Thorwald nodded and picked up the notes with his right hand.
Hobbs went back to his cabin, raised the shutter and sat down by the viewing pane. He had keyed himself up to the pitch where it was almost a disappointment to him that the smiling face did not appear. The moments passed.
Abruptly the ship shook from stem to stern. A billion billion tiny golden needles lanced out into the dark. Then the cascade of glory was gone and the eternal black of space was back.
It had happened so quickly that, except for the pattern of light etched on his retina, Hobbs might have wondered whether he had seen it at all. Thorwald could certainly claim to have won his bet.
But Hobbs was well satisfied with what he had got for his thousand I.U.’s. In the fraction of a second that the force field had been turned on he had seen, crushed and blackened against the field’s candent radiance, a dead scorched shapeless thing like a burned spider.
The myriad biting fires of the force field must have charred it instantly to the bone. What Hobbs had seen in that instant of incredible illumination was dead beyond a doubt, as dead as the moon.
By now it must be lying thousands upon thousands of kilos to the side of the ship’s course, where the vast impetus of the field had sent it hurtling. Hobbs drew a deep, deep breath. Relief had made him weak.
When he and Thorwald met at the next meal they maintained a cautious cordiality toward each other. Neither of them, then or at any time thereafter, referred again to the bet.
That sleep-period Hobbs rested well. In the next few days he regained most of his usual aplomb. Leisurely he finished carving the Butandra wood into a walking stick. It made a very nice one. By the time the ship docked at Llewellyn, an Earth-type planet but with a third less than Earth’s normal gee, he was quite himself again.
In the depths of space, uncounted millions of kilometers away, the blackened husk of the Gardener floated weightlessly. It was quite dry and dead. But did it not stir a little from time to time as though a breeze rustled it? And what were those cracks that slowly appeared in it? Were they not like the cracks in a chrysalis?
Hobbs was well pleased with the state of the plantations on Llewellyn. He told the young man in charge of the local office so and the young man was gratified. By the end of the third day Hobbs was ready to resume his interrupted voyage toward Earth.
Something he saw in a sheet of stereo-press newsprint changed his mind. “Fiend robs, mutilates liner chief!” the big red scarehead bellowed. And then, in smaller type, the paper went on, “Minus finger and 1,000 I.U.’s, Captain unable to name assailant. Police make search.”
Hobbs— he was at breakfast—looked at the item incuriously until, in the body of the story, his eye caught a familiar name. Then he read with avid interest.
Eins Thorwald, captain of the luxury space liner
Thorwald, found in a state of collapse in his cabin by second officer Joseph McPherson (see page two for pictures), was unable to give details of the attack on him. He told police he had been robbed of exactly one thousand I.U.’s. Other currency in Thorwald’s wallet was untouched.
Thorwald’s finger, according to medical officer Dingbv of the local police, appears to have been amputated with the help of a chisel or some similar instrument. No trace of the missing digit has been found.
Thorwald himself, after receiving several transfusions, is in Mercy Hospital, where his condition is reported serious. Police are operating on the theory that the attack was the work of some fiend whose hobby is collecting human fingers. A thorough search is being made and they expect an arrest soon.
Hobbs put the newsprint down. His hands were trembling. His florid cheeks had turned white. What he suspected, he told himself, was sheer lunacy.
Hadn’t he himself seen the—thing which had rapped at his viewing pane reduced to a blackened cinder by the ravening fires of the force field? But Thorwald had been robbed of exactly one thousand I.U.’s. And he had picked up Hobbs’ bribe with his right hand.
Hobbs pushed his plate away and asked the robot for his check. In the lobby he video’d Mercy Hospital and inquired for news of Thