The Houses of Iszm

IV

Aile Farr, screaming hoarsely, fell through the dark. He kicked and clawed at the air. His head scraped against the side of the shaft. Then his shoulder struck, then his hip, then he was in full contact. The fall became a slide as the tube curved. His feet struck a membrane that seemed to collapse, then another and another. Seconds later he struck a resilient wall. The impact stunned him. He lay quiet, collecting his wits.

He moved and felt his head. The scrape on his scalp smarted. He heard a peculiar noise, a hissing bumping rush of an object sliding down the tube. Farr scrambled to the side. Something hard and heavy struck him in the ribs; something struck the wall with a thump and a groan. There was silence except for the sound of shallow breathing.

Farr said cautiously, “Who’s there?”

No answer.

Farr repeated the question in all his languages and dialects. Still no answer. He hunched himself up uneasily. He had no light, no means of making fire.

The breathing became stertorous, labored. Farr groped through the dark and felt a crumpled body. He rose to his knees and laid the unseen figure flat, straightening the arms and legs. The breathing became more regular.

Farr sat back, waiting. Five minutes passed. The walls of the room gave a sudden pulse and Farr heard a deep sound like a distant explosion. A minute or two later the sound and the pulse occurred again. The underground battle was raging, thought Farr. Wasp against mole, an underground battle to the death.

A wave of pressure and sound rocked him; the walls heaved. He heard an explosion that had a feeling of finality. The man in the dark gasped and coughed.

“Who’s there?” Farr called.

A bright eye of light winked into his face. Farr winced and moved his head. The light followed.

“Turn that damn thing away!” growled Farr.

The light moved up and down his body, lingering on the striped visitor’s shirt In the reflected glow Farr saw the brown man, dirty, bruised, haggard. The light issued from a clasp on the shoulder of his tunic.

The brown man spoke in a slow hoarse voice. The language was unknown to Farr and he shook his head in incomprehension. The brown man regarded him a moment or two longer in careful, if dubious, appraisal. Then he lurched painfully to his feet and ignoring Farr minutely examined the walls, floor and ceiling of the cell. Above, and inaccessible was the opening by which they had entered, to the side was a tightly knotted sphincter. Farr felt sullen and resentful, and the cut on his head smarted. The brown man’s activity irritated him. Obviously there would be no easy escape. The Szecr were nothing if not painstaking in matters of this sort.

Farr watched the brown man and presently decided him to be a Thord, the most manlike of the Three Arcturian races. There were various disturbing rumors regarding the Thord, and Farr was not too easy at having one of the race for a cell-mate—especially in the dark.

The Thord completed his study of the walls, and returned his attention to Farr. His eyes glowed softly, deep, cool and yellow, like cabochons of topaz. He spoke once again in his halting husky voice. “This is not a true prison.”

Farr was startled. Under the circumstances the remark seemed more than peculiar. “Why do you say that?”

The Thord studied him a full ten seconds before making a reply. “There was great excitement. The Iszt dropped us here for safekeeping. Soon they will take us elsewhere. There are no spy-holes here, nor sound receptors. This is a storage chamber.”

Farr looked dubiously at the walls. The Thord uttered a low moaning sound which caused Farr new startlement, until he understood that the Thord was merely expressing some unearthly variety of amusement. “You wonder how I can be sure of this,” said the Thord. “It is my ability to feel the weight of attention.”

Farr nodded politely. The Thord’s unwavering scrutiny was becoming oppressive. Farr turned half-away. The Thord began to mutter to himself: a crooning, monotonous sound. A lament? A threnody? The light dimmed but the Thord’s lugubrious murmur continued. Farr eventually became drowsy and fell asleep. It was a troubled restless sleep. His head seemed to smart and burn. He heard confidential voices and hoarse cries; he was home on Earth, and on his way to see—someone. A friend. Who? In his sleep Farr twisted and muttered. He knew he was asleep; he wanted to wake up.

The hollow voices, the footsteps, the restless images dwindled, and he slept soundly.

Light streamed in through an oval gap, silhouetting the frames of two Iszic. Farr awoke. He was vaguely surprised to find the Thord gone. In fact, the entire room seemed different. He was no longer in the root of the gnarled black tree.

