Hybrid 

By Keith Laumer 

 

Deep in the soil of the planet, rootlets tougher than steel wire probed 
among glassy sand grains, through packed veins of clay and layers of 
flimsy slate, sensing and discarding inert elements, seeking out 
calcium, iron, nitrogen. 

Deeper still, a secondary system of roots clutched the massive face of 
the bedrock; sensitive tendrils monitored the minute trembling in the 
planetary crust, the rhythmic tidal pressures, the seasonal weight of 
ice, the footfalls of the wild creatures that hunted in the mile-wide 
shadow of the giant Yanda tree. 

On the surface far above, the immense trunk, massive as a cliff, its 
vast girth anchored by mighty buttresses, reared up nine hundred yards 
above the prominence, spreading huge limbs in the white sunlight. 

The tree was only remotely aware of the movement of air over the 
polished surfaces of innumerable leaves, the tingling exchange of 
molecules of water, carbon dioxide, oxygen. Automatically it reacted to 
the faint pressures of the wind, tensing slender twigs to hold each 
leaf at a constant angle to the radiation that struck down through the 
foliage complex. 

The long day wore on. Air flowed in intricate patterns; radiation waxed 
and waned with the drift of vapor masses in the substratosphere; 
nutrient molecules moved along capillaries; the rocks groaned gently in 
the dark under the shaded slopes. In the invulnerability of its titanic 
mass,·the tree dozed in a state of generalized low-level consciousness. 

The sun moved westward, Its light, filtered through an increasing depth 
of atmosphere, was an ominous yellow now. Sinewy twigs rotated, 
following the source of energy. Somnobntly, the tree retracted tender 
buds against the increasing cold, adjusted its rate of heat and 
moisture loss, its receptivity to radiation. As it slept, it dreamed of 
the long past, the years of free-wandering in the faunal stage, before 
the instinct to root and grow had driven it here. It remembered the 
grove of its youth, the patriarchal tree, the sporebrothers. 
... 

It was dark now. The wind was rising. A powerful gust pressed against 
the ponderous obstacle of the tree; great thews of major branches 
creaked, resisting; chilled leaves curled tight against the smooth 
bark. 

Deep underground, fibres hugged rock, transmitting data which were 
correlated with impressions from distant leaf surfaces. There were 
ominous vibrations from the northeast; relative humidity was rising, 
air pressure falling--a pattern formed, signalling danger. The tree 
stirred; a tremor ran through the mighty branch system, shattering 
fragile frost crystals that had begun to form on shaded surfaces. 
Alertness stirred in the heart-brain, dissipating the euphoric 
dreampattern. Reluctantly, long dormant faculties came into play. The 
tree awoke. 

Instantly, it assessed the situation. A storm was moving in off the 
sea--a major typhoon. It was too late for effective measures. Ignoring 
the pain of unaccustomed activity, the tree sent out new shock roots--
cables three inches in diameter, strong as stranded steel--to grip the 
upreared rock slabs a hundred yards north of the tap root. 

There was nothing more the tree could do. Impassively, it awaited the 
onslaught of the storm. 

 

"That's a storm down there," Malpry said. 


"Don't worry, we'll miss it." Gault fingered controls, eyes on dial 
faces. 

"Pull up and make a new approach," Malpry said, craning his neck from 
his acceleration cradle. "Shut up. I'm running this tub." 

"Locked in with two nuts," Malpry said.'"You and the creep." 

"Me and the creep are getting tired of listening to you bitch, Mal." 

"When we land, Malpry, I'Il meet you outside," Pantelle said. "I told 
you I don't like the name 'Creep'." 

"What, again?" Gault said. "You all healed up from the last time?" 

"Not quite; I don't seem to heal very well in space." 

"Permission denied, Pantelle," Gault said. "He's too big for you. Mal, 
leave him alone." 

"I'll leave him alone," Malpry muttered. "I ought to dig a hole and 
leave him in it...." 

"Save your energy for down there,'' Gault said. "If we don't make a 
strike on this one, we've had it." 

"Captain, may I go along bn the held reconnaissance? My training in 
biology--" 

"You better stay with the ship, Pantelle. And don't tinker. Just wait 
for us. We haven't got the strength to carry you back." 

