Nine by Laumer

by Keith Laumer

  Gault looked at him sourly. “Yeah, you got a point there. Let’s go.”

  “I don’t like leaving the Creep back there with the ship.”

  Gault looked at Malpry. “Why don’t you lay off the kid?”

  “I don’t like loonies.”

  “Don’t kid me, Malpry. Pantelle is highly intelligent—in his own way. Maybe that’s what you can’t forgive.”

  “He gives me the creeps.”

  “He’s a nice-looking kid; he means well—”

  “Yeah,” Malpry said. “Maybe he means well—but it’s not enough . .

  From the delirium of concussion, consciousness returned slowly to the tree. Random signals penetrated the background clatter of shadowy impulses from maimed senses—

  “Air pressure zero; falling … air pressure 112, rising … air pressure negative …

  “Major tremor radiating from—Major tremor radiating from—

  “Temperature 171 degrees, temperature —40 degrees, temperature 26 degrees …

  “Intense radiation in the blue only … red only … ultra violet …

  “Relative humidity infinite … wind from north-northeast, velocity infinite … wind rising vertically, velocity infinite … wind from east, west …”

  Decisively, the tree blanked off the yammering nerve-trunks, narrowing its attention to the immediate status-concept. A brief assessment sufficed to reveal the extent of its ruin.

  There was no reason, it saw, to seek extended personal survival. However, certain immediate measures were necessary to gain time for emergency spore-propagation. At once, the tree-mind triggered the survival syndrome. Capillaries spasmed, forcing vital juices to the brain. Synaptic helices dilated, heightening neural conductivity. Cautiously, awareness was extended to the system of major fibres, then to individual filaments and interweaving capillaries.

  Here was the turbulence of air molecules colliding with ruptured tissues, the wave pattern of light impinging on exposed surfaces. Microscopic filaments contracted, cutting off fluid loss through the wounds.

  Now the tree-mind fine-tuned its concentration, scanning the infinitely patterned cell matrix. Here, amid confusion, there was order in the incessant restless movement of particles, the flow of fluids, the convoluted intricacy of the alphaspiral. Delicately, the tree-mind readjusted the function-mosaic, in preparation for spore generation.

  Malpry stopped, shaded his eyes. A tall thin figure stood in the shade of the uptilted root mass on the ridge.

  “Looks like we headed back at the right time,” Malpry said. “Damn,” Gault said. He hurried forward. Pantelle came to meet him.

  “I told you to stay with the ship, Pantelle!”

  “I finished my job, Captain. You didn’t say—”

  “OK, OK. Is anything wrong?”

  “No sir. But I’ve just remembered something—”

  “Later, Pantelle. Let’s get back to the ship. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Captain, do you know what this is?” Pantelle gestured toward the gigantic fallen tree.

  “Sure; it’s a tree.” He turned to Gault. “Let’s—”

  “Yes, but what kind?”

  “Beats me. I’m no botanist.”

  “Captain, this is a rare species. In fact, it’s supposed to be extinct. Have you ever heard of the Yanda?”

  “No. Yes.” Gault looked at Pantelle. “Is that what this is?” “I’m sure of it. Captain, this is a very valuable find—”

  “You mean it’s worth money?” Malpry was looking at Gault. “I don’t know. What’s the story, Pantelle?”

  “An intelligent race, with an early animal phase; later, they root, become fixed, functioning as a plant. Nature’s way of achieving the active competition necessary for natural selection, then the advantage of conscious selection of a rooting site.”

  “How do we make money on it?”

  Pantelle looked up at the looming wall of the fallen trunk, curving away among the jumble of shattered branches, a hundred feet, two hundred, more, in diameter. The bark was smooth, almost black. The foot-wide leaves were glossy, varicolored.

  “This great tree—”

  Malpry stooped, picked up a fragment from a burst root.

  “This great club,” he said, “to knock your lousy brains out with-”

  “Shut up, Mai.”

  “It lived, roamed the planet perhaps ten thousand years ago, in the young faunal stage. Then instinct drove it here, to fulfill the cycle of nature. Picture this ancient champion, looking for the first time out across the valley, saying his farewells as metamorphosis begins.”

  “Nuts,” Malpry said.

