Son of the Tree

V

THE SKELETON-WORK of the embarkation stage made a black web on the overcast sky. Joe climbed the worn plank stairs to the top deck. No one was behind. No one observed him. He reached under an L-beam, set the potted plant on the flange out of sight. Whatever it was, it was dangerous. He wanted nothing to do with it. Hableyat's quid pro quos might come high.

Joe smiled sourly. «Limited intellect» and «bull-headed fool»–there was an ancient aphorism, to the effect that eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves. It seemed to apply in his own case.

Joe thought, I've been called worse things. And once I get to Ballenkarch it won't make any difference...

Ahead of him Manaolo and Elfane crossed the stage, straight ahead with that fixed and conscious will characteristic of the Druids. They climbed the gangplank, turned into the ship. Joe grimaced. Elfane's slim legs twinkling up the stairs had sent sweet-sour chills along his nerves. And the proud back of Manaolo–it was like taking two drugs with precisely opposite effects.

Joe cursed old Hableyat. Did he imagine that Joe would be so obsessed with infatuation for the Priestess Elfane as to challenge Manaolo? Joe snorted. Overripe old hypocrite! In the first place he had no slightest intimation that Elfane would consider him as a lover. And after Manaolo's handling of her–his stomach muscles twisted. Even, he amended dutifully, if his loyalty to Margaret would permit his interest. He had enough problems of his own without inviting others.

At the gangplank stood a steward in a red skin-tight uniform. Rows of trefoil gold frogs decorated his legs, a radio was clamped to his ear with a mike pressed to his throat. He was a member of a race strange to Joe–white-haired, loose-jointed, with eyes as green as emeralds.

Joe felt the tenseness rising up in himself, if the Thearch suspected that he were on his way off-planet, now he would be stopped.

The steward took his ticket, nodded courteously, motioned him within. Joe crossed the gangplank to the convex black hulk, entered the shadowed double port. At a temporary desk sat the purser, another man of the white-haired race. Like the steward he wore a scarlet suit which seemed like a second skin. In addition he wore glass epaulets and a small scarlet skullcap.

He extended a book to Joe. «Your name and thumbprint, please. They waive responsibility for accidents incurred on route.»

Joe signed, pressed his thumb on the indicated square while the purser examined his ticket. «First class passage, Cabin Fourteen. Luggage, Worship?»

«I have none,» said Joe. «I imagine there's a ship's store where I can buy linen.»

«Yes, your Worship, yes indeed. Now, if you'll kindly step to your cabin, a steward will secure you for takeoff.»

Joe glanced down at the book he had signed. Immediately before his signature he read in a tall angular hand, Druid Manaolo kia Benlodieth, and then in a round backhand script, Alnietho kia Benlodieth. Signed as his wife–Joe chewed at his lip. Manaolo was assigned to Cabin Twelve, Elfane to 13.

Not strange in itself. These freighter-passenger ships, unlike the great passenger packets flashing out from Earth in every direction, offered little accommodation for passengers. Cabins, so-called, were closets with hammocks, drawers, tiny collapsible bathroom facilities.

A steward in the skin-tight garment, this time a firefly blue, said, «This way, Lord Smith.»

Joe thought–to excite reverence all a man needed was a tin hat.

He followed the steward past the hold, where the steerage passengers already lay entranced and bundled into their hammocks, then through a combination saloon-dining room. The far wall was faced with two tiers of doors, with a web-balcony running under the second tier. No. 14 was the last door on the top row.

As the steward led Joe past No. 13 the door was thrust aside and Manaolo came bursting out. His face was pale, his eyes widened to curious elliptical shape, showing the full disk of the dead black retina's. He was plainly in a blind fury. He shouldered Joe aside, opened the door to No. 12, passed within.

Joe slowly pulled himself back from the rail. For an instant all sense, all reason, had left him. It was a curious sensation–one unknown to him before. An unlimited elemental aversion which even Harry Creath had never aroused. He turned slowly back along the catwalk.

Elfane stood in the door of her cabin. She had removed the blue cloak and stood in her soft white dress –a dark-haired girl with a narrow face, mobile and alive, now clenched in anger. Her eyes met Joe's. For an instant they stared eye to eye, faces two feet apart.

The hate in Joe's heart moved over for another emotion, a wonderful lift into clean air, a delight, a ferment. Her eyebrows contracted in puzzlement, she half-opened her mouth to speak. Joe wondered with a queer sinking feeling, if she recognized him? Their previous contacts had been so careless, so impersonal. He was a new man in his new clothes.

She turned, shut the door. Joe continued to No. 14, where the steward webbed him into his hammock for the take-off.

Joe awoke from the take-off trance. He said, «Whatever you're looking for, I haven't got it. Hableyat gave you a bum steer.»

