Джон Вэнс - Scanned by Highroller

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 start building electrical equipment. In five years we'll have a spaceyard down there on the shore of Lake Alan.