The Houses of Iszm

V

The following day Farr awoke to the sighing whispering sounds of Iszic music. Fresh clothing hung close at hand, which he donned and then went out on the balcony. The scene was one of magnificent eerie beauty. The sun, Xi Aurigae, had not yet risen. The sky was an electric blue and the sea a plum-colored mirror, darkening to a tarnished black at the horizon. To right and left stood the vast and intricate houses of the Tjiere aristocrats, the foliage in silhouette against the sky, and the pods showing traces of muted colors: dark blue, maroon, deep green, like old velvet. Along the canal dozens of gondolas drifted. Beyond spread the Tjiere bazaar where goods and implements from the industrial systems of South Continent and a few off-world items were distributed by some apparently casual means of exchange not completely clear to Farr.

From within the apartment came the sound of a plucked string. Farr turned to find two attendants carrying in a tall compartmented buffet laden with food. Farr ate wafers, fruits, marine tubers and pastes while Xi Aurigae bulged gradually over the horizon.

When he finished, the attendants reappeared with a promptness that caused Farr a twinge of wry amusement. They removed the buffet, and the Iszic woman who had greeted Farr the previous evening now entered. Today her normal costume of black ribbons was augmented by a complicated headdress of the same black ribbons which concealed the knobs and ridges of her scalp and gave her an unexpectedly attractive semblance. After performing an elaborate ceremonial salute she announced that Zhde Patasz awaited Farr Sainh’s pleasure.

Farr accompanied her to the lobby at the base of the great trunk. Here Zhde Patasz waited in the company of an Iszic whom he introduced as Omon Bozhd, a general agent for the house-growers’ cooperative. Omon Bozhd was taller than Zhde Patasz, his face was rather broader and less keen, and his manner was almost imperceptibly brisker and more direct. He wore bands of blue and black, with black cheek disks, a costume Farr vaguely understood to indicate one of the upper castes. Zhde Patasz’s manner toward Omon Bozhd seemed a peculiar mixture of condescension and respect, insofar as Farr could define it. Farr ascribed Zhde Patasz’s attitude to the discord between Omon Bozhd’s caste and his pallid white skin which was that of a man from one of the southern archipelagoes, or even South Continent, and which lacked the pale blue tinge distinguishing the aristocratic planters of the Pheadh. Farr, sufficiently perplexed by the extraordinary attention he was receiving, gave him no great attention.

Zhde Patasz conducted his guests to a charabanc with padded benches, supported by a hundred near-silent whorls of air. There was no attempt at embellishment or decoration, but the pale shell of the structure, grown in one piece along with the curved and buttressed railings, the arched seats and the dangling fringe of dark brown fiber, were sufficiently striking in themselves. A servant in red and brown bands straddled a prong protruding forward and worked the controls. On a low bench to the rear sat two other servants who carried the various instruments, emblems and accoutrements of Zhde Patasz, serving purposes which Farr for the most part could not guess.

At the last minute a fourth Iszic joined the group, a man in blue and gray bands whom Zhde Patasz introduced as Uder Che, his “chief architect.”

“The actual Iszic word,” said Zhde Patasz, “of course is different, and includes an array of other meanings or resonants: biochemist, instructor, poet, precursor, one who lovingly nurtures, much else. The end effect, nonetheless, is the same, and describes one who creates new sorts of houses.”

Behind, as a matter of course, came a trio of the ubiquitous Szecr riding another smaller platform. Farr thought he recognized one of the group as his escort at the time of the Thord raid, the author of the various indignities to which he had been subjected. But he could not be certain. To his alien eye all Iszic looked alike. He toyed with the idea of denouncing the man to Zhde Patasz, who had sworn to have him drowned. Farr restrained the urge; Zhde Patasz might feel impelled to make good his word.

The platform glided off under the massive tree-dwellings at the center of town, out along a road which led beside a series of small fields. Here grew the gray-green shoots Farr recognized as infant houses. “Class AAA and AABR houses for the work-supervisors of South Continent,” explained Zhde Patasz with a rather patronizing air. “Yonder are four- and five-pod trees for the artisans. Each district has its unique requirements, the description of which I will not burden you. Our off-world exports of course are not of such critical concern, since we only sell a few standard and easily grown structures.”

Farr frowned. It seemed that Zhde Patasz’s patronizing manner had become more pronounced. “You could increase your off-world sales tremendously if you chose to diversify.”