He struggled up in a sitting position. His eyes were dim and watery; he found it hard to think. There was no anchor for his thoughts. It was as if all the faculties of his mind were separate pieces falling free through the air.

“Aile Farr Sainh,” said one of the Iszic, “may we trouble you to accompany us?” They wore bands of yellow and green: Szecr.

Farr struggled to his feet and stumbled through the oval door. With one of the Szecr ahead and one behind he walked along a twisting corridor. The foremost Szecr slid back a panel and Farr found himself in the arcade he had traversed before.

They took him out into the open, under the night sky. The stars glittered; Farr noticed Home Sun a few degrees below a star he knew to be Beta Aurigae. It aroused no pang, no homesickness. He felt emotion toward nothing. He saw without attention. He felt light, easy, relaxed.

Skirting the tangle of the fallen house, they approached the lagoon. Ahead a great trunk grew from a carpet of soft moss.

“The house of Zhde Patasz Sainh,” said the Szecr. “You are his guest. He holds to his word.”

The door slid aside and Farr stepped into the trunk on flexible legs. The door slid quietly shut. Farr stood alone in a tall circular foyer. He clutched at the wall to steady himself, faintly annoyed with the looseness of his perceptions. He made an effort; his faculties drifted closer together, coalesced one by one.

A young Iszic woman came forward. She wore black and white bands and a black turban. The skin between the bands flushed faintly rose-violet. A black line around her head accented the horizontal division of her eyes. Farr became suddenly aware of his disheveled, dirty, unshaven condition.

“Farr Sainh,” said the woman, “indulge me with your company.”

She led him to an elevator duct. The disk lifted them a hundred feet and Farr’s head swam with the movement. He felt the cool hand of the woman.

“Through here, Farr Sainh.”

Farr stepped forward, halted, and leaned against the wall until his vision cleared.

The woman waited patiently.

The blur lifted. He stood in the core of a branch, the woman supporting him with an arm around his waist. He looked into the pale, segmented eyes. She regarded him with indifference.

“Your people drugged me,” muttered Farr.

“This way, Farr Sainh.”

She started down the corridor with the sinuous gait that seemed to float her upper body. Farr followed slowly. His legs were stronger; he felt a little better.

The woman stopped by the terminal sphincter, turned, and made a wide ceremonial sweep of her two arms. “Here is your chamber. You will want for nothing. To Zhde Patasz, all of dendronology is an open book. His groves fulfill every want. Enter and rejoice in the exquisite house of Zhde Patasz.”

Farr entered the chamber, one of four connecting compartments in the most elaborate pod he had yet seen. This was an eating chamber. From the floor a great rib grew up and splayed to either side to form a table, which supported a dozen trays of food.

The next chamber, swatched in fibrous blue hangings, appeared to be a rest chamber, and beyond was a chamber ankle deep in pale green nectar. Behind Farr suddenly appeared a small obsequiously sighing Iszic, in the pink and white bands of a house servitor. Deftly he removed Farr’s soiled garments. Farr stepped into the bath and the servant tapped at the wall. From small orifices issued a spray of fresh-smelling liquid which tingled coolly upon Farr’s skin. The servant scooped up a ladle of the pale green nectar, poured it over Farr’s head, and he was instantly covered with a prickling effervescent foam, which presently dissolved, leaving Farr’s skin fresh and soft.

The servant approached with a husk full of a pale paste. This he carefully rubbed upon Farr’s face with a wisp of bast, and Farr’s beard melted away.

Directly overhead a bubble of liquid had been forming in a sac of frail membrane. It grew larger, swaying and trembling. Now the servant reached up with a sharp thorn. The sac burst and a soft aromatic liquid smelling of cloves drenched Farr, then quickly evaporated. Farr stepped into the fourth chamber where the servant draped fresh garments upon him, and then fixed a black rosette to the side of his leg. Farr knew something of Iszic folkways and was vaguely surprised. As the personal insignia of Zhde Patasz, the rosette conveyed a host of significances. Farr had been acknowledged the honored house-guest of Zhde Patasz, who thereupon undertook his protection against any and all of Farr’s enemies. Farr was given liberty of the house, with a dozen prerogatives otherwise reserved to the house owner. Farr could manipulate any of the house’s nerves, reflexes, triggers and conduits. He could make himself free of Zhde Patasz’s rarest treasures, and in general was made an alter ego of Zhde Patasz himself. The honor was unusual, and for an Earthman perhaps unique. Farr wondered what he had done to deserve such a distinction. Perhaps it came by way of apology for the rude treatment Farr had experienced during the Thord raid. Yes, Yarr thought, this must be the explanation. He hoped that Zhde Patasz would overlook his ignorance of the highly complex rituals of Iszic courtesy.

