On the surface far above, the immense trunk, massive as a cliff, its vast girth anchored by mighty buttresses, reared up nine hundred yards above the prominence, spreading huge limbs in the white sunlight.
The tree was only remotely aware of the movement of air over the polished surfaces of innumerable leaves, the tingling exchange of molecules of water, carbon dioxide, oxygen. Automatically it reacted to the faint pressures of the wind, tensing slender twigs to hold each leaf at a constant angle to the radiation that struck down through the foliage complex.
The long days wore on. Air flowed in intricate patterns; radiation waxed and waned with the flow of vapor masses in the substratosphere; nutrient molecules moved along capillaries; the rocks groaned gently in the dark under the shaded slopes. In the invulnerability of its titanic mass, the tree dozed in a state of generalized low-level consciousness.
The sun moved westward. Its light, filtered through an increasing depth of atmosphere, was an ominous yellow now. Sinewy twigs rotated, following the source of energy. Somnolently, the tree retracted tender buds against the increasing cold, adjusted its rate of heat and moisture loss, its receptivity to radiation. As it slept, it dreamed of the long past, the years of free-wandering in the faunal stage, before the instinct to root and grow had driven it here. It remembered the grove of its youth, the patriarchal tree, the spore-brothers. . . .
It was dark now. The wind was rising. A powerful gust pressed against the ponderous obstacle of the tree; great thews of major branches creaked, resisting; chilled leaves curled tight against the smooth bark.
Deep underground, fibers hugged rock, transmitting data which were correlated with impressions from distant leaf surfaces, indicating that a major storm was brewing: There were ominous vibrations from the depth; relative humidity was rising, air pressure falling—
A pattern formed, signalling danger. The tree stirred; a tremor ran through the mighty branch system, shattering fragile frost crystals that had begun to form on shaded surfaces. Alertness stirred in the heart-brain, dissipating the euphoric dream-pattern. Reluctantly, long-dormant faculties came into play. The tree awoke.
Instantly, it assessed the situation. The storm was moving in off the sea—a major typhoon. It was too late for effective measures. Ignoring the pain of unaccustomed activity, the tree sent out new shock roots—cables three inches in diameter, strong as stranded steel—to grip the upreared rock slabs a hundred yards north of the taproot.
There was nothing more the tree could do. Impassively, it awaited the onslaught of the storm.
2
“That’s a storm down there,” Malpry said.
“Don’t worry, we’ll miss it.” Gault fingered controls, eyes on dial faces.
“Pull up and make a new approach,” Malpry said. “You and the Creep.”
“Me and the Creep are getting tired of listening to you bitch, Mal.”
“When we land, Malpry, I’ll meet you outside,” Pantelle put in. “I told you I don’t like the name ‘Creep.’ ”
“What, again?” Gault said. “You all healed up from the last time?”
“Not quite; I don’t seem to heal very well in space.”
“Permission denied, Pantelle,” Gault said. “He’s too big for you. Mal, leave him alone.”
“I’ll leave him alone,” Malpry muttered. “I ought to dig a hole and leave him in it. . . .”
“Save your energy for down there,” Gault said. “If we don’t make a strike on this one, we’ve had it.”
“Captain, may I go along on the field reconnaissance?” Pantelle asked. “My training in biology—”
“You better stay with the ship, Pantelle. And don’t tinker. Just wait for us. We haven’t got the strength to carry you back.”
“That was an accident last time, Captain—”
“And the time before. Skip it, Pantelle. You mean well, but you’ve got two left feet and ten thumbs.”
“I’ve been working on improving my coordination, Captain. I’ve been reading—”
The ship buffeted sharply as guidance vanes bit into atmosphere; Pantelle yelped.
“Oh-oh,” he called. “I’m afraid I’ve opened up that left elbow again.”
“Don’t bleed on me, you clumsy slob,” Malpry said.
“Quiet!” Gault said between his teeth. “I’m busy.”
Pantelle fumbled a handkerchief in place over the cut. He would have to practice those relaxing exercises he had read about. And he would definitely start in weightlifting soon, and watching his diet. And he would be very careful this time and land at least one good one on Malpry, just as soon as they landed.
3
Even before the first outward signs of damage appeared, the tree knew that it had lost the battle against the typhoon. In the lull, as the eye of the storm passed over, it assessed the damage. There was no response from the northeast quadrant of the sensory network where rootlets had been torn from the rockface; the taproot itself seated now against pulverized stone. While the almost indestructible fiber of the Yanda tree had held firm, the granite had failed. The tree was doomed by its own mass.
Now, mercilessly, the storm struck again, thundering out of the southwest to assault the tree with blind ferocity. Shock cables snapped like gossamer, great slabs of rock groaned and parted, with detonations lost in the howl of the wind. In the trunk, pressures built, agonizingly.
Four hundred yards south of the taproot, a crack opened in the sodden slope, gaping wider. Wind-driven water poured in, softening the soil, loosening the grip of a million tiny rootlets. Now the major roots shifted, slipping. . . .
Far above, the majestic crown of the Yanda tree yielded imperceptibly to the irresistible torrent of air. The giant north buttress, forced against the underlying stone, shrieked as tortured cells collapsed, then burst with a shattering roar audible even above the storm. A great arc of earth to the south, uplifted by exposed roots, opened a gaping cavern.
Now the storm moved on, thundered down the slope trailing its retinue of tattered debris and driving rain. A last vengeful gust whipped branches in a final frenzy; then the victor was gone.
And on the devastated promontory, the stupendous mass of the ancient tree leaned with the resistless inertia of colliding moons to the accompaniment of a cannonade of parting sinews, falling with dreamlike grace.
And in the heart-brain of the tree, consciousness faded in the unendurable pain of destruction.
* * *
Pantelle climbed down from the open port, leaned against the ship to catch his breath. He was feeling weaker than he expected. Tough luck, being on short rations; this would set him back on getting started on his weightlifting program. And he didn’t feel ready to take on Malpry yet. But just as soon as he had some fresh food and fresh air—
“These are safe to eat,” Gault called, wiping the analyzer needle on his pants leg and thrusting it back into his hip pocket. He tossed two large red fruits to Pantelle.
“When you get through eating, Pantelle, you better get some water and swab down the inside. Malpry and I’ll take a look around.”
The two moved off. Pantelle sat on the springy grass and bit into the apple-sized sphere. The waxy texture, he thought, was reminiscent of avocado; the skin was tough and aromatic; possibly a natural cellulose acetate. There seemed to be no seeds. That being the case, the thing was not properly a fruit at all. It would be interesting to study the flora of this planet. As soon as he reached home, he would have to enroll in a course in E.T. botany. Possibly he would go to Heidelberg or Uppsala, attend live lectures by eminent scholars. He would have a cosy little apartment—two rooms would do—in the old part of town, and in the evening he would have friends in for discussions over a bottle of wine—
However, this wasn’t getting the job done. There was a glint of water across the slope. Pantelle finished his fruit, gathered his buckets, and set out.
4
“Why do we want to wear ourselves out?” Malpry said.
“We need the exercise,” Gault told him. “It’ll be four months before we get another chance.”
“What are we, tourists, we got to see the sights?” Malpry stopped, leaned against a boulder, panting. He stared upward at the crater and the pattern of uptilted roots and beyond at the forestlike spread of the branches of the fallen tree.
“Makes our sequoias look like dandelions,” Gault said. “It must have been the storm, the one we dodged coming in.”
“So what?”
“A thing that big—it kind of does something to you.”
“Any money in it?” Malpry sneered.
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—”