"That was an accident, Captain--" 

"And the time before. Skip it, Pantelle. You mean well, but you've got 
two left feet and ten thumbs." 

"I've been working on improving my coordination, Captain. I've been 
reading--" 

The ship buffeted sharply as guidance vanes bit into atmosphere; 
Pantelle yelped. 

"Oh-oh," he called. "I'm afraid I've opened up that left elbow again." 

"Don't bleed on me, you clumsy slob," Malpry said. 

"Quiet!" Gault said between his teeth. "I'm busy." 

Pantelle fumbled a handkerchief in place over the cut. He would have to 
practice those relaxing exercises he had read about. And he would 
definitely start in weight-lifting soon-and watching his diet. And he 
would be very careful this time and land at least one good one on 
Malpry, just as soon as they landed. 

 

Even before the first outward signs of damage appeared, the tree knew 
that it had lost the battle against the typhoon. In the lull as the eye 
of the storm passed over, it assessed the damage. There was no response 
from the north-east quadrant of the sensory network where rootlets had 
been torn from the rock face; the tap root itself seated now against 
pulverized stone. While the almost indestructible fibre of the Yanda 
tree had held firm, the granite had failed. The tree was doomed by its 
own mass. 

Now, mercilessly, the storm struck again, thundering out of the 
southwest to assault the tree with blind ferocity. Shock cables snapped 
like gossamer; great slabs of rock groaned and parted, with detonations 
lost in the howl of the wind. In the trunk, pressures built, 
agonizingly. 

Four hundred yards south of the tap root, a crack opened in the sodden 
slope, gaping wider. Wind-driven water poured in, softening the soil, 
loosening the grip of a million tiny rootlets. Now the major roots 
shifted, slipping.... 

Far above, the majestic crown of the Yanda tree yielded imperceptibly 
to the irresistible torrent of air. The giant north buttress, forced 
against the underlying stone, shrieked as tortured cells collapsed, 
then burst with a shattering roar audible even above the storm. A great 


are of earth to the south, uplifted by exposed roots, opened a gaping 
cavern. 

Now the storm moved on, thundered down the slope trailing its retinue 
of tattered debris and driving rain. A last vengeful gust whipped 
branches in a final frenzy; then the victor was gone. 

And on the devastated promontory, the stupendous mass of the ancient 
tree leaned with the resistless inertia of colliding moons to the 
accompaniment of a cannonade of parting sinews, falling with dream-like 
grace. 

And in the heart-brain of the tree, consciousness faded in the 
unendurable pain of destruction. 

 

Pantelle climbed down from the open port, leaned against the ship to 
catch his breath. He was feeling weaker than he expected. Tough luck, 
being on short rations; this would set him back on getting started on 
his weight-lifting program. And he didn't feel ready to take on Malpry 
yet. But just as soon as he had some fresh food and fresh air- 

"These are safe to eat," Gault called, wiping the analyzer needle on 
his pants leg and thrusting it back into his hip pocket. He tossed two 
large red fruits to Pantelle. 

"When you get through eating, Pantelle, you better get some water and 
swab down the inside. Malpry and I'll take a look around." 

The two moved off. Pantelle sat on the springy grass, and bit into the 
apple-sized sphere. The texture, he thought, was reminiscent of 
avocado. The skin was tough and aromatic; possibly a natural cellulose 
acetate. There seemed to be no seeds. That being the case, the thing 
was not properly a fruit at all. It would be interesting to study the 
flora of this planet. As soon as he reached home, he would have to 
enroll in a course in E.T. botany. Possibly he would go to Heidelberg 
or Uppsala, attend live lectures by eminent scholars. He would have a 
cosy little apartment--two rooms would do--in the old part of town, and 
in the evening he would have friends in for discussions over a bottle 
of wine- 

However, this wasn't getting the job done. There was a glint of water 
across the slope. Pantelle finished his meal, gathered his buckets, and 
set out. 

 

"Why do we want to wear ourselves out?" Malpry said. 

"We need the exercise. It'll be four months before we get another 
chance." 