  “His was the fate of all males of his kind who lived too long, to stand forever on some height of land, to remember through unending ages the brief glory of youth, himself his own heroic monument.”

  “Where do you get all that crud?” Malpry said.

  “Here was the place,” Pantelle said. “Here all his journeys ended.”

  “OK, Pantelle. Very moving. You said something about this thing being valuable.”

  “Captain, this tree is still alive, for a while at least. Even after the heart is dead, the appearance of life will persevere. A mantle of new shoots will leaf out to shroud the cadaver, tiny atavistic plantlets without connection to the brain, parasitic to the corpse, identical to the ancestral stock from which the giants sprang, symbolizing the extinction of a hundred million years of evolution.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “We can take cuttings from the heart of the tree. I have a book—it gives the details on the anatomy—we can keep the tissues alive. Back in civilization, we can regenerate the tree—brain and all. It will take time—”

  “Suppose we sell the cuttings.”

  “Yes, any university would pay well—”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Not long. We can cut in with narrow aperture blasters—”

  “OK. Get your books, Pantelle. We’ll give it a try.”

  Apparently, the Yanda mind observed, a very long time had elapsed since spore propagation had last been stimulated by the proximity of a female. Withdrawn into introverted dreams, the tree had taken no conscious notice as the whispering contact with the spore-brothers faded and the host-creatures dwindled away. Now, eidetically, the stored impressions sprang into clarity.

  It was apparent that no female would pass this way again. The Yanda kind was gone. The fever of instinct that had motivated the elaboration of the mechanisms of emergency propagation had burned itself out futilely. The new pattern of stalked oculi gazed unfocussed at an empty vista of gnarled jungle growth, the myriad filaments of the transfer nexus coiled quiescent, the ranked grasping members that would have brought a host-creature near drooped unused, the dran-sacs brimmed needlessly; no further action was indicated. Now death would come in due course.

  Somewhere a drumming began, a gross tremor sensed through the dead hush. It ceased, began again, went on and on. It was of no importance, but a faint curiosity led the tree to extend a sensory filament, tap the abandoned nerve-trunk—

  Convulsively, the tree-mind recoiled, severing the contact. An impression of smouldering destruction, impossible thermal activity …

  Disoriented, the tree-mind considered the implications of the searing pain. A freak of damaged sense organs? A phantom impulse from destroyed nerves?

  No. The impact had been traumatic, but the data were there. The tree-mind re-examined each synaptic vibration, reconstructing the experience. In a moment, the meaning was clear: A fire was cutting deep into the body of the tree.

  Working hastily, the tree assembled a barrier of incombustible molecules in the path of the fire, waited. The heat reached the barrier, hesitated—and the barrier flashed into incandescence.

  A thicker wall was necessary.

  The tree applied all of its waning vitality to the task. The shield grew, matched the pace of the fire, curved out to intercept—

  And wavered, halted. The
energy demand was too great. Starved muscular conduits cramped. Blackness closed over the disintegrating consciousness.

  Sluggishly, clarity returned. Now the fire would advance unchecked. Soon it would by-pass the aborted defenses, advance to consume the heart-brain itself. There was no other countermeasure remaining. It was unfortunate, since propagation had not been consummated, but unavoidable. Calmly the tree awaited its destruction by fire.

  Pantelle put the blaster down, sat on the grass and wiped tarry soot from his face.

  “What killed ’em off?” Malpry asked suddenly.

  Pantelle looked at him.

  “Spoilers,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “They killed them to get the dr an. They covered up by pretending the Yanda were a menace, but it was the dran they were after.”

  “Don’t you ever talk plain?”

  “Malpry, did I ever tell you I didn’t like you?”

  Malpry spat. “What’s with this dran?”

  “The Yanda have a very strange reproductive cycle. In an emergency, the spores released by the male tree can be implanted in almost any warm-blooded creature and carried in the body for an indefinite length of time. When the host animal mates, the dormant spores come into play. The offspring appears perfectly normal; in fact, the spore steps in and corrects any defects in the individual, repairs injuries, fights disease, and so on, and the life-span is extended; but eventually, the creature goes through the metamorphosis, roots, and becomes a regular male Yanda tree—instead of dying of old age.”

