The Houses of Iszm

XII

Aile Farr awoke in a pod with dust-yellow walls, a dark brown ceiling vaulted with slender ribs. He raised his head and blinked around the pod. He saw square, dark, heavy furniture: chairs, a settee, a table scattered with papers, a model house or two, and an antique Spanish buffet.

A wispy man with a large head and earnest eyes bent over him. He wore a white cloth jacket, he smelled of antiseptic: a doctor.

Behind the doctor stood Penche. He was a large man but not as large as Farr had pictured him. He crossed the room slowly and looked down at Farr.

Something stirred in Farr’s brain. Air rose in his throat, his vocal chords vibrated; his mouth, tongue, teeth, palate shaped words. Farr heard them in amazement.

“I have the tree.”

Penche nodded. “Where?”

Farr looked at him stupidly.

Penche asked, “How did you get the tree off Iszm?”

“I don’t know,” said Farr. He rose up on his elbow, rubbed his chin, blinked. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t have any tree.”

Penche frowned. “Either you have it or you don’t.”

“I don’t have any tree.” Farr struggled to sit up. The doctor put an arm under his shoulders and helped him up. Farr felt very weak. “What am I doing here? Somebody poisoned me. A girl. A blonde girl in the tavern.” He looked at Penche with growing anger. “She was working for you.”

Penche nodded. “That’s true.”

Farr rubbed his face. “How did you find me?”

“You called the Imperador on the stereo. I had a man in the exchange waiting for the call.”

“Well,” said Farr wearily. “It’s all a mistake. How or why or what—I don’t know. Except that I’m taking a beating. And I don’t like it.”

Penche looked at the doctor. “How is he?”

“He’s all right now. He’ll get his strength back pretty soon.”

“Good. You can go.”

The doctor left the pod. Penche signaled a chair up behind him and sat down. “Anna worked too hard,” said Penche. “She never should have used her sticker.” He hitched his chair closer. “Tell me about yourself.”

“First,” said Farr, “where am I?”

“You’re in my house. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?”

Penche rocked his head back and forth, a sign of inward amusement. “You were asked to deliver a tree to me. Or a seed. Or a seedling. Whatever it is, I want it.”

Farr spoke in a level voice. “I don’t have it. I don’t know anything about it. I was on Tjiere atoll during the raid—that’s the closest I came to your tree.”

Penche asked in a quiet voice that seemed to hold no suspicion, “You called me when you arrived in town. Why?”

Farr shook his head. “I don’t know. It was something I had to do. I did it. I told you just now I had a tree. I don’t know why…”

Penche nodded. “I believe you. We’ve got to find out where this tree is. It may take a while, but—”

“I don’t have your tree. I’m not interested.” He rose to his feet. He looked around and started for the door. “Now—I’m going home.”

Penche looked after him in quiet amusement. “The doors are cinched, Farr.”

Farr paused, looking at the hard rosette of the door. Cinched—twisted shut. The relax-nerve would be somewhere in the wall. He pressed at the dusty yellow surface, almost like parchment.

“Not that way,” said Penche. “Come back here, Farr…”

The door unwrapped itself. Omon Bozhd stood in the gap. He wore a skin-tight garment striped blue and white, a white cloche flaring rakishly back on itself, up over his ears. His face was austere, placid, full of the strength that was human but not Earth-human.

He came into the room. Behind came two more Iszic, these in yellow and green stripes: Szecr. Farr backed away to let them enter.

“Hello,” said Penche. “I thought I had the door cinched. You fellows probably know all the tricks.”

Omon Bozhd nodded politely to Farr. “We lost you for a certain period today; I am glad to see you.” He looked at Penche, then back at Farr. “Your destination seems to have been K. Penche’s house.”

“That’s the way it looks,” said Farr.

Omon Bozhd explained politely. “When you were in the cell on Tjiere, we anesthetized you with a hypnotic gas. The Thord heard it. His race holds their breath for six minutes. When you became dazed he leaped on you, to effect a mind transfer and fixed his will on yours. A suggestion, a compulsion.” He looked at Penche. “To the last moment he served his master well.”