"What are we, tourists, we got to see the sights?" Malpry stopped, 
leaned against a boulder, panting. He stared upward at the crater and 
the pattern of uptilted roots and beyond at the forest-like spread of 
the branches of the fallen tree. 

"Makes our sequoias look like dandelions," Gault said. "It must have 
been the storm, the one we dodged coming in." 

"So what?" "A thing that big--it kind of does something to you." 

"Any money in it?" Malpry sneered. 

Gault looked at him sourly. "Yeah, you got a point there. Let's go." 

"I don't like leaving the Creep back there with the ship." 

Gault looked at Malpry. "Why don't you lay off the kidl" 

"I don't like loonies." 

"Don't kid me, Malpry. Pantelle is highly intelligent--in his own way. 
Maybe that's what you can't forgive." 

"He gives me the creeps." "He's a nice-looking kid; he means well--" 

"Yeah," Malpry said. "Maybe he means well--but it's not enough.. ." 

 


From the delirium of concussion, consciousness returned slowly to the 
tree. Random signals penetrated the background clatter of shadowy 
impulses from maimed senses-- 

"Air pressure zero; falling... air pressure 112, rising ... air 
pressure negative ... 

"Major tremor radiating from--Major tremor radiating from-- 

"Temperature 171 degrees, temperature --40 degrees, temperature 26 
degrees... 

"Intense radiation in the blue only ... red only ... ultra violet ... 

"Relative humidity infinite... wind from north-northeast, velocity 
ifinite ... wind rising vertically, velocity infinite ... wind from 
east, west ..." 

Decisively, the tree blanked off the yammering nerve-trunks, narrowing 
its attention to the immediate statusconcept. A brief assessment 
suffiiced to reveal the extent of its ruin. 

There was no reason, it saw, to seek extended personal survival. 
However, certain immediate measures were necessary to gain time for 
emergency spore-propagation. At once, the tree-mind triggered the 
survival syndrome. Capillaries spasmed, forcing vital juices to the 
brain. Synaptic helices dilated, heightening neural conductivity. 
Cautiously, awareness was extended to the system of major fibres, then 
to individual filaments and interweaving capillaries. 

Here was the turbulence of air molecules colliding with ruptured 
tissues, the wave pattern of light impinging on exposed surfaces. 
Microscopic filaments contracted, cutting off fluid loss through the 
wounds. 

Now the tree-mind fine-tuned its concentration, scanning the infinitely 
patterned cell matrix. Here, amid confusion, there was order in the 
incessant restless movement of particles, the how of fifluids, the 
convoluted intricacy of the alphaspiral. Delicately, the tree-mind 
readjusted the functionmosaic, in preparation for spore generation. 

 

Malpry stopped, shaded his eyes. A tall thin figure stood in the shade 
of the uptilted root mass on the ridge. 

"Looks like we headed back at the right time," Malpry said. 

"Damn," Gault said. He hurried forward. Pantelle came to meet him. 

"I told you to stay with the ship, Pantellel" 

"I finished my job, Captain. You didn't say--" 

"OK, OK. Is anything wrong?" 

"No sir. But I've just remembered something--" 

"Later, Pantelle. Let's get back to the ship. We've got work to do." 

"Captain, do you know what this is?" Pantelle gestured toward the 
gigantic fallen tree. 

"Sure; it's a tree." He turned to Gault. "Let's-" 

"Yes, but what kind?" 

"Beats me. I'm no botanist." 

"Captain, this is a rare species. In fact, it's supposed to be extinct. 
Have you ever heard of the Yanda?" 

"No. Yes." Gault looked at Pantelle. "Is that what this is?" 

"I'm sure of it. Captain, this is a very valuable find--" 

"You mean it's worth money?" Malpry was looking at Gault. 

"I don't know. What's the story, Pantelle?" 

"An intelligent race, with an early animal phase; later, they root, 
become fixed, functioning as a plant. Nature's way of achieving the 
active competition necessary for natural selection, then the advantage 
of conscious selection of a rooting site." 

"How do we make money on it?" 


Pantelle looked up at the looming wall of the fallen trunk, curving 
away among the jumble of shattered branches, a hundred feet, two 
hundred, more, in diameter. The bark was smooth, almost black. The 
foot-wide leaves were glossy, varicolored. 