  “You talk too much. What’s this dran ?”

  “The tree releases an hypnotic gas to attract host animals. In concentrated form, it’s a potent narcotic. That’s dran . They killed the trees to get it. The excuse was that the Yanda could make humans give birth to monsters. That was nonsense. But it sold in the black market for fabulous amounts.”

  “How do you get the dran ?”

  Pantelle looked at Malpry. “Why do you want to know?” Malpry looked at the book which lay on the grass. “It’s in that, ain’t it?”

  “Never mind that. Gault’s orders were to help me get the heart-cuttings.”

  “He didn’t know about the dran”

  “Taking the dran will kill the specimen. You can’t—”

  Malpry stepped toward the book. Pantelle jumped toward him, swung a haymaker, missed. Malpry knocked him spinning. “Don’t touch me, Creep.” He wiped his fist on his pants leg. Pantelle lay stunned. Malpry thumbed the book, found what he wanted. After ten minutes, he dropped the book, picked up the blaster, and moved off.

  Malpry cursed the heat, wiping at his face. A many-legged insect scuttled away before him. Underfoot, something furtive rustled. One good thing, no animals in this damned woods bigger than a mouse. A hell of a place. He’d have to watch his step; it wouldn’t do,to get lost in here …

  The velvety wall of the half buried trunk loomed, as dense growth gave way suddenly to a clear stretch. Malpry stopped, breathing hard. He got out his sodden handkerchief, staring up at the black wall. A ring of dead-white stalks sprouted from the dead tree. Nearby were other growths, like snarls of wiry black seaweed, and ropy looking things, dangling—

  Malpry backed away, snarling. Some crawling disease, some kind of filthy fungus— But—

  Malpry stopped. Maybe this was what he was looking for. Sure, this was what those pictures in the book showed. This was where the dran was. But he didn’t know it would look like some creeping—

  “Stop, Malpry!”

  Malpry whirled.

  “Don’t be so … stupid …” Pantelle was gasping for breath. There was a bruise on his jaw. “Let me rest… Talk to you …”

  “Die, you gutter-scraping. Have a nice long rest. But don’t muck with me.” Malpry turned his back on Pantelle, unlimbered the blaster.

  Pantelle grabbed up a broken limb, slammed it across Malpry’s head. The rotten wood snapped. Malpry staggered, recovered. He turned, his face livid; a trickle of blood ran down.

  “All right, Creep,” he grated. Pantelle came to him, swung a whistling right, arm bent awkwardly. Malpry lunged, and Pantelle’s elbow caught him across the jaw. His eyes went glassy, he sagged, fell to his hands and knees. Pantelle laughed aloud.

  Malpry shook his head, breathing hoarsely, got to his feet. Pantelle took aim and hit him solidly on the jaw. The blow seemed to clear Malpry’s head. He slapped a second punch aside, knocked Pantelle full-length with a backhanded blow. He dragged Pantelle to his feet, swung a hard left and right. Pantelle bounced, lay still. Malpry stood over him, rubbing his jaw.

  He stirred Pantelle with his foot. Maybe the Creep was dead. Laying his creeping hands on Malpry. Gault wouldn’t like it, but the Creep had started it. Sneaked up and hit him from behind. He had the mark to prove it. Anyway, the news about the dran would cheer Gault up. Better go get Gault up here. Then they could cut the dran out and get away from this creeping planet. Let the Creep bleed.

  Malpry turned back toward the ship, leaving Pantelle huddled beside the fallen tree.

  The Yanda craned external oculi to study the fallen creature, which had now apparently entered a dormant phase. A red exudation oozed from orifices at the upper end, and from what appeared to be breaks in the epidermis. It was a strange creature, bearing some superficial resemblance to the familiar host-creatures. Its antics, and those of the other, were curious indeed. Perhaps they were male and female, and the encounter had been a mating. Possibly this hibernation was normal process, preparatory to rooting. If only it were not so alien, it might serve as a carrier …

  The surface of the organism heaved, a limb twitched. Apparently it was on the verge of reviving. Soon it would scurry away and be seen no more. It could be wise to make a quick examination; if the creature should prove suitable as a host… .