The woman who had conducted Farr to the chamber reappeared. She performed an elaborate genuflection. Farr was insufficiently familiar with the subtleties of Iszic mannerisms to decide whether or not there might be irony in the gesture, and he reserved judgment. His sudden change in status seemed highly remarkable. A hoax? Unlikely. The Iszic sense of humor was non-existent.

“Aile Farr Sainh,” declared the woman, “now that you have refreshed yourself, do you wish to associate with your host, Zhde Patasz?”

Farr smiled faintly. “At any time.”

“Then allow me to lead the way. I will take you to the private pods of Zhde Patasz Sainh, where he waits with great restlessness.”

Farr followed her along the conduit, up an incline where the branch drooped, by elevator up the central trunk, and off along another passage. At a sphincter she paused, bowed, and swept wide her arms. “Zhde Patasz Sainh awaits you.”

The sphincter expanded and Farr stepped dubiously into the chamber. Zhde Patasz was not immediately to be seen. Farr moved forward slowly, looking from right to left. The pod was thirty feet long, opening on a balcony with a waist-high balustrade. The walls and domed ceiling were tufted with trefoils of a silky green fiber; the floor was heavy with plum-colored moss; quaint lamps grew out of the wall. There were four magenta pod-chairs against one wall. In the middle of the floor stood a tall cylindrical vase containing water, plants and black dancing eels. There were pictures on the walls by ancient Earth masters, colorful curios from a strange world.

Zhde Patasz came in from the balcony. “Farr Sainh, I hope you feel well?”

“Well enough,” said Farr cautiously.

“Will you sit?”

“As you command.” Farr lowered himself upon one of the frail magenta bladders. The smooth skin stretched and fitted itself to his body.

His host languidly seated himself nearby. There was a moment of silence while each surveyed the other. Zhde Patasz wore the blue stripes of his caste and, today, the pale narrow cheeks were decorated with glossy red disks. These were not haphazard decorations, Farr realized. Every outward attribute of the Iszic was meaningful to some degree. Zhde Patasz today was without the usual loose beret. The knob and ridges along the top of his scalp formed almost a crest, an indication of aristocratic lineage across thousands of years.

“You are enjoying your visit to Iszm?” inquired Zhde Patasz at last.

Farr considered a moment, then spoke formally. “I see much to interest me. I have also suffered molestation, which I hope will cause me no permanent harm.” He gingerly felt his scalp. “Only the fact of your hospitality compensates for the ill treatment I have received.”

“This is sorry news,” said Zhde Patasz. “Who has wronged you? Provide me their names and I will have them drowned.”

Farr admitted that he could not precisely identify the Szecr who had thrust him into the dungeon. “In any event they were excited by the raid, and I bear them no malice on this account. But afterward I seem to have been drugged, which I consider very poor treatment.”

“Your remarks are well taken,” Zhde Patasz replied in the most bland of voices. “The Szecr would normally administer a hypnotic gas to the Thord. It seems that through a stupid error you had been conveyed to the same cell, and so shared this indignity. Undoubtedly the parties responsible are at this moment beside themselves with remorse.”

Farr tried to speak with indignation. “My legal rights have been totally ignored. The Treaty of Access has been violated.”

“I hope you will forgive us,” said Zhde Patasz. “Of course you realize that we must protect our fields.”

“I had nothing to do with the raid.”

“Yes. We understand that.”

Farr smiled bitterly. “While I was under hypnosis you siphoned out everything I know.”

Zhde Patasz performed the curious contraction of the filament dividing the segments of his eyes which Farr had come to recognize as a manifestation of Iszic amusement. “By chance I was informed of your misadventure.”