"This great tree-" Malpry stooped, picked up a fragment from a burst 
root. 

"This great club," he said, "to knock your lousy brains out with--" 

"Shut up, Mal." 

"It lived, roamed the planet perhaps ten thousand years ago, in the 
young faunal stage. Then instinct drove it here, to fufill the cycle of 
nature. Picture this ancient champion, looking for the first time out 
across the valley, saying his farewells as metamorphosis begins." 

"Nuts," Malpry said. 

"His was the fate of all males of his kind who lived too long, to stand 
forever on some height of land, to remember through unending ages the 
brief glory of youth, himself his own heroic monument." 

"Where do you get all that crud?" Malpry said. 

"Here was the place," Pantelle said. "Here all his journeys ended." 

"OK, Pantelle. Very moving. You said something about this thing being 
valuable." 

"Captain, this tree is still alive, for a while at least. Even after 
the heart is dead, the appearance of life will persevere. A mantle of 
new shoots will leaf out to shroud the cadaver, tiny atavistic 
plantlets without connection to the brain, parasitic to the corpse, 
identical to the ancestral stock from which the giants sprang, 
symbolizing the extinction of a hundred million years of evolution." 

"Get to the point." 

"We can take cuttings from the heart of the tree. I have a book--it 
gives the details on the anatomy--we can keep the tissues alive. Back 
in civilization, we can regenerate the tree--brain and all. It will 
take time-" 

"Suppose we sell the cuttings." 

"Yes, any university would pay well--" 

"How long will it take?" 

"Not long. We can cut in with narrow aperture blasters--" 

"OK. Get your books, Pantelle. We'll give it a try." 

 

Apparently, the Yanda mind observed, a very long time had elapsed since 
spore propagation had last been stimulated by the proximity of female. 
Withdrawn into introverted dreams, the tree had taken no conscious 
notice as the whispering contact with the spore-brothers faded and the 
hostcreatures dwindled away. Now, eidetically, the stored impressions 
sprang into clarity. 

It was apparent that no female would pass this way again. The Yanda 
kind was gone. The fever of instinct that had motivated the elaboration 
of the mechanisms of emergency propagation had burned itself out 
futilely. The new pattern of stalked oculi gazed unfocussed at an empty 
vista of gnarled jungle growth, the myriad fiaments of the transfer 
nexus coiled quiescent, the ranked grasping members that would have 
brought a host-creature near drooped unused, the dransacs brimmed 
needlessly; no further action was indicated. Now death would come in 
due course. 

Somewhere a drumming began, a gross tremor sensed through the dead 
hush. It ceased, began again, went on and on. It was of no importance, 
but a faint curiosity led the tree to extend a sensory filament, tap 
the abandoned nerve-trunk-- 

Convulsively, the tree-mind recoiled, severing the contact. An 


impression of smouldering destruction, impossible thermal activity.... 

Disoriented, the tree-mind considered the implications of the searing 
pain. A freak of damaged sense organs? A phantom impulse from destroyed 
nerves? 

No. The impact had been traumatic, but the data were there. The tree-
mind re-examined each synaptic vibration, reconstructing the 
experience. In a moment, the meaning was clear: A fire was cutting deep 
into the body of the tree. 

Working hastily, the tree assembled a barrier of incombustible 
molecules in the path of the fire, waited. The heat reached the 
barrier, hesitated--and the barrier flashed into incandescence. 

A thicker wall was necessary. 

The tree applied all of its waning vitality to the task. The shield 
grew, matched the pace of the fire, curved out to intercept-- 

And wavered, halted. The energy demand was too great. Starved muscular 
conduits cramped. Blackness closed over the disintegrating 
consciousness. 

Sluggishly, clarity returned. Now the fie would advance unchecked. Soon 
it would by-pass the aborted defenses, advance to consume the heart-
brain itself. There was no other countermeasure remaining. It was 
unfortunate, since propagation had not been consummated, but 
unavoidable. Calmly the tree awaited its destruction by fifire. 

 

Pantelle put the blaster down, sat on the grass and wiped tarry soot 
from his face. 