Zhde Patasz and Omon Bozhd both exhibited signs of amusement. “We sell as many trees off-world as we choose. Why strive further? Who appreciates the unique and exceptional qualities of our houses? You yourself tell us that the Earther regards his house as hardly more than a cubicle to ward off the weather.”

“You misunderstood me—or perhaps I expressed myself poorly. But even if this were wholly true—which it isn’t—the need still exists for a whole variety of houses, on Earth, as well as on the other planets to which you sell houses.”

Omon Bozhd spoke. “You really are irrational, Farr Sainh, if I may invest the word with its least offensive aura of meaning. Let me expatiate. On Earth you claim that a need exists for housing. On Earth there is also a surplus of wealth—a surplus so great that vast projects are generated by the impounded energy. This wealth could solve the problem of deficient housing in the twinkling of an eye—if those who controlled the wealth so desired. Since you understand this course of events to be unlikely, you turn your eye speculatively upon us relatively poor Iszics, hoping that we will prove less obdurate than the men of your own planet. When you find that we are absorbed in our own interests, you become resentful—and herein lies the irrationality of your position.”

Farr laughed. “This is a distorted reflection of reality. We are wealthy, true enough. Why? Because we constantly try to maximize production and minimize effort. The Iszic houses represent this minimizing of effort.”

“Interesting,” murmured Zhde Patasz. Omon Bozhd nodded sagely. The glide-car turned and rose to drift above a tangle of spiky gray bushes overgrown with black spheres. Beyond, across a fringe of beach, lay the calm blue world-ocean, the Pheadh. The glide-car nosed out over the low surf and slid out toward an off-shore islet.

Zhde Patasz spoke in a solemn, almost sepulchral, voice. “You are now to be shown what very few are permitted to see: an experimental station where we conceive and develop new houses.”

Farr tried to make a suitable reply, expressing interest and appreciation, but Zhde Patasz had withdrawn his attention and Farr became silent.

The platform heaved across the water, the whorls of air creating a seethe of white spume astern. Light from Xi Aurigae glittered on the blue water and Farr thought what an Earthly scene this might have been—but for the oddly-shaped glide-car, the tall milky-white men in stripes beside him, and the peculiar aspect of the trees on the island ahead. Those visible were of a type he had not seen previously: heavy, low, with densely matted black branches. The foliage, fleshy strips of brown tissue, seemed in constant motion.

The glide-car slowed, coasted toward the beach, and halted twenty feet offshore. Uder Che, the architect, jumped into the knee-deep water and cautiously walked ashore, carrying a black box. The trees reacted to his presence, at first leaning toward him, then recoiling and unlacing their branches. After a moment there was a gap wide enough for the glide-car, which now proceeded across the beach and through the gap. Uder Che followed and boarded the car; the trees once more joined branches to create an impenetrable tangle.

Zhde Patasz explained that, “The trees will kill anyone who attempts to pass without manifesting the proper safe-signal, which is radiated from the box. In the past, planters often mounted expeditions against each other—no longer the case, of course—and the sentry trees are perhaps not strictly necessary. But we are a conservative lot and maintain our old customs.”

Farr looked around him, making no attempt to conceal his interest. Zhde Patasz watched him with patient amusement. “When I came to Iszm,” said Farr at last, “I hoped for an opportunity like this, but never expected it. I admit that I’m puzzled. Why do you show me these things?” He searched the pale ridged face, but inevitably could read nothing from the Iszic’s expression.

Zhde Patasz reflected a moment before he answered. “Conceivably you demand reasons where none exist, beyond the normal solicitude of a host for an honored guest.”

“This is a possibility,” admitted Farr. He smiled politely. “But perhaps other motivations also exist?”

“Conceivably. The raid of the Thords still troubles us and we are anxious for more information. But let us not concern ourselves with such matters today. As a botanist, I believe you will be interested in the contrivances of myself and Uder Che.”