“ ‘Misadventure’? An outrage!”

Zhde Patasz made a soothing gesture. “The Szecr would naturally plan to subdue the Thord by use of a hypnotic atmosphere. The race has powerful capabilities, both physical and psychic, as well as notorious moral deficiencies, which presumably is why they were recruited to conduct the raid.”

Farr was puzzled. “You think the Thord weren’t acting on their own?”

“I think not. The organization was too precise, the planning too exact. The Thord are an impatient race and while it is not impossible that they mounted the expedition, we are inclined to think otherwise, and are extremely anxious to identify the instigator of the raid.”

“So you examined me under hypnosis, violating the Treaty of Access.”

“I assume the questioning covered only matters pertaining to the raid.” Zhde Patasz was trying to conciliate Farr. “The Szecr were perhaps over-assiduous, but you appeared to be a conspirator. You must recognize that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“No?” Zhde Patasz seemed surprised. “You arrive at Tjiere on the day of the assault. You attempt to evade your escort at the dock. During an interview you make pointless attempts to control your reactions. Forgive me if I show you your errors.”

“Not at all, go right ahead.”

“In the arcade you once more evade your escort; you race out on the field, an apparent effort to take part in the raid.”

“This is all nonsense,” said Farr.

“We are satisfied of this,” said Zhde Patasz. “The raid has ended in disaster for the Thord. We destroyed the mole at a depth of eleven hundred feet. There were no survivors except the person with whom you shared a cell.”

“What will happen to him?”

Zhde Patasz hesitated. Farr thought he detected uncertainty in Zhde Patasz’s voice. “Under normal conditions he would have been perhaps the least lucky of all.” He paused, forming his thoughts into words. “We have faith in the deterrent effect of punishment. He would have been confined to the Mad House.”

“What happened to him?”

“He killed himself in the cell.”

Farr felt suddenly bewildered, as if this were an unexpected development. Somehow the brown man was obligated to him; something was lost…

Zhde Patasz said in a voice full of solicitude, “You appear shocked, Farr Sainh.”

“I don’t know why I should be.”

“Are you tired, or weak?”

“I’m collecting myself a little at a time.”

The Iszic woman came with a tray of food—spice-nuts, a hot aromatic liquid, and dried fish.

Farr ate with pleasure; he was hungry. Zhde Patasz watched him curiously. “It is strange. We are of different worlds, we evolved from different stock, yet we share a number of similar ambitions, similar fears and desires. We protect our possessions, the objects which bring us security.”

Farr felt the raw spot on his scalp. It still smarted and pulsed. He nodded thoughtfully.

Zhde Patasz strolled to the glass cylinder and looked down at the dancing eels. “Sometimes we are over-anxious, of course, and our fears cause us to over-reach ourselves.” He turned. They surveyed each other a long moment: Farr half-submerged in the chair-pod, the Iszic tall and strong, the double eyes large in his thin aquiline head.

“In any event,” said Zhde Patasz, “I hope you will forget our mistake. The Thord and their mentor or mentors are responsible. But for them the situation would not have arisen. And please don’t overlook our intense concern. The raid was of enormous scope and a near-success. Who conceived, who planned so complex an operation? We must learn this. The Thord worked with great precision. They seized both seeds and seedlings from specific plots evidently charted beforehand by a spy in the guise of a tourist like yourself.” And Zhde Patasz inspected Farr somberly.

Farr laughed shortly. “A tourist unlike myself. I don’t care to be associated with the affair even indirectly.”

Zhde Patasz bowed politely. “A creditable attitude. But I am sure you are generous enough to understand our agitation. We must protect our investment; we are businessmen.”

“Not very good businessmen,” said Farr.

“An interesting opinion. Why not?”

“You have a good product,” said Farr, “but you market it uneconomically. Limited sale, high mark-up.”

Zhde Patasz brought out his viewer and waved it indulgently. “There are many theories.”

“I’ve studied several analyses of the house trade,” said Farr. “They disagree only in detail.”

“What is the consensus?”

“That your methods are inefficient. On each planet a single dealer has the monopoly. It’s a system which pleases only the dealer. K. Penche is a hundred times a millionaire and he’s the most hated man on Earth.”