Penche said nothing; Omon Bozhd returned to Farr. “He buried the instructions deep in your brain; then he gave you the trees he had stolen; Six minutes had elapsed. He took a breath and became unconscious. Later we took you to him, hoping this would dislodge the injunction. We met failure; the Thord astounded us with his psychic capabilities.”

Farr looked at Penche, who was leaning negligently against the table. There was tension here, like a trick jack-in-the-box ready to explode at the slightest shock.

Omon Bozhd dismissed Farr from his attention. Farr had served his purpose. “I came to Earth,” he told Penche, “on two missions. I must inform you that your consignment of Class AA houses cannot be delivered, because of the raid on Tjiere atoll.”

“Well, well,” said Penche mildly. “Not so good.”

“My second mission is to find the man Aile Farr brings his message to.”

Penche spoke in an interested voice. “You probed Farr’s mind? Why weren’t you able to find out then?”

Iszic courtesy was automatic, a reflex. Omon Bozhd bowed his head. “The Thord ordered Farr to forget, to remember only when his foot touched the soil of Earth. He had enormous power; Farr Sainh has a brain of considerable tenacity. We could only follow him. His destination is here, the house of K. Penche. I am able therefore to fulfill my second mission.”

Penche said, “Well? Spit it out!”

Omon Bozhd bowed. His own voice was calm and formal. “My original message to you is voided, Penche Sainh. You are receiving no more Class AA houses. You are receiving none at all. If ever you set foot on Iszm or in Iszic suzerainty, you will be punished for your crime against us.”

Penche nodded his head, his sign of inner sardonic mirth. “You discharge me, then. I’m no longer your agent.”

“Correct.”

Penche turned to Farr and spoke in a startling sharp voice. “The trees—where are they?”

Involuntarily Farr put his hand to the sore spot on his scalp.

Penche said, “Come over here, Farr, sit down. Let me take a look.”

Farr growled, “Keep away from me I’m not cat’s-paw for anybody.”

Omon Bozhd said, “The Thord anchored six seeds under the skin of Farr Sainh’s scalp. It was an ingenious hiding place. The seeds are small. We searched for thirty minutes before we found them.”

Farr pressed his scalp with distaste.

Penche said in his hoarse harsh voice, “Sit down, Farr. Let’s find out where we stand.”

Farr backed against the wall. “I know where I stand. It’s not with you.”

Penche laughed. “You’re not throwing in with the Iszic?”

“I’m throwing in with nobody. If I’ve got seeds in my head, it’s nobody’s business but my own!”

Penche took a step forward, his face a little ugly.

Omon Bozhd said, “The seeds were removed, Penche Sainh. The bumps which Farr Sainh perhaps can feel are pellets of tantalum.”

Farr fingered his scalp. Indeed—there they were: hard lumps he had thought part of the scab. One, two, three, four, five, six… His hand wandered through his hair and stopped. Involuntarily he looked at Penche, at the Iszic. They did not seem to be watching him. He pressed the small object he found in his hair. It felt like a small bladder, a sac, the size of a grain of wheat, and it was connected to his scalp by a fiber. Anna, the blonde girl, had seen a long gray hair…

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—”

“No!” gasped Penche. “No.” He yelled, “Trope! Carlyle!”

Figures appeared. Penche rose to his feet. “There’s three Iszic in the house. Don’t let ’em out. Stand by the trunk—shoot to kill.”

A cool voice said, “There won’t be any shooting tonight.”

Two beams of light converged on Penche. He stood quivering with anger. “Who are you?”

“Special Squad. I’m Dectective-Inspector Kirdy.”

Penche exhaled his breath. “Get the Iszic. They’re in my house.”

The Iszic came into the light.

Omon Bozhd said, “We are here to reclaim our property.”

Kirdy inspected them without friendliness. “What property?”

“It is in Farr’s head. A house-seedling.”

“Is it Farr you’re accusing?”