“Oh indeed.” And for the next two hours Farr examined houses with buttressed pods for the high-gravity worlds of Cleo 8 and Martinon’s Fort and loose complex houses with pods like balloons for Fei, where gravity was only half that of Iszm. There were trees comprised of a central columnar trunk and four vast leaves, arching out and over to the ground to form four domed halls illuminated by the pale green transmitted light. There was a tough-trunked tree supporting a single turretlike pod, with lanceolate foliage spiking outward at the base: a watch-tower for the feuding tribesmen of Eta Scorpionis. In a walled enclosure were trees with varying degrees of motility and awareness. “A new and adventurous area of research,” Zhde Patasz told Farr. “We play with the idea of growing trees to perform special tasks, such as sentry duty, garden supervision, mineral exploration, simple machine tending. As I say, we are merely amusing ourselves at the moment. I understand that on Duroc Atoll, the master planter in residence has created a tree which first produces colored fibers, and from these weaves rugs of characteristic pattern. We ourselves have performed our share of bizarre feats. For instance, in yonder cupola, we have achieved a conjunction which might be thought impossible, if one did not understand the basis of the adaptation.”

Farr made a polite sound of wonder and admiration. He noted that both Omon Bozhd and Uder Che were giving particularly respectful attention to the planter’s words, as if they signified something portentous. And suddenly Farr realized that whatever the motive for Zhde Patasz’s elaborate hospitality, it was now about to be made clear to him.

Zhde Patasz continued in the harsh, crisp accent of the aristocratic Iszic. “The mechanism, if I may call it that, of this conjoining is in theory not difficult. The animal corpus depends upon food and oxygen, plus a few subsidiary compounds. The vegetable system, of course, produces these substances, and recycles the waste products of the animal. It is tempting to try for a closed system, requiring only energy from an external source. Our achievements, while I think you will find them dramatic, still fall far short of elegance. There is no little real mingling of tissue: all interchange is done across semi-permeable membranes which isolate plant fluids and animal fluids. Nevertheless a start has been made.” As Zhde Patasz spoke he moved toward a pale yellow-green hemisphere above which tall yellow fronds swung and fluttered. Zhde Patasz gestured toward an arched opening. Onion Bozhd and Uder Che stayed discreetly to the rear. Farr looked at them, dubiously.

Zhde Patasz bowed once more. “As a botanist I am sure you will be fascinated by our achievement.”

Farr studied the opening, trying to assess its implications. Within was something which the Iszics intended him to see, some stimulus which they intended him to experience… Danger? They had no need to trick him; he was in any case at their mercy. Zhde Patasz moreover was bound by the universal laws of hospitality, as firmly as any Bedouin sheik. Danger there would be none. Farr stepped forward and passed into the interior of the dome. At the center was a slightly raised bed of rich soil, on which rested a large bubble, a sac of yellow gum. The surface of this sac was veined with glistening white strings and tubes of membrane which at the apex merged to form a pale gray trunk, which in turn supported a symmetrical crown of branches and wide heart-shaped black-green leaves. So much Fan glimpsed in am instant, though from the moment of his entry his attention was fixed on that which was contained in the capsule of gum: a naked Thord body.

The feet rested in a dark yellow sediment at the bottom of the sac, the head was close up under the trunk, the arms were raised shoulder high and terminated, not in hands, but in tangled balls of gray fiber, which then became ropes rising into the trunk. The top of the scalp was removed, revealing the mass of orange spherules which comprised the Thord brain. About the exposed brain hung a nimbus which Farr, moving closer, saw to be a mesh of near-invisible threads, likewise knotting into a rope and disappearing into the trunk. The eyes were covered by the shutter of a dark brown membrane which served the Thord for eyelids.

Farr took a deep breath, fighting to control intense revulsion mingled with pity and a peculiar urgency he could not define… He became aware of the attention of the Iszics and turned sharply. The double-segmented eyes of all three were riveted upon him.

Farr suppressed his emotions as best he could. Whatever the Iszics expected, he would make certain to disappoint them. “This must be the Thord with whom I was locked up.”

Zhde Patasz came slowly forward, his lips twisting in and out. “You recognize him?”

Farr shook his head. “I hardly saw him. He is an alien, and looks to me much like any other of his race.” He peered more closely into the sac of amber gum. “Is he alive?”

“To a certain degree.”

“Why do you bring me here?”

Zhde Patasz was almost certainly disturbed, perhaps even angry. Farr wondered what sort of complex plan had gone awry. He stared into the sac. The Thord—had it moved? Omon Bozhd, standing at his left, apparently had noticed the same almost imperceptible twitch of muscle. “The Thord have great psychic resources,” said Onion Bozhd, moving forward.

Farr turned to Zhde Patasz. “It was my understanding that he had died.”

“So he has,” said Zhde Patasz, “for all practical purposes. He is no longer Chayen, Fourteenth of Tente, Baron of Binicristi Castle. His personality is departed, he is now an organ, or a nodule, attached to a tree.”