  Quickly the tree elaborated a complex of tiny filaments, touched the still figure tentatively, then penetrated the surprisingly soft surface layer, seeking out nerve fibres. A trickle of impressions flowed in, indecipherable. The tree put forth a major sensory tendril, divided and subdivided it into fibres only a few atoms in diameter, fanned them out through the unconscious man, tracing the spinal column, entering the brain—

  Here was a wonder of complexity, an unbelievable profusion of connections. This was a center capable of the highest intellectual functions—unheard of in a host creature. Curiously, the tree-mind probed deeper, attuning itself, scanning through a kaleidoscope of impressions, buried memories, gaudy symbolisms.

  Never had the Yanda-mind encountered the hyper-intellectual processes of emotion. It pressed on, deeper into the phantasmagoria of dreams—

  Color, laughter, and clash-of-arms. Banners rippling in the sun, chords of a remote music, and night-blooming flowers. Abstractions of incredible beauty mingled with vivid conceptualizations of glory. Fascinated, the tree-mind explored Pantelle’s secret romantic dreams of fulfillment—

  And abruptly, encountered the alien mind.

  There was a moment of utter stillness as the two minds assessed each other.

  You are dying, the alien mind spoke.

  Yes. And you are trapped in a sickly host-creature. Why did you not select a stronger host?

  I . . . originated here. I … we … are one.

  Why do you not strengthen this host?

  How?

  The Yanda mind paused. You occupy only a corner of the brain. You do not use your powers?

  I am a segment… . The alien mind paused, confused. I am conceptualized by the monitor-mind as the subconscious.

  What is the monitor-mind?

  It is the totality of the personality. It is above the conscious, directing… .

  This is a brain of great power, yet great masses of cells are unused. Why are major trunks aborted as they are?

  I do not know.

  There was no more information from the alien brain which indeed, housed multiple minds.

  The Yanda mind broke contact, tuned.r />
  There was a blast of mind-force, overwhelming. The Yanda-mind reeled, groped for orientation.

  YOU ARE NOT ONE OF MY MINDS.

  You are the monitor-mind? gasped the Yanda.

  YES. WHAT ARE YOU?

  The Yanda-mind projected its self-concept.

  STRANGE, VERY STRANGE. YOU HAVE USEFUL SKILLS, I PERCEIVE. TEACH THEM TO ME.

  The Yanda mind squirmed under the torrent of thought impulses.

  Reduce your volume. You will destroy me.

  I WILL TRY. TEACH ME THAT TRICK OF MANIPULATING MOLECULES.

  The Yanda cringed under the booming of the alien mind. What an instrument! A fantastic anomaly, a mind such as this linked to this fragile host-creature—and unable even to use its powers. But it would be a matter of the greatest simplicity to make the necessary corrections, rebuild and toughen the host, eliminate the defects—

  TEACH ME, YANDA MIND!

  Alien, I die soon. But I will teach you. There is, however, a condition. …

  The two minds conferred, and reached agreement. At once, the Yanda mind initiated sweeping rearrangements at the submolecular level.

  First, cell-regeneration, stitching up the open lesions on arm and head. Antibodies were modified in vast numbers, flushed through the system. Parasites died.

  Maintain this process, the tree-mind directed.

  Now, the muscular layers; surely they were inadequate. The very structure of the cells was flimsy. The Yanda devised the necessary improvements, tapped the hulk of its cast-off body for materials, reinforced the musculature. Now for the skeletal members… .

  The tree visualized the articulation of the ambulatory mechanism, considered for a moment the substitution of a more practical tentacular concept—

  There was little time. Better to retain the stony bodies, merely strengthen them, using metallo-vegetable fibres. The air sacs, too. And the heart. They would have lasted no time at all as they were.

  Observe, alien, thus, and thus. …

  I SEE. IT IS A CLEVER TRICK.

  The Yanda worked over the body of Pantelle, adjusting, correcting, reinforcing, discarding a useless appendix or tonsil here, adding a reserve air storage unit there. A vestigial eye deep in the brain was refurbished for sensitivity at the radio frequencies, finked with controls. The spine was deftly fused at the base; additional mesenteries were added for intestinal support. Following the basic pattern laid down in the genes, the tree-mind rebuilt the body.