Zhde Patasz swung his viewer thoughtfully. “K. Penche will be an unhappy man as well as a hated one.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Farr. “Why?”

“The raid destroyed a large number of his quota.”

“He won’t get any houses?”

“Not of the kind he ordered.”

“Well,” said Farr, “it makes little difference. He sells everything you send him anyway.”

Zhde Patasz showed a trace of impatience. “He is an Earther—a mercantilist. We are Iszic and house-breeding is in our blood, a basic instinct. The line of planters began two hundred thousand years ago when Diun, the primordial anthrophib, crawled out of the ocean. With salt-water still draining from his gills he took refuge in a pod. He is my ancestor. We have gained mastery over houses; we shall not dissipate this accumulated lore, or permit ourselves to be plundered.”

“The knowledge eventually will be duplicated,” said Farr, “whether you like it or not. There are too many homeless people in the universe.”

“No.” Zhde Patasz snapped his viewer. “The craft cannot be induced rationally—an element of magic still exists.”

“Magic?”

“Not literally. The trappings of magic. For instance, we sing incantations to sprouting seeds. The seeds sprout and prosper. Without incantations they fail. Why? Who knows? No one on Iszm. In every phase of growing, training and breaking the house for habitation, this special lore makes the difference between a house and a withered useless vine.”

“On Earth,” said Farr, “we would begin with the elemental tree. We would sprout a million seeds, we would explore a million primary avenues.”

“After a thousand years,” said the Iszic, “you might control the number of pods on a tree.” He walked to the wall and stroked the green fiber. “This floss—we inject a liquid into an organ of the rudimentary pod. The liquid comprises substances such as powdered ammonite nerve, ash of the frunz bush, sodium isochromyl acetate, powder from the Phanodano meteorite. The liquid undergoes six critical operations, and must be injected through the proboscis of a sea-lympid. Tell me,” he glanced at Farr through his viewer, “how long before your Earth researchers could grow green floss into a pod?”

“Perhaps we’d never try. We might be satisfied with five or six-pod houses the owners could furnish as they liked.”

Zhde Patasz’s eyes snapped. “But this is crudity! You understand, do you not? A dwelling must be all of a unit—the walls, the drainage, the decor grown in! What use is our vast lore, our two hundred thousand years of effort, otherwise? Any ignoramus can paste up green floss, only an Iszic can grow it!”

“Yes,” said Farr. “I believe you.”

Zhde Patasz continued, passionately waving his viewer. “And if you stole a female house, and if you managed to breed a five-pod house, that is only the beginning. It must be entered, mastered, trained. The webbings must be cut; the nerves of ejaculation must be located and paralyzed. The sphincters must open and close at a touch.

“The art of house-breaking is almost as important as house-breeding. Without correct breaking a house is an unmanageable nuisance—a menace.”

“K. Penche breaks none of the houses you send to Earth.”

“Pahl Penche’s houses are docile, spiritless. They are without interest. They lack beauty, grace.” He paused. “I cannot speak. Your language has no words to tell what an Iszic feels for his house. He grows it, grows into it. His ashes are given it when he dies. He drinks its ichor; it breathes his breath. It protects him; it takes on the color of his thoughts. A spirited house will repel a stranger. An injured house will kill. And a Mad House—that is where we take our criminals.”

Farr listened in fascination. “That’s all very well—for an Iszic. An Earther isn’t so particular—at least, a low income Earther. Or as you would put it, a low-caste Earther. He just wants a house to live in.”

“You may obtain houses,” said Zhde Patasz. “We are glad to provide them. But you must use the accredited distributors.”

“K. Penche?”

“Yes. He is our representative.”

“I think I will go to bed,” said Farr. “I am tired and my head hurts.”

“A pity. But rest well, and tomorrow, should you choose, we will inspect my plantation. In the meantime, my house is yours.”

The young woman in the black turban conducted Farr to his chambers. She ceremoniously bathed his face, his hands, his feet, and sprayed the air with an aromatic scent.

Farr fell into a fitful slumber. He dreamt of the Thord. He saw the blunt brown face, heard the heavy voice. The abrasion on his scalp stung like fire, and Farr twisted and turned.

The brown man’s face disappeared like an extinguished light. Farr slept in peace.