CAN'T SEE THE WOOD FOR THE TREES
Part 2 of 2
Nik Morton
Ilex - holly - Wikipedia commons
Ilex, looking to all the world like a holly tree, sent his
dispatches from Chequers:
Election in
the offing. Parties equally divided: the upcoming SDP likely to cause
consternation. Opinion polls predict that they will hold the controlling votes
in Parliament. Plans afoot to carve up the country into a tripartite state.
Thirty-five
miles outside Brussels
Outside the
white concrete and tinted glass buildings at the Manned Spacecraft Centre at Houston
At the
Kapustin Yar cosmodrome there were only a half-dozen brother Larix larches.
Enough.
Data seeped
in continuously, night and day. Now the gigantic Sequoias were brimming full.
They would shortly have to send out what they held so far, to make room for
additional input. The picture was nowhere near whole; but it was emerging,
clarifying...
Privately,
Sequoia G pondered on the human designs on Space. Was that why the Conquest had
begun?
Many trees,
such as Acer in Oxford
It was a
sluggish business, a night-long ordeal. First, the roots that had continuously
sought water had to heave themselves out of the earth. This was not easy. The
roots' delicate tips had penetrated the soil with a corkscrew motion,
circumventing rocks or simply heaving them aside or cracking them wide open
with secreted dissolving acids. So they were deep, in some cases like the
icebergs of the sea, two-thirds of their bulk submerged.
As their
own scientists had long ago discovered, sonic-waves continued to exist long
after their emissions, for it was impossible to destroy energy. Now, Salix was
able to sweep the leaves of the newly harnessed vassal-trees of Earth and learn
what they had 'heard'.
The broad
picture possessed many promising aspects. Yet there was a gloomy side also.
Presently
in existence were innumerable nuclear arms silos buried deep beneath the
Earth's surface, poised, watchful, primed. True, most were targeted on
ideologically opposed countries. Even Ailanthus, the 'tree of heaven' reporting
back from China's Sinkiang Province, indicated that they were aiming at every
Western country, including those in possession of merely token military forces.
But should
an invasion from Space occur, it seemed logical to assume that all this
weaponry would be speedily deployed in the defence of the planet in a common
cause.
So Sequoia
G was far from happy when he issued the 'send' message to his confederates.
Within the breadth of a nanosecond, the entire mass of data collected hitherto
was beamed out of the Earth's atmosphere, way beyond the planets of Neptune and
Pluto, far off into Deep Space.
***
For two hours Roger seethed on the cottage doorstep. Where
the hell was she? He stepped up and down the ash-covered driveway, trying to
keep warm. It was forecast to be a grim, cold winter. Though only the first
week in October, there was a nasty bite to the air. His thoughts repeatedly
reverted to that day only two weeks ago, in Port Meadow. It seemed incredible
that it had been so warm then.
He must
make Pauline see sense. She can't possibly be happy with Michael deVille. She
must have realised, he told himself, he wouldn't just be content with her
brush-off on the phone. After all they had meant to each other, to end it with
an impersonal phone call? Had meant to each other? But he still loved her! There's
irony for you. At first he had enjoyed the chase. She had simply been yet
another conquest. But that had backfired shortly after their first illicit
night...
He pulled
his glove back. She was due here with Michael well over an hour ago. Where the
hell were they?
Impatience
getting the better of him, Roger took a swig of whisky from his
glove-compartment's metal flask.
If only he
could end it amicably, like she had said. But he intended going through with
the confrontation, baring their deception for Michael to see. It was a risk; he
might alienate her completely. But he had to try it. He was desperate for her.
This is
ridiculous! He shrugged inside the wool-lined car-coat. They could have had a
puncture. Michael was too frail and impractical to change a wheel. And Pauline
probably wouldn't be able to unscrew the wheel-nuts...
He slumped
into the sports car. I'll give them five more minutes, he decided. Then I'll go
looking for them.
Another
whisky wouldn't go amiss, either. The act of scouring the road for them might
cool his rising impatience. And, if they are stranded with a flat, his 'timely'
appearance might serve him in good stead with Michael.
Five more
minutes then.
***
It would take the Earth's astronomers some time to make out
Arbor's shape, for there were few light surfaces on him to reflect Sol's rays,
leaving his unlit mass to merge with the blackness of space. Only the gradual
obscuring of distant stars would give any clue that he was there at all.