Farr looked back to the Thord. The eyes had opened, and the face had taken on an odd expression. Farr wondered if the Thord could hear words, could understand. In Omon Bozhd beside him, there was a tension, a straining of perplexity. A quick glance showed the same rigidity now in Zhde Patasz and Uder Che. All stared in wonder at the Thord. Uder Che uttered a sudden staccato burst of Iszic, pointed to the foliage. Farr looked up to find that the leaves were shivering. There were no draughts, no currents of air within the dome. Farr looked back to the Thord, to find the eyes fixed on his own. The face strained, the muscles around the mouth had corded. Farr could not tear his gaze away. Now the mouth drooped, the lips quivered. Overhead the heavy branches creaked and groaned.

“Impossible!” croaked Onion Bozhd. “This is not a correct reaction!”

The branches swayed and lurched. There was a terrifying crack and down swept a whistling mass of foliage, to fall upon Zhde Patasz and Uder Che. There was another groaning of tortured wood; the trunk split, the entire tree wavered and toppled. The sac burst, and the Thord sprawled out upon the floor, half-supported by the fiber bundles into which his arms terminated. His head lolled back and his mouth split into a ghastly grin. “I am no tree,” he croaked in a throaty, gurgling voice. “I am Chayen of Tente.” Trickles of yellow lymph oozed from his mouth. He coughed convulsively and fixed his gaze upon Farr. “Get hence, get hence. Leave these cursed tree-dwellers. Go, do what you must.”

Omon Bozhd had leaped to assist Zhde Patasz from under the toppled tree; Farr looked toward them uncertainly. The Thord sank back. “Now I die,” he said in a guttural whisper. “I die not as a tree of Iszm, but as a Thord, as Chayen of Tente.”

Farr turned away, and gave assistance to Omon Bozhd and Zhde Patasz, who were trying to extricate Uder Che from under the foliage. But to no avail. A broken branch had driven through the architect’s neck. Zhde Patasz gave a cry of despair. “The creature has wounded me in death as he troubled me in life. He has killed the most accomplished of architects.” Zhde Patasz turned away and strode from the dome. Omon Bozhd and Farr followed.

The party returned to Tjiere Town, in gloom and silence. Zhde Patasz conducted himself toward Farr with no more than bare civility. When the glide-car slid into the central avenue, Farr said, “Zhde Patasz Sainh, the events of this afternoon have troubled you deeply, and I think it best that I no longer trespass on your hospitality.”

Zhde Patasz responded curtly. “Farr Sainh must do as he thinks best.”

“I will carry with me forever the memory of my stay on Tjiere Atoll,” said Farr fulsomely. “You have given me an insight into the problems of the Iszic planter, and for this I thank you.”

Zhde Patasz bowed. “Farr Sainh may rest assured that we, on our part, will keep him ever fresh in our minds.”

The glide-car stopped at the plaza beside which grew the three hotels and Farr alighted. After a moment’s hesitation Omon Bozhd did likewise. There was a final exchange of formal thanks and equally formal disclaimers, and then the glide-car moved on.

Omon Bozhd went up to Farr. “And what are your plans now?” he inquired gravely.

“I will rent a room at the hotel,” said Farr.

Omon Bozhd nodded, as if Farr had uttered a truth of great profundity. “And then?”

“My boat is still under charter,” said Farr. He frowned. He had little desire to investigate the plantations of other atolls. “I’ll probably return to Jhespiano. And then…”

“And then?”

Farr shrugged fretfully. “I’m not sure.”

“In any event, I wish you a pleasant voyage.”

“Thank you.”

Farr crossed the plaza, registered at the largest of the hotels, and was shown to a suite of pods similar to those which he had occupied at the house of Zhde Patasz.

When he came down to the restaurant for his evening meal, the Szecr were once more in evidence, and Farr felt stifled. After the meal, a typical Iszic repast of marine and vegetable pastes, Farr walked down the avenue to the waterfront, where he ordered the Lhaiz made ready for immediate sailing. The captain was not aboard; the boatswain protested that dawn of the following day was the earliest possible time of departure, and Farr had to be content. To pass the evening he went to walk along the beach. The surf, the warm wind, the sand were like those of Earth, but the silhouettes of the alien trees and the two Szecr padding behind threw everything into a different context, and Farr felt a pang of homesickness. He had journeyed enough. It was time to return to Earth.