Son of the Tree

VII

JOE WORKED UP a sweat in an obstacle treadmill, jumped out, sat panting on the bench. Manaolo came slowly into the gymnasium, looked up and down the floor, then slowly back to Joe. Joe thought, Here comes trouble.

Manaolo glanced back over his shoulder, then turned, crossed the room in three strides. He stood looking down at Joe. His face was not a man's face but a glimpse into a fantasy of the underworld. He said, «You touched me with your hands.»

«Touched you, hell!» said Joe. «I knocked you A over T.»

Manaolo's mouth, tender enough to be a woman's but also hard and muscular, sunk at the corners. He writhed his shoulders, leaned forward, kicked. Joe bent double in silent agony, clasping his lower adomen. Manaolo stepped lightly back, kicked under Joe's jaw.

Joe slid slowly, laxly to the deck. Manaolo bent swiftly, a little metal device glittering in his hands. Joe raised his arm feebly–Manaolo kicked it aside. He hooked the metal instrument in Joe's nostrils, jerked. Two little hooked knives sliced the cartilage. A cloud of powder seared the flesh.

Manaolo jumped back, the corners of his mouth pushed in deeper. He turned on his heel, swung jauntily out of the room.

The ship's doctor said, «There–it's not too bad. You'll have the two scars for awhile but they shouldn't be too noticeable.»

Joe examined his reflection in the mirror–his bruised chin, the plastered nose. «Well–I've still got a nose.»

«You've still got a nose,» the doctor agreed woodenly. «Lucky I got you in time. I've had some experience with that powder. It's a hormone promoting the growth of skin. If it hadn't been removed, the splits would be permanent and you'd have three flaps on your face.»

«You understand,» said Joe, «this was an accident. I wouldn't want to trouble the captain with any report and I hope you won't.»

The doctor shrugged, turned, put away his equipment. «Strange accident.»

Joe returned to the saloon. The Cils were learning the game with the colored bars, chatting gaily with the Mangs. The Druid missionaries, heads together, were performing some intricate ritual at their portable altar. Hableyat was spread comfortably on a couch, examining his fingernails with every evidence of satisfaction. The door from Elfane's cabin opened, Manaolo stepped out, swung easily along the balcony, down the steps. He gave Joe an expressionless glance, turned up toward the promenade.

Joe settled beside Hableyat, felt his nose tenderly. «It's still there.»

Hableyat nodded composedly. «It will be as good as new in a week or two. These Beland medics are apt, very apt. Now on Kyril, where doctors are nonexistent, the man of the Laity would apply a poultice of some vile material and the wound would never heal.

«You will notice a large number of the Laity with tri-cleft noses. Next to killing it is a favorite Druid punishment.» He surveyed Joe from under half-closed lids. «You seem to be rather less exercised than would be permissible under the circumstances.»

«I'm not pleased.»

«Let me cite you a facet of Druid psychology,» said Hableyat. «In Manaolo's mind the infliction of the wound terminated the matter. It was the final decisive act in the quarrel between you two. On Kyril the Druids act without fear of retaliation in the name of the Tree. It gives them a peculiar sense of infallibility. Now, I mention this merely to point out that Manaolo will be surprised and outraged if you pursue the matter farther.»

Joe shrugged.

Hableyat said in a querulous voice, «You say nothing, you make no threats, you voice no anger.»

Joe smiled a rather thin smile. «I haven't had time for much but amazement. Give me time.»

Hableyat nodded.

«Ah, I see. You were shocked by the attack.» «Very much so.»

Hableyat nodded again, a series of wise little jerks that set his dewlaps quivering. «Let us change the subject then. Now your description of the European pre-Christian Druids interests me.»

«Tell me something,» said Joe. «What is that pot that all the fuss is about? Some kind of message or formula or military secret?»

Hableyafs eyes widened. «Message? Military secret? What are these? No, my dear fellow, to the best of my knowledge the pot is merely an honest pot and the plant an honest plant.»

«Why the excitement then? And why try to stick me with a ringer?»

Hableyat said musingly, «Sometimes in affairs of planetary scope it becomes necessary to sacrifice the convenience of one person for the eventual benefit of many. You were to carry the plant to decoy my pistol-flourishing compatriots from that conveyed by the Druids.»

«I don't get it,» said Joe. «Aren't you both working for the same government?»

«Oh indeed,» said Hableyat. «Our aims are identical– the glorification and prosperity of our beloved planet. No one is more dedicated than myself. But there is a rather odd cleavage in the Mang system, separating the Redbranch Militars from the Bluewater Commercials. They exist like two souls in one body, two husbands married to the same wife.

«Both love Mangtse. Both use their peculiar means for displaying this love. To some extent they cooperate but only as is expedient. They are ultimately responsible only to the Lathbon and, a step lower, to the Ampianu General, in which body both seat members. In many ways the arrangement works well–sometimes two approaches to a problem are valuable.

«In general the Redbranch is direct and forceful. They believe that the best way to end our difficulties with the Druids is to seize the planet in a military operation. We Bluewaters point out that many men would be killed, much material detroyed and, if by some miracle we finally overcame the religion-crazed hordes of the Laity, we would have destroyed whatever usefulness Kyril might have for us.

«You see,» he nodded wisely at Joe, «with a productive peasantry Kyril can produce the raw materials and handcrafts for our Mang industries. We form a natural couple but the current Druid policy is a disturbing factor. An industrialized Ballenkarch ruled by the Druids would upset the balance. Now the Redbranches want to destroy the Druids. We Bluewaters hope to influence a gradual metamorphosis toward an economy on Kyril channeled into production instead of into the Tree.»

