needle clipped his ear. The other two Iszic moved like moths; each jabbed the pod wall with meticulous speed and precision.
Penche pointed his finger once more. Farr blundered forward, seized Penche’s shoulder, and swung him around. Penche’s mouth tightened. He brought up his right fist in a short uppercut. It caught Farr in the stomach. Farr, missing with a roundhouse right, staggered back. Penche wheeled to face the three Iszic. They were ducking behind the sphincter, which cinched in after them. Farr and Penche were alone in the pod. Farr came lurching out from the wall and Penche backed away.
“Save it, you fool,” said Penche.
The pod quivered, jerked. Farr, half-crazy in the release of his pent rage, waded forward. The floor of the pod rippled; Farr fell to his knees.
Penche snapped, “Save it, I said! Who are you working for, Earth or Iszm?”
“You’re not Earth,” gasped Farr. “You’re K. Penche! I’m fighting because I’m sick of being used.” He struggled to gain his feet; weakness overcame him. He leaned back, breathless.
“Let’s see that thing in your head,” said Penche.
“Keep away from me. I’ll break your face!”
The floor of the pod flipped like a trampoline. Farr and Penche were jolted, jarred. Penche looked worried. “What are they doing?”
“They’ve done it,” said Farr. “They’re Iszic, these are Iszic houses! They play these things like violins.”
The pod halted—rigid, trembling. “There,” said Penche. “It’s over… Now—that thing in your head.”
“Keep away from me… Whatever it is, it’s mine!”
“It’s mine,” said Penche softly. “I paid to have it planted there.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“Yes I do. I can see it. It’s a sprout. The first pod just broke out.”
“You’re crazy. A seed wouldn’t germinate in my head!”
The pod seemed to be stiffening, arching like a cat’s back. The roof began to creak.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” muttered Penche. The floor was groaning, trembling. Penche ran to the sphincter and touched the open-nerve.
The sphincter stayed shut.
“They’ve cut the nerve,” said Farr.
The pod reared slowly up, like the bed of a dump-truck. The floor sloped. The vaulted roof creaked.
Twang! A rib snapped, fragments sprang down. A sharp stick missed Farr by a foot.
Penche pointed his finger at the sphincter; the cartridge lanced fire into the sphincter iris. The iris retaliated with a cloud of vile steam.
Penche staggered back choking.
Two more roof ribs snapped.
“They’ll kill if they hit,” cried Penche, surveying the arched ceiling. “Get back, out of the way!”
“Aile Farr, the walking greenhouse… You’ll rot before you harvest me, Penche…”
“Don’t get hysterical,” said Penche. “Come over here!”
The pod tilted, the furniture began sliding down into the mouth; Penche fended it away desperately. Farr slipped on the floor. The whole pod buckled. Fragments of ribs sprang, snapped, clattered. The furniture tumbled over and over and piled upon Farr and Penche, bruising, wrenching, scraping.
The pod began to shake, the tables, chairs began to rise, fall. Farr and Penche struggled to win free, before the heavy furniture broke their bones.
“They’re working it from the outside,” panted Farr. “Pulling on the nerves…”
“If we could get out on the balcony—”
“We’d be thrown to the ground.”
The shaking grew stronger—a slow rise, a quick drop. The fragments of rib and the furniture began to rise, shake and pound like peas in a box. Penche stood braced, his hands against the table, controlling the motion, holding it away from their two soft bodies. Farr grabbed a splinter and began stabbing the wall.
“What are you doing?”
“The Iszic stabbed in here—hit some nerves. I’m trying to hit some other ones.”
“You’ll probably kill us!” Penche looked at Farr’s head. “Don’t forget that plant—”
“You’re more afraid for the plant than you are for yourself.” Farr stabbed here, there, up and down.
He hit a nerve. The pod suddenly froze into a tense, rather horrible, rigidity. The wall began to secrete great drops of a sour ichor. The pod gave a violent shake, and the contents rattled.
“That’s the wrong nerve!” yelled Penche. He picked up a splinter and began stabbing. A sound like a low moan vibrated thr
ough the pod. The floor humped up, writhing in vegetable agony. The ceiling began to collapse.
“We’ll be crushed,” said Penche. Farr saw a shimmer of metal—the doctor’s hypodermic. He picked it up, jabbed it into the chalky green bulge of a vein, and pulled the trigger.
The pod quivered, shook, pulsed. The walls blistered, burst. Ichor welled out and trickled into the entrance channel. The pod convulsed, shivered, fell down limp.
The shattered fragments of ribs, the broken furniture, Farr and Penche tumbled the length of the pod, out upon the balcony, and through the dark.
Farr, grabbing on the tendrils of the balustrade, broke his fall. The tendril parted; Farr dropped. The lawn was only ten feet below. He crashed into the pile of debris. Below him was something rubbery. It seized his legs and pulled with great strength: Penche.
They rolled out on the lawn. Fan’s strength was almost spent. Penche squeezed Farr’s ribs, reached up, and grasped his throat. Farr saw the sardonic face only inches from his. He drew up his knees—hard. Penche winced, gasped, but held fast. Farr shoved his thumb up Penche’s nose and twisted. Penche rolled his head back, his grip relaxed.