"What killed 'em off?" Malpry asked suddenly. 

Pantelle looked at him. 

"Spoilers," he said. 

"What's that?" 

"They killed them to get the dran. They covered up by pretending the 
Yanda were a menace, but it was the drnn they were after." 

"Don't you ever talk plain?" 

"Malpry, did I ever tell you I didn't like you?" 

Malpry spat. "What's with this dran?" 

"The Yanda have a very strange reproductive cycle. In an emergency, the 
spores released by the male tree can be implanted in almost any warm-
blooded creature and carried in the body for an indefinite length of 
time. When the host animal mates, the dormant spores come into play. 
The offspring appears perfectly normal; in fact, the spore steps in and 
corrects any defects in the individual, repairs injuries, fights 
disease, and so on; and the life-span is extended; but eventually, the 
creature goes through the metamorphosis, roots, and becomes a regular 
male Yanda trefiinstead of dying of old age." 

"You talk too much. What's this dran?" 

"The tree releases an hypnotic gas to attract host animals. In 
concentrated form, it's a potent narcotic. That's dran. They killed the 
trees to get it. The excuse was that the Yanda could make humans give 
birth to monsters. That was nonsense. But it sold in the black market 
for fabulous amounts." 

"How do you get the dran?" 

Pantelle looked at Malpry. "Why do you want to know?" 

Malpry looked at the book which lay on the grass. "It's in that, ain't 
it?" 

"Never mind that. Gault's orders were to help me get the heart-
cuttings." 

"He didn't know about the dran." 

"Taking the dran will kill the specimen. You can't-" 


Malpry stepped toward the book. Pantelle jumped toward him, swung a 
haymaker, missed. Malpry knocked him spinning. 

"Don't touch me, Creep." He wiped his fist on his pants leg. 

Pantelle lay stunned. Malpry thumbed the book, found what he wanted. 
After ten minutes, he dropped the book, picked up the blaster, and 
moved off. 

 

Malpry cursed the heat, wiping at his face. A many-legged insect 
scuttled away before him. Underfoot, something furtive rustled. One 
good thing, no animals in this damned woods bigger than a mouse. A hell 
of a place. He'd have to watch his step; it wouldn't do to get lost in 
here ... 

The velvety wall of the half buried trunk loomed, as dense growth gave 
way suddenly to a clear stretch. Malpry stopped, breathing hard. He got 
out his sodden handkerchief, staring up at the black wall. A ring of 
dead-white stalks sprouted from the dead tree. Nearby were other 
growths, like snarls of wiry black seaweed, and ropy looking things, 
dangling-- 

Malpry backed away, snarling. Some crawling disease, some kind of 
filthy fungus--But-- 

Malpry stopped. Maybe this was what he was looking for. Sure, this was 
what those pictures in the book showed. This was where the dran was. 
But he didn't know it would look like some creeping- 

"Stop, Malpryl" 

Malpry whirled. 

"Don't be so ... stupid " Pantelle was gasping for breath. There was 
a bruise on his jaw. "Let me rest... Talk to you ..." 

"Die, you gutter-scraping, Have a nice long rest. But don't muck with 
me." Malpry turned his back on Pantelle, unlimbered the blaster. 

Pantelle grabbed up a broken liinb, slammed it across Malpry's head. 
The rotten wood snapped. Malpry staggered, recovered. He turned, his 
face livid; a trickle of blood ran down. 

"All right, Creep," he grated. Pantelle came to him, swung a whistling 
right, arm bent awkwardly. Malpry lunged, and Pantelle's elbow caught 
him across the jaw. His eyes went glassy, he sagged, fell, to his hands 
and knees. Pantelle laughed aloud. 

Malpry shook his head, breathing hoarsely, got to his feet. Pantelle 
took aim and hit him solidly on the jaw. The blow seemed to clear 
Malpry's head. He slapped a second punch aside, knocked Pantelle full-
length with a backhanded blow. He dragged Pantelle to his feet, swung a 
hard left and right. Pantelle bounced, lay still. Malpry stood over 
him, rubbing his jaw. 