The man across the cabin froze into stillness, back turned toward Joe.

Joe said, «Don't move, I've got my gun on you.»

He jerked up from the hammock but the webbing held him. At the sound of his efforts the intruder stole a glance over his shoulder, ducked, slid from the cabin like a ghost.

Joe called out harshly but there was no sound. Throwing off the web he ran to the door, looked out into the saloon. It was empty.

Joe turned back, shut the door. Waking from the trance he had no clear picture of his visitor. A man short and stocky, moving on joints set at curious splayed angles. There had been a flashing glimpse of the man's face but all Joe could recall was a sallow yellow tinge as if the underlying blood ran bright yellow. A Mang.

Joe thought, Now it's starting. Damn Hableyat, setting me up as his stalking horse! He considered reporting to the captain, who, neither Druid nor Mang, might be unsympathetic to lawlessness aboard his ship. He decided against the action. He had nothing to report–merely a prowler in his cabin. The captain would hardly put the entire passenger list through a psycho-reading merely to apprehend a prowler.

Joe rubbed his face, yawned. Out in space once more, on the last leg of his trip. Unless, of course, Harry had moved on again.

He raised the stop-ray shield in front of the port, looked out into space. Ahead, in the direction of flight, a buffer-screen absorbed what radiation the ship either overtook or met. Otherwise the energy, increased in frequency and hardness by the Doppler action due to the ship's velocity, would have crisped him instantly.

Light impinging from a beam showed him stars more or less with their normal magnitudes, the perspectives shifting and roiling as he watched–and the stars floating, eddying, drifting like motes in a beam of light. To the stern was utter darkness–no light could overtake the vessel. Joe dropped the shutter. The scene was familiar enough to him. Now for a bath, his clothes, food.

Looking at his face in the mirror he noticed a stubble of beard. The shaver lay on a glass shelf over the collapsible sink. Joe reached–yanked his hand to a halt, an inch from the shaver. When first he had entered the cabin it had hung from a clasp on the bulkhead.

Joe eased himself away from the wall, his nerves tingling. Certainly his visitor had not been shaving? He looked down to the deck–saw a mat of coiled woven brass. Bending, he noticed a length of copper wire joining the mat to the drain pipe.

Gingerly he scooped the shaver into his shoe, carried it to his bunk. A metal band circled the handle with a tit entering the case near the unit which scooped power from the ship's general field.

In the long run, thought Joe, he had Hableyat to thank–Hableyat who had so kindly rescued him from the Thearch and put him aboard the Bekaurion with a potted plant.

Joe rang for the steward. A young woman came, white-haired like the other members of the crew. She wore a parti-colored short-skirted garment of orange and blue that fitted her like a coat of paint. Joe dumped the shaver into a pillowcase. He said, «Take this to the electrician. It's very dangerous–got a short in it. Don't touch it. Don't let anyone touch it. And–will you please bring me another shaver?»

«Yes, sir.» She departed.

Finally bathed, shaved and as well-dressed as his limited wardrobe permitted, he sauntered out into the saloon, stepping high in the ship's half-gravity. Four or five men and women sat along the lounges to the side, engaging in guarded conversation.

Joe stood watching a moment. Peculiar, artificial creatures, he thought, these human beings of the Space Age–brittle and so completely formal that conversation was no more than an exchange of polished mannerisms. So sophisticated that nothing could shock them as much as naive honesty.

Three Mangs sat in the group–two men, one old, the other young, both wearing the rich uniforms of the Mangtse Red-Branch. A young Mang woman with a certain heavy beauty, evidently the wife of the young officer.

The other couple, like the race which operated the ship, were human deviants unfamiliar to Joe. They were like pictures he had seen in a childhood fairybook– wispy fragile creatures, big-eyed, thin-skinned, dressed in loose sheer gowns.

Joe descended the stairs to the main deck and a ship's officer, the head steward presumably, appeared. Gesturing politely to Joe he spoke to the entire group. «I present Lord Joe Smith of the planet»–he hesitated–»the planet Earth.»

He turned to the others in the group. «Erru Kametin»–this was the older of the two Mang officers–»Erru Ex Amma and Erritu Thi Amma, of Mangtse.» He turned to the fairy-like creatures. «Prater Luli Hassimassa and his lady Hermina of Cil.»

Joe bowed politely, seated himself at the end of the lounge. The young Mang officer, Erru Ex Amma, asked curiously, «Did I understand that you claim Earth for your home planet?»

«Yes,» said Joe half-truculently. «I was born on the continent known as North America, where the first ship ever to leave Earth was built.»

«Strange,» muttered the Mang, eyeing Joe with an expression just short of disbelief. «I've always considered talk of Earth one of the superstitions of space, like the Moons of Paradise and the Star Dragon.»

«I can assure you that Earth is no legend,» said Joe. «Somehow in the outward migrations, among the wars and the planetary programs of propaganda, the real existence of Earth has been called to question. And we travel very rarely into this outer swirl of the galaxy.»

The fairy-woman spoke in a piping voice which suited her moth-frail appearance. «And you maintain that all of us–you, the Mangs, we Cils, the Belands who operate the ship, the Druids, the Frumsans, the Thablites–they are all ultimately derived from Earth stock?»

«Such is the fact.»

A metallic voice said, «That is not entirely true. The Druids were the first fruit of the Tree of Life. That is the well-established doctrine, and any other allegation is false.»

Joe said in a careful voice, «You are entitled to your belief.»

The steward came forward. «Ecclesiarch Manaolo Ma Benlodieth of Kyril.»

There was a moment of silence after the introductions. Then Manaolo said, «Not only am I entitled to my belief, but I must protest the propagation of incorrect statements.»

«That also is your privilege,» said Joe. «Protest all you like.»

He met Manaolo's dead black eyes and there seemed no human understanding behind them, no thought–only emotion and obstinate will.

There was movement behind; it was Priestess Elfane. She was presented to the company and without words she settled beside Hermina of Gil. The atmosphere now had changed and even though she but murmured pleasantries with Hermina her presence brought a piquancy, a sparkle, a spice...

Joe counted. Eight with himself–fourteen cabins–six passengers yet unaccounted for. One of the thirteen had tried to kill him–a Mang.

A pair of Druids issued from cabins two and three, and were introduced–elderly sheep-faced men en route to a mission on Ballenkarch. They carried with them a portable altar, which they immediately set up in a corner of the saloon, and began a series of silent rites before a small representation of the Tree. Manaolo watched them without interest a moment or two, then turned away.

Four, unaccounted for, thought Joe.

The steward announced the first meal of the day, and at this moment another couple appeared from their cabins, two Mangs in non-military attire–loose wrappings of colored silk, light cloaks, jeweled corselets. They bowed formally to the company and, since the steward was arranging the collapsible table, they took their places without introduction. Five Mangs, thought Joe. Two soldiers, two civilians, a woman. Two cabins still concealed their occupants.

Cabin No. 10 opened, and an aged woman of extreme height stepped slowly out on the balcony. She was bald as an egg and her head was flat on top. She had a great bony nose, black bulging eyes. She wore a black cape and on each finger of both hands was a tremendous jewel.

One more to go. The door to cabin No. 6 remained closed.

The meal was served from a menu surprisingly varied, to serve the palates of many races. Joe, in his planet-to-planet journey across the galaxy, perforce had dismissed all queasiness. He had eaten organic matter of every conceivable color, consistency, odor and flavor.

Familiar items he could put a name to–ferns, fruits, fungus, roots, reptiles, insects, fish, mollusks, slugs, eggs, spore-sacs, animals and birds–and at least as many objects he could neither define nor recognize and whose sole claim to his appetite lay in the example of others.

His place at the table was directly opposite Manaolo and Elfane. He noticed that they did not speak and several times he felt her eyes on him, puzzled, appraising, half-furtive. She's sure she's seen me, thought Joe, but she cant remember where.

After the meal the passengers separated. Manaolo retired to the gymnasium behind the saloon. The five Mangs sat down to a game played with small rods of different colors. The Cils went up to the promenade along the back rib of the ship. The tall demon-woman sat in a chair, gazing blankly into nothingness.

Joe would likewise have taken exercise in the gymnasium but the presence of Manaolo deterred him. He selected a film from the ship's library, prepared to return to his room.

Priestess Elfane said in a low voice, «Lord Smith, I wish to speak to you.» «Certainly.»

«Will you come to my room?»

Joe looked over his shoulder. «Won't your husband be annoyed?»

«Husband?» She managed to inject an enormous weight of contempt and angry disgust into her voice. «The relationship is purely nominal.» She stopped, looked away, apparently regretting her words. Then she continued in a cool voice, «I wish to speak to you.» She turned away, marched for her cabin.

Joe chuckled quietly. The vixen knew no other world than that in her own brain, had no conception that wills could exist in opposition to hers. Amusing now –but what a devil when she grew older! It occurred to Joe that it would be a pleasant experience to be lost with her on an uninhabited planet–taming her willfulness, opening up her consciousness.

He leisurely followed to her cabin. She sat on the bunk. He took a seat on the bench. «Well?»

«You say your home is the planet Earth-the mythical Earth. Is that true?»

«Yes, it's true.» «Where is Earth?»

«In toward the Center, perhaps a thousand light-years.»

«What is Earth like?» She leaned forward, elbow on her knee, chin on her hand, watching him with interested eyes.