Farr croaked, “I’ll tear that thing out—I’ll crush it—”
“No!” gasped Penche. “No.” He yelled, “Trope! Carlyle!”
Figures appeared. Penche rose to his feet. “There’s three Iszic in the house. Don’t let ’em out. Stand by the trunk—shoot to kill.”
A cool voice said, “There won’t be any shooting tonight.”
Two beams of light converged on Penche. He stood quivering with anger. “Who are you?”
“Special Squad. I’m Dectective-Inspector Kirdy.”
Penche exhaled his breath. “Get the Iszic. They’re in my house.”
The Iszic came into the light.
Omon Bozhd said, “We are here to reclaim our property.”
Kirdy inspected them without friendliness. “What property?”
“It is in Farr’s head. A house-seedling.”
“Is it Farr you’re accusing?”
“They’d better not,” said Farr angrily. “They watched me every minute, they searched me, hypnotized me—”
“Penche is the guilty man,” said Omon Bozhd bitterly. “Penche’s agent deceived us. It is clear now. He put the six seeds where he knew we’d find them. He also had a root tendril; he anchored it in Farr’s scalp, among the hairs. We never noticed it.”
“Tough luck,” said Penche.
Kirdy looked dubiously at Farr. “The thing actually stayed alive?”
Farr suppressed the urge to laugh. “Stayed alive? It sent out roots—it put out leaves, a pod. It’s growing. I’ve got a house on my head!”
“It’s Iszic property,” declared Omon Bozhd sharply. “I demand its return.”
“It’s my property,” said Penche. “I bought it—paid for it.”
“It’s my property,” said Farr. “Who’s head is it growing in?”
Kirdy shook his head. “You better all come with me.”
“I’ll go nowhere unless I’m under arrest,” said Penche with great dignity. He pointed. “I told you—arrest the Iszic. They wrecked my house.”
“Come along, all of you,” said Kirdy. He turned. “Bring down the wagon.”
Omon Bozhd made his decision. He rose proudly to his full height, the white bands glowing in the darkness. He looked at Farr, reached under his cloak, and brought out a shatter-gun.
Ducking, Farr fell flat.
The shatter-bolt sighed over his head. Blue fire came from Kirdy’s gun. Omon Bozhd glowed in a blue aureole. He was dead, but he fired again and again. Farr rolled over the dark ground. The other Iszic fired at him, ignoring the police guns, flaming blue figures, dead, acting under command-patterns that outlasted their lives. Bolts struck Farr’s legs. He groaned, and lay still.
The three Iszic collapsed.
“Now,” said Penche, with satisfaction, “I will take care of Farr.”
“Easy, Penche,” said Kirdy.
Farr said, “Keep away from me.”
Penche halted. “I’ll give you ten million for what you’ve got growing in your hair.”
“No,” said Farr wildly. “I’ll grow it myself. I’ll give seeds away free…”
“It’s a gamble,” said Penche. “If it’s male, it’s worth nothing.”
“If it’s female,” said Farr, “it’s worth—” he paused as a police doctor bent over his leg.
“—a great deal,” said Penche dryly. “But you’ll have opposition.”
“From who?” gasped Farr.
Orderlies brought a stretcher.
“From the Iszic. I offer you ten million. I take the chance.”
The fatigue, the pain, the mental exhaustion overcame Farr. “Okay… I’m sick of the whole mess.”
“That constitutes a contract,” cried Penche in triumph. “These officers are witnesses.”
They lifted Farr onto the stretcher. The doctor looked down at him and noticed a sprig of vegetation in Farr’s hair. Reaching down, he plucked it out.
“Ouch!” said Farr.
Penche cried out. “What did he do?”
Farr said weakly, “You’d better take care of your property, Penche.”
“Where is it?” yelled Penche in anguish, collaring the doctor.
“What?” asked the doctor.
“Bring lights!” cried Penche.
Farr saw Penche and his men seeking among the debris for the pale shoot which had grown in his head, then he drifted off into unconsciousness.
Penche came to see Farr in the hospital. “Here,” he said shortly. “Your money.” He tossed a coupon to the table. Farr looked at it. “Ten million dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money,” said Farr.
“Yes,” said Penche.
“You must have found the sprout.”
Penche nodded. “It was still alive. It’s growing now… It’s male.” He picked up the coupon, looked at it, then put it back down. “A poor bet.”
“You had good odds,” Farr told him.
“I don’t care for the money,” said Penche. He looked off through the window, across Los Angeles, and Farr wondered what he was thinking.
“Easy come, easy go,” said Penche. He half-turned, as if to leave.
“Now what?” asked Farr. “You don’t have a female house; you don’t deal in houses.”
K. Penche said, “There’s female houses on Iszm. Lots of them. I’m going after a few.”
“Another raid?”
“Call it anything you like.”
“What do you call it?”
“An expedition.”
“I’m glad I won’t be involved.”
“A man never knows,” Penche remarked. “You might change your mind.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Farr.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-807571-58b9-fe49-37a6-c507-e2fd-b203d9
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 23.12.2010
Created using: Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
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