Jack Vance: The Houses of Iszm

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 through 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—”