Joe, suddenly flustered, shrugged. «You ask a question I can't answer in a word. Earth is a world of great age. Everywhere are ancient buildings, ancient cities, traditions. In Egypt stand the Great Pyramids, built by the first civilized men. In England a circle of chipped stones, Stonehenge, are replicas of a race almost as old. In the caves of France and Spain, far underground, are drawings of animals, scratched by men hardly removed from the beasts they hunted.»

She drew a deep breath. «But your cities, your civilization–are they different from ours?»

Joe put on a judicious expression. «Naturally they are different. No two planets are alike. Ours is an old stable culture–mellowed, kindly. Our races have merged– I am the result of their mingling. In these outer regions men have been blocked off and separated and have specialized once again. You Druids, who are very close to us physically, correspond to the ancient Caucasian race of the Mediterranean branch.»

«But do you have no Great God–no Tree of Life?»

«At present,» said Joe, «there is no organized religion on Earth. We are free to express our joy at being alive in any way which pleases us. Some revere a cosmic creator–others merely acknowledge the physical laws controlling the universe to almost the same result. The worship of fetishes, anthropoid, animal or vegetable–like your Tree–has long been extinct.»

She sat up sharply. «You–you deride our sacred institution.»

«Sorry.»

She rose to her feet, then sat down, swallowing her wrath. «You interest me in many ways,» she said sullenly, as if justifying her forbearance to herself. «I have the peculiar feeling that you are known to me.»

Joe, on a half-sadistic impulse, said, «I was your father's chauffeur. Yesterday you and your–husband were planning to kill me.»

She froze into unblinking rigidity, staring, mouth half-open. Then she relaxed, shuddered, shrank back. «You–are you–»

But Joe had caught sight of something behind her on a night-shelf over her bunk–a potted plant, almost identical with the one he had left on Kyril.

She saw the direction of his gaze. Her mouth came shut. She gasped, «You know then!» It was almost a whisper. «Kill me, destroy me, I am tired of life!»

She rose to her feet, arms out defenselessly. Joe arose, moved a step toward her. It was like a dream, a time past the edge of reason, without logic, cause, effect. Her eyes widened, not in fear now. He put his hands on her shoulders. She was warm and slender, pulsing like a bird.

She pulled away, sat back on her bed. «I don't understand,» she said in a husky voice. «I understand nothing.»

«Tell me,» said Joe in a voice almost as husky. «What is this Manaolo to you? Is he your lover?»

She said nothing; then at last gave her head a little shake. «No, he is nothing. He has been sent to Ballenkarch on a mission. I decided I wanted release from the rituals. I wanted adventure, and cared nothing for consequence. But Manaolo frightens me. He came to me yesterday–but I was afraid.»

Joe felt a wonderful yeastiness around his heart. The image of Margaret appeared, mouth puckered accusingly. Joe sighed regretfully. The mood changed. Elfane's face was once more that of a young Druid Priestess.

«What is your business, Smith?» she asked coolly. «Are you a spy?»

«No, I'm not a spy.»

«Then why do you go to Ballenkarch? Only spies and agents go to Ballenkarch. Druids and Mangs or their hirelings.»

«It is business of a personal nature.» Looking at her he reflected that this vivid Priestess Elfane had gaily suggested killing him only yesterday.

She noticed his scrutiny, tilted her head in a whimsical harlequin grimace–the trick of a girl aware of her appeal, a flirtatious trick. Joe laughed–stopped, listened. There had been a scraping sound against the wall. Elfane followed his gaze.

«That's my cabin!» Joe rose to his feet, opened the door, bounded down the balcony, threw open the door to his cabin. Erru Ex Amma, the young Mang officer, stood facing him, a wide mirthless grin on his face, showing pointed yellow teeth. He held a gun which was directed at Joe's middle.

«Back up!» he ordered. « Back!»

Joe slowly retreated out on the balcony. He looked over into the saloon. The four Mangs were at their game. One of the civilians glanced up, muttered to the others and they all turned their heads, looked up. Joe caught the flash of four citron-yellow faces. Then they were back to their game.

«Into the she-Druid's cabin,» said Ex Amma. « Quick!» He moved his gun, still smiling the wide smile that was like a fox showing its fangs.

Joe slowly backed into Elfane's cabin, eyes flicking back and forth between the gun and the Mang's face.

Elfane gasped, sighed in terror. The Mang saw the pot with the bit of plant sprouting from it. «Ahhhh!»

He turned to Joe. «Back against the wall.» He gave his gun a little forward motion, grimaced with anticipation and Joe knew he was about to die.

The door behind slid open; there was a hiss. The Mang stiffened, bent backward in an agonized arc, threw up his head, his jaw strained in a soundless scream. He fell to the deck.

Hableyat stood in the doorway, smiling primly. «I'm very sorry that there should have been this disturbance.»