“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 sensors—
“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 . . . ultraviolet . . .
“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 neural fibers, then to individual filaments and interweaving capillaries.
Here was the turbulence of air molecules colliding with ruptured tissues; there, the wave pattern of light impinging on exposed surfaces. Microscopic filaments contracted, cutting off fluid loss through the massive 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 alpha-spiral. 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 Malpry. “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 leaves, a foot in diameter, were glossy, varicolored.
“This great tree—” Pantelle began, emotionally.
Malpry stooped, picked up a fragment from a burst root.
“This great club,” he said, “to knock your lousy brains out with—”
“Shut up, Mal,” Gault put in.
“It lived, roamed the planet perhaps ten thousand years ago, in the young faunal stage,” Pantelle told them. “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 last farewells as the 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,” Gault continued. “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 of 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 carefully 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 host-creature. 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 unfocused 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 mass. 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—
Agony!
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 reexamined 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. Time passed.
Sluggishly, clarity returned. Now the fire would advance unchecked. Soon it would bypass 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 dran. 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 don’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 warmblooded 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 spores step in and correct any defects in the individual, repair injuries, fight 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 they sold the dran in the black market for fabulous amounts.”
“How do you get the dran?”
Pantelle looked at Malpry. “Why do you want to know?”