the rollas could.
'You're on the level there,' said Doyle enthusiastically. 'You would be able to cure a lot of things. You might find a cure for cancer and you might develop something that would hold off heart disease. And there's the common cold…'
SORRY, PAL, BUT WE ARE OFF OF YOU. YOU MADE SAPS OF US.
Then you are one of them that ran away,' said Doyle in some excitement. 'You saw through Metcalfe's game…'
But the rolla was paying no attention to anything he said. It had drawn itself a little straighter and a little taller and it had formed its lips into a circle as if it might be getting ready to let out a bay and the sides of its throat were quivering as if it might be singing, but there was no sound.
No sound, but a rasping shrillness that skidded on one's nerves, a something in the air that set one's teeth on edge.
It was an eerie thing, that sense of singing terror in the silence of the dusk, with the west wind blowing quietly along the tops of the darkening trees, with the silky rustle of the nettles and somewhere in the distance the squeaking of a chipmunk homeward bound on the last trip of the day.
Out beyond the fence came the thumping of awkward running feet and in the thickening dusk Doyle saw the five rollas from the orchard plunging down the slope.
There was something going on. Doyle was sure of that. He sensed the importance of the moment and the excitement that was in it, but there was no inkling of what it all might mean.
The rolla by his side had sent out some sort of rallying call, pitched too high for the human ear to catch, and now the orchard rollas were tumbling down the slope in answer to that call.
The five rollas reached the fence and lined up in their customary row and their blackboard chests were alive with glowing characters — the strange, flickering, nonsensical characters of their native language. And the chest of the one who stood outside the fence with Doyle also flamed with the fleeting symbols, changing and shifting so swiftly that they seemed to be alive.
It was an argument, Doyle thought. The five inside the fence were arguing heatedly with the one who stood outside and there seemed an urgency in the argument that could not be denied.
He stood there, on the edge of embarrassment, an innocent bystander pocketed in a family squabble he could not understand.
The rollas were gesturing wildly now and the characters upon their chests glowed more brightly than ever as darkness deepened on the land.
A squalling night bird flew overhead and Doyle tilted up his head to watch it and as he did he saw the moving figures of running men outlined against the lighter sky on the north ridge of the orchard.
'Watch out!' he shouted and wondered even as he shouted why he should have shouted.
At the shout the five rollas whirled back to face the fence.
One set of symbols appeared upon each chest, as if suddenly they might have reached agreement, as if the argument might finally be resolved.
There was a creaking sound and Doyle looked up quickly.
Against the sky he could see the old oak tree was tipping, slanting slowly toward the fence, as if a giant hand had reached out and given it a push.
He watched for a puzzled second and the tilt continued and the speed of the fall picked up and he knew that the tree was crashing down upon the fence and the time had come to get out of there.
He stepped back a pace to turn around and flee and when he put his foot down there was no solid ground beneath it. He fought briefly to keep from falling, but he didn't have a chance. He fell and thumped into a crowded cavity and above him he heard the roaring rush of the falling tree and then the jarring thud as it hit the ground and the long, high whine of wires stretched so tight they pinged and popped.
Doyle lay quietly, afraid to move.
He was in a ditch of some sort. It was not very deep, not more than three feet at the most, but he was cramped at an awkward angle and there was an uncomfortable stone or root in the middle of his back.
Above him was a tracery of limbs and twigs, where the top of the oak had crashed across the ditch. And running through the fallen branches was a rolla, moving much more swiftly than one would have thought was possible.
From up the slope beyond the smashed-down fence came the bellowing of men and the sound of running feet.
Doyle huddled in his ditch glad of the darkness and of the shelter of the fallen tree.
The stone or root was still in his back and he wriggled to get off it. He slid off to one side and put out a hand to catch his balance and his hand came in contact with a mound of stuff that felt like sand.
And froze there. For just beyond the ditch, standing among the branches and the nettles, was a pair of legs and the loom of a body extending up into the darkness.
'They went down that way,' said a voice. 'Down into the woods. It will be hard to find them.'
Metcalfe's voice answered: 'We have to find them, Bill. We can't let them get away.'
There was a pause, then Bill said: T wonder what got into them. They seemed happy up till now.'
Metcalfe swore bitterly. 'It's that photographer. That fellow — what's his name — I saw him when he was in the tree and he got away that time. But he won't make it this time. I don't know what he did or what's going on, but he's in it, clear up to his neck. He's around here somewhere.'
Bill moved away a little and Metcalfe said, 'If you run into this photographer, you know what to do.'
'Sure, boss.'
'Medium-sized guy. Has a dopey way about him.'
They moved away. Doyle could hear them thrashing through the nettles, cursing as the nettles stung them.
Doyle shivered a little.
He had to get out and he had to make it fast, for before too long the moon would be coming up.
Metcalfe and his boys weren't fooling. They couldn't afford to fool in a deal like this. If they spotted him, more than likely they would shoot to kill.
Now, with everyone out hunting down the rollas, would be the time to get up to that orchard. Although the chances were that Metcalfe had men patrolling it.
Doyle gave the idea some consideration and dropped it. There was, now, just one thing to do and that was get to the car down on the river road as fast as he could make it.
Cautiously, he crawled out of the ditch. Once out of it, he crouched for long minutes in the tangle of fallen branches, listening for sound. There wasn't any sound.
He moved out into the nettles, following the path that had been crushed down by the men who had pursued the rollas. But, crushed down or not, some of the nettles pegged him.
Then he started down the slope, running for the woods.
Ahead of him a shout went up and he braked his speed and swerved. He reached a clump of brush and hurled himself behind it as other shouts went up and then two shots, fired in quick succession.
He saw it moving above the treetops, rising from the woods — a pale ghost of a thing that rose into the sky, with the red glint of early moonlight on it.
From it trailed a twisting line that had the appearance of a vine and from the vine hung a struggling doll-like figure that was screaming thinly. The ghost-like shape was stubby at the bottom and pointed at the top. It had the look about it of a ballooning Christmas tree and there was about it, too, even from a distance, a faint familiarity.
And suddenly Doyle linked up that familiarity — linked it to the woven mass of vegetation that had damned the creek bed. And as he linked it up, he knew without a question the nature of this Christmas tree riding in the sky.
The rollas worked with plants as Man would work with metals. They could grow a money tree and a protective strip of nettles that obeyed, they could make an oak tree fall and if they could do all that, the growing of a spaceship would not be too hard a job.
The ship was moving slowly, slanting up across the ridge, and the doll still struggled at the end of the trailing vine and its screams came down to earth as a far-off wailing sound.