“They’d better not,” said Farr angrily. “They watched me every minute, they searched me, hypnotized me—”

“Penche is the guilty man,” said Omon Bozhd bitterly. “Penche’s agent deceived us. It is clear now. He put the six seeds where he knew we’d find them. He also had a root tendril; he anchored it in Farr’s scalp, among the hairs. We never noticed it.”

“Tough luck,” said Penche.

Kirdy looked dubiously at Farr. “The thing actually stayed alive?”

Farr suppressed the urge to laugh. “Stayed alive? It sent out roots—it put out leaves, a pod. It’s growing. I’ve got a house on my head!”

“It’s Iszic property,” declared Omon Bozhd sharply. “I demand its return.”

“It’s my property,” said Penche. “I bought it—paid for it.”

“It’s my property,” said Farr. “Who’s head is it growing in?”

Kirdy shook his head. “You better all come with me.”

“I’ll go nowhere unless I’m under arrest,” said Penche with great dignity. He pointed. “I told you—arrest the Iszic. They wrecked my house.”

“Come along, all of you,” said Kirdy. He turned. “Bring down the wagon.”

Omon Bozhd made his decision. He rose proudly to his full height, the white bands glowing in the darkness. He looked at Farr, reached under his cloak, and brought out a shatter-gun.

Ducking, Farr fell flat.

The shatter-bolt sighed over his head. Blue fire came from Kirdy’s gun. Omon Bozhd glowed in a blue aureole. He was dead, but he fired again and again. Farr rolled over the dark ground. The other Iszic fired at him, ignoring the police guns, flaming blue figures, dead, acting under command-patterns that outlasted their lives. Bolts struck Farr’s legs. He groaned, and lay still.

The three Iszic collapsed.

“Now,” said Penche, with satisfaction, “I will take care of Farr.”

“Easy, Penche,” said Kirdy.

Farr said, “Keep away from me.”

Penche halted. “I’ll give you ten million for what you’ve got growing in your hair.”

“No,” said Farr wildly. “I’ll grow it myself. I’ll give seeds away free…”

“It’s a gamble,” said Penche. “If it’s male, it’s worth nothing.”

“If it’s female,” said Farr, “it’s worth—” he paused as a police doctor bent over his leg.

“—a great deal,” said Penche dryly. “But you’ll have opposition.”

“From who?” gasped Farr.

Orderlies brought a stretcher.

“From the Iszic. I offer you ten million. I take the chance.”

The fatigue, the pain, the mental exhaustion overcame Farr. “Okay… I’m sick of the whole mess.”

“That constitutes a contract,” cried Penche in triumph. “These officers are witnesses.”

They lifted Farr onto the stretcher. The doctor looked down at him and noticed a sprig of vegetation in Farr’s hair. Reaching down, he plucked it out.

“Ouch!” said Farr.

Penche cried out. “What did he do?”

Farr said weakly, “You’d better take care of your property, Penche.”

“Where is it?” yelled Penche in anguish, collaring the doctor.

“What?” asked the doctor.

“Bring lights!” cried Penche.

Farr saw Penche and his men seeking among the debris for the pale shoot which had grown in his head, then he drifted off into unconsciousness.

Penche came to see Farr in the hospital. “Here,” he said shortly. “Your money.” He tossed a coupon to the table. Farr looked at it. “Ten million dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money,” said Farr.

“Yes,” said Penche.

“You must have found the sprout.”

Penche nodded. “It was still alive. It’s growing now… It’s male.” He picked up the coupon, looked at it, then put it back down. “A poor bet.”

“You had good odds,” Farr told him.

“I don’t care for the money,” said Penche. He looked off through the window, across Los Angeles, and Farr wondered what he was thinking.

“Easy come, easy go,” said Penche. He half-turned, as if to leave.

“Now what?” asked Farr. “You don’t have a female house; you don’t deal in houses.”

K. Penche said, “There’s female houses on Iszm. Lots of them. I’m going after a few.”

“Another raid?”

“Call it anything you like.”

“What do you call it?”

“An expedition.”

“I’m glad I won’t be involved.”

“A man never knows,” Penche remarked. “You might change your mind.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Farr.