He stirred Pantelle with his foot. Maybe the Creep was dead. Laying his 
creeping hands on Malpry. Gafiilt wouldn't like it, but the Creep had 
started it. Sneaked up and hit him from behind. He had the mark to 
prove it. Anyway, the news about the dran would cheer Gault up. Better 
go get Gault up here. Then they could cut the dran out and get away 
from this creeping planet Let the Creep bleed. 

Malpry turned back toward the ship, leaving Pantelle huddled beside the 
fallen tree. 

 

The Yanda craned external oculi to study the fallen creature, which had 
now apparently entered a dormant phase. A red exudation oozed from 
orifices at the upper end, and from what appeared to be breaks in the 
epidermis. It was a strange creature, bearing some superficial 
resemblance to the familiar host-creatures. Its antics, and those of 
the other, were curious indeed. Perhaps they were male and female, and 


the encounter had been a mating. Possibly this hibernation was normal 
process, preparatory to rooting. If only it were not so alien, it might 
serve as a carrier ... 

The surface of the organism heaved, a limb twitched. Apparently it was 
on the verge of reviving. Soon it would scurry away and be seen no 
more. It could be wise to make a quick examination; if the creature 
should prove suitable as a host. ... 

Quickly the tree elaborated a complex of tiny filaments, touched the 
still figure tentatively, then penetrated the surprisingly soft surface 
layer, seeking out nerve fibres. A trickle of impressions flowed in, 
indecipherable. The tree put forth a major sensory tendril, divided and 
subdivided it into fibres only a few atoms in diameter, fanned them out 
through the unconscious man, tracing the spinal column, entering the 
brain-- 

Here was a wonder of complexity, an unbelievable profusion of 
connections. This was a center capable of the highest intellectual 
functions--unheard of in a host creature. Curiously, the tree-mind 
probed deeper, attuning itself, scanning through a kaleidoscope of 
impressions, buried memories, gaudy symbolisms. 

Never had the Yanda-mind encountered the hyperintellectual processes of 
emotion. It pressed on, deeper into the phantasmagoria of dreams-- 

Color, laughter, and clash-of-arms. Banners rippling in the sun; chords 
of a remote music, and night-blooming ffowers. Abstractions of 
incredible beauty mingled with vivid conceptualizations of glory. 
Fascinated, the tree-mind explored Pantelle's secret romantic dreams of 
fulfillment-- 

And abruptly, encountered the alien mind. 

There was a moment of utter stillness as the two minds assessed each 
other. 

_You are dying,_ the alien mind spoke. 

_Yes. And you are trapped in a sickly host-creature. Why did you not 
select a stronger host?_ 

_I ... originated here. I ... we ... are one. Why do you not strengthen 
this host?_ 

_How?_ 

The Yanda mind paused. _You occupy only a corner of the brain. You do 
not use your powers?_ 

_I am a segment...._ The alien mind paused, confused. _I am 
conceptualized by the monitor-mind as the subconscious._ 

_What is the monitor-mind?_ 

_It is the totality of the personality. It is abole the conscious, 
directing...._ 

_This is a brain of great power, yet great masses of cells are unused. 
Why are major trunks aborted as they are?_ 

_I do not know._ 

 There was no more information from the alien brain which indeed, 
housed multiple minds. 

The Yanda mind broke contact, tuned. 

There was a blast of mind-force, overwhelming. The Yanda mind reeled, 
groped for orientation. 

YOU ARE NOT ONE OF MY MINDS. 

_You are the monitor-mind?_ gasped the Yanda. 

YES. WHAT ARE YOU? 

The Yanda-mind projected its self-concept. 

STRANGE, VERY STRANGE. YOU HAVE USEFUL SKILLS, I PERCEIVE. TEACH THEM 
TO ME. 

The Yanda mind squirmed under the torrent of thought impulses. 


_Reduce your volume. You will destroy me._ 

I WILL TRY. TEACH ME THAT TRICK OF MANIPULATING MOLECULES. 

The Yanda cringed under the booming of the alien mind. What an 
instrumentl A fantastic anomaly, a mind such as this linked to this 
fragile host-creature--and unable even to use its powers. But it would 
be a matter of the greatest simplicity to make the necessary 
corrections, rebuild and toughen the host, eliminate the defects-- 

TEACH ME, YANDA MIND! 