Arbor
stretched about three miles wide, seven miles from topmost branch to his nether
roots, with a mighty girth of six miles. He was travelling at maximum velocity
now, forty miles per second.
Whilst
sailing steadfastly through space, he was in the fall of his life span. He
possessed no leaves, for they had provided the initial boost to send him on his
way. Deep umber, pitted and scored, roots gangling and crawling to the fore,
Arbor's gigantic naked boughs pointed abstractedly in the direction he had
travelled. Silently, ominously, he moved through space, heading roots first for
the blue-green orb of Earth.
Not long
now...
At a
distance of 933 million miles, Sequoia G's second transmission of massed data
homed in on Arbor's central taproot. Hungrily digesting these facts in an
instant, Arbor commenced evaluating, planning, deploying stratagems.
It was
strange how trees - so closely resembling his own people - should be quite
common on Earth and be trusted and regarded as harmless, planted in places of
honour, thought of with sentiment, even love. Most strange.
The primary
problem was to devise some method of effective defence against the Earthside
nuclear weapons. Arbor decided to dispatch the information to the prodigious
force to his rear. Fifty thousand warriors of his age and sagacity fanned out
in a circular van and when eventually spotted would appear to any astronomer
merely as a stray planet - until it was too late.
As the
forward scout Arbor hoped the scientists with the Conquest Force would come up
with something before he arrived.
In the
meantime, his duty required him to issue authorised orders to Earth: As the
building youth of our race, you were specially chosen for our preliminary
thrust force. The time has now come for you to select your targets: Use utmost
caution. On no account must any clues be left that would lead to suspicions
being aroused.
Arbor
steeled himself to pursue with the final directive: Those whose sacrifices
entail perishing for our noble cause, our supreme Conquest, they will be
honoured beyond their dreams. Their names shall go down in our Esteemed Annals
as the harbingers of doom to all Earth people!
There, it
was said.
***
'Christ!' Roger couldn't believe his eyes. He tried braking
but he was too late, travelling too fast, reactions sluggish. He felt the reverberating
dull thump and sensed the car jerk up onto its hind wheels and continue
growling forward, up into the air.
Tyres
screamed and burned. The ear-rending crash jarred his entire body. The
seat-harness dug into his chest and stomach, made him retch, short of air, head
spinning.
Shards of
glass stung his face. Contorted metal creaked and groaned. His legs were numb.
Drunkenly, he wiped his brow and his hand came away clammy, wet, red.
Through the
mists of semi-consciousness, he peered between the splintered, starred
windscreen, over the crumpled bonnet; the headlights had ploughed through the
Daimler's front seats, embedding the engine deep in the rear.
He wasn't
capable, but he wanted to be sick.
Acer,
mortally wounded, struggled off the roadside into the undergrowth and lay down,
shaking in unremitting agony. Dimly he remembered his duty, and rose
ponderously, each movement excruciating, tearing his nerve fibres to shreds.
Slowly, he sank his roots under the soil once more, his mission accomplished.
Scarred, branches splintered and missing, Acer stood unbowed and proud, and
died.
Roger was
shaking violently behind the steering wheel when the police accident unit
arrived. Pale with shock, he was mumbling incoherently to himself.
'What a
mess!' exclaimed a case hardened constable. 'He's driven right through the
windscreen!'
Paling, his
companion replied, 'The other car. Looks like Mr deVille's Daimler - the
Foreign Secretary and his missus...'
The voices
barely penetrated. Roger sensed the constable's gentle hand on his shoulder.
Forcing his lips to cease their maddening tremble for at least a few seconds,
he whispered, 'The tree - it - it jumped into the road!'
Smelling
the whisky-breath, the constable swore. 'Jesus, if I've heard that once, I've heard
it a thousand times!'
* * *
Previously published
in World of Horror, 1974 under the penname
Platen Syder.
Copyright Nik Morton,
2015.
If
you enjoyed this story, you might like my collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat
(2013), which features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own
words’. He is also featured in the story
‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat Collection of twenty tales, Crooked Cats’ Tales.
Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback and as
an e-book.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4&keywords=nik+morton
http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5&keywords=nik+morton
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