«And how do you propose to work that out?» Hableyat wagged a solemn finger. «In the strictest confidence, my dear fellow–by letting the Druids proceed undisturbed with their intrigues.»

Joe frowned, touched his nose absently. «But–this flowerpot–how does it enter the picture?»

«That,» said Hableyat, «is what the poor single-minded Druids conceive to be the most cogent instrument of their plan. I hope it will be one of the instruments of their defeat. So I mean to see that the pot reaches Ballenkarch if I must kill twenty of my fellow Mangs in the process.»

«If you're telling the truth, which I doubt–»

«But my dear fellow, why should I lie to you?»

«–I commence to understand some of this madhouse.»

Junction–a many-sided polyhedron one mile in diameter, swimming in a diffused luminescence. A dozen spaceships suckled up close like leeches and nearby space was thick with firefly flecks of light–men and women in airsuits, drifting through the void, venturing off ten, twenty, thirty miles, feeling the majesty of deep space.

There seemed to be no formalities connected with landing–a matter which surprised Joe, who had become accustomed to elaborate checking and rechecking, indexes, reserve numbers, inspections, quarantine, passes, visas, reviews, signatures and countersignatures. The Belsaurion nosed up to a vacant port, clamped itself to the seal with mesonic glue-fields and so came to rest. The hypnots in the hold lay undisturbed. The Beland captain once again called a meeting of the passengers. «We are now at Junction, and will remain thirty-two hours while we take on mail and freight. Now some of you have been here before. I need not caution you to discretion.

«For those who visit Junction for the first time I will state that it lies in no planet's jurisdiction, that its law is at the whim of the owner and his comptroller, that their main interest is in extracting money from your pockets through pleasures and pastimes of various natures.

«Thus I urge you, beware of the gambling cages. I say to you women–do not enter the Perfume Park alone for that is a signal that you wish a paid escort. The men who patronize Tier Three will find it expensive and perhaps dangerous. There have been cases of murder for robbery reported. A man engrossed with a girl is an easy target for a knife. Again films have been made of persons engaged in questionable acts, and these have been used for blackmail.

«Lastly let no desire for excitement or thrill take you down to the Arena–because you may easily be forced into the ring and set to fighting an expert warrior. Once you pay admission you put yourself at the choice of whoever is victor at the moment. It is astonishing how many casual visitors, whether under the influence of drugs, alcohol, lust for excitement or sheer bravado, dare the Arena. A good number of them are killed or seriously injured. «Enough for the warnings. I do not wish to alarm you. There are a number of legitimate pleasures you may indulge in. The Nineteen Gardens are the talk of the Universe. In the Celestium you may dine on food of your planet, hear your native music. The shops along the Esplanade sell anything you may desire at very reasonable prices.

«So with this warning I put you on your own. Thirty-two hours from now we leave for Ballenkarch.»

He withdrew. There was a general shuffling of feet. Joe noticed that Manaolo followed Elfane to her cabin. The two Druid missionaries returned to their portable altar, apparently with no intention of going ashore. The Mang officer, Erru Kametin, marched off with the young widow at his heels and after them went the two Mangs in civilian dress.

The gaunt bald old woman moved not an inch from her chair but sat staring across the floor. The Cils, giggling, stepping high, rushed from the ship. Hableyat stopped before Joe, plump arms clasped behind his back. «Well, my friend, are you going ashore?»

«Yes,» said Joe. «I think I probably will. I'm waiting to see what the Priestess and Manaolo will do.»

Hableyat teetered on his heels. «Steer clear of that chap is my best advice. He's a vicious example of megalomania–conditioned, I may add, to its most exquisite pitch by his environment. Manaolo considers himself divine and ordained–actually, literally–to a degree neither of us can imagine. Manaolo knows no right or wrong. He knows pro and con Manaolo.»

The door to cabin 13 opened. Manaolo and Elfane stepped out on the balcony. Manaolo, in the lead, carried a small parcel. He wore a chased cuirass of gold and bright metal and a long green cloak, embroidered with yellow leaves, was flung back from his shoulders.

Looking to neither right nor left he strode down the stairs, across the cabin, out the port.

Elfane halted on reaching the saloon deck, looked after him, shook her head–a motion eloquent of annoyance. She turned, crossed the saloon to Joe and Hableyat.

Hableyat made a respectful inclination of the head, which Elfane acknowledged coolly. She said to Joe, «I want you to conduct me ashore.»

«Is that an invitation or an order?»

Elfane raised her eyebrows quizzically. «It means I want you to take me ashore.»

«Very well,» said Joe, rising to his feet. «I'll be glad to.» Hableyat sighed. «If only I were young and handsome–» Joe snorted. «Handsome?»

«–no lovely young lady would need to ask me twice.»

Elfane said in a tight voice, «I think it's only fair to mention that Manaolo promised to kill you if he finds you talking to me.»

There was silence. Then Joe said in a voice that sounded strange in his own ears, «So the very first thing, you come over and ask me to take you ashore.»

«Are you frightened?»

«I'm not brave.»

She turned sharply, started for the port. Hableyat said curiously, «Why did you do that?»

Joe snorted angrily. «She's a troublemaker. She has a ridiculous notion that I'll risk some crazy Druid shooting me down like a dog merely for the privilege of walking her around.» He watched her leave the ship, slim as a birch in her dark blue cape. «She's right,» said Joe. «I am just that kind of damn fool.»

He started off after her on the run. Hableyat watched them go off together, smiled sadly, rubbed his hands together. Then unbuckling the robe from around his paunch, he sat back on the couch once again, dreamily followed the devotions of the two Druids at their altar.