_Alien, I die soon. But I will teach you. There is, however, a 
condition...._ 

 

The two minds conferred, and reached agreement. At once, the Yanda mind 
initiated sweeping rearrangements at the submolecular level. 

First, cell-regeneration, stitching up the open lesions on arm and 
head. Antibodies were modified in vast numbers, flushed through the 
system. Parasites died. 

_Maintain this process, the tree-mind directed._ 

Now, the muscular layers; surely they were inadequate. The very 
structure of the cells was flimsy. The Yanda devised the necessary 
improvements, tapped the hulk of its cast-off body for materials, 
reinforced the muscuiature. Now for the skeletal members.... 

The tree visualized the articulation of the ambulatory mechanism, 
considered for a moment the substitution of a more practical tentacular 
concept-- 

There was little time. Better to retain the stony bodies, merely 
strengthen them, using metallo-vegetable fibers. The air sacs, too. And 
the heart. They would have lasted no time at all as they were. 

_Observe, alien, thus, and thus...._ 

I SEE. IT IS A CLEVER TRICK. 

The Yanda worked over the body of Pantelle, adjusting, correcting, 
reinforcing, discarding a useless appendix or tonsil here, adding a 
reserve air storage unit there. A vestigial eye deep in the brain was 
refurbished for sensitivity at the radio frequencies, linked with 
controls. The spine was deftly fused at the base; additional 
mesenteries were added for intestinal support. Following the basic 
pattern laid down in the genes, the tree-mind rebuilt the body. 

When the process was finished, and the alien mind had absorbed the 
techniques demonstrated, the Yanda mind paused. 

_It is finished._ 

I AM READY TO RE-ESTABLISH THE CONSCIOUS MIND IN OVERT CONTROL. 

_Remember your promise._ 

I WILL REMEMBER. 

The Yanda mind began its withdrawal. Troublesome instinct was served. 
Now it could rest until the end. · 

WAIT. I'VE GOT A BETTER IDEA, YANDA... 

 

"Two weeks down and fourteen to go," Gault said. "Why don't you break 
down and tell me what happened back there?" 

"How's Malpry?" Pantelle asked. 

"He's all right. Broken bones knit, and you only broke a few." 

"The book was wrong about the Yanda spores," Pantelle said. "They don't 
have the power in themselves to reconstruct the host-creature--" 

"The what?" 

"The infected animal; the health and life span of the host is improved. 
But the improvement is made by the tree, at the time of propagation, to 
insure a good chance for the spores." 

"You mean you--" 


"We made a deal. The Yanda gave me this-" Pantelle pressed a thumb 
against the steel bulkhead. The metal yielded. "-and a few other 
tricks. In return, I'm host to the Yanda spores." 

Gault moved away. 

"Doesn't that bother you? Parasites--" 

"It's an equitable deal. The spores are microscopic, and completely 
dormant until the proper conditions develop." 

"Yeah, but you said yourself this vegetable brain has worked on your 
mind." 

"It merely erased all the scars of traumatic experience, corrected 
deficiencies, taught me how to use what I have." 

"How about teaching me?" 

"Sorry, Gault." Pantelle shook his head. "Impossible." 

Gault considered Pantelle's remarks. 

"What about these 'proper conditions' for the spores?" he asked 
suddenly. "You wake up and find yourself sprouting some morning?" 

"Well," Pantelle coughed. "That's where my part of the deal comes in. A 
host creature transmits the spores through the normal mating process. 
The offspring gets good health and a long life before the 
metamorphosis. That's not so bad--to live a hundred years, and then 
pick a nice spot to root and grow and watch the seasons turn..." 

Gault considered. "A man does get tired," he said. "I know a spot, 
where you can look for miles out across the Pacific..." 

"So I've promised to be very active," Pafiitelle said. "It will take a 
lot of my time, but I intend to discharge my obligation to the 
fullest." 

_Did you hear that, Yanda?_ Pantelle asked silently. 

_I did,_ came the reply from the unused corner he had assigned to the 
Yanda ego-pattern. _Our next thousand years should be very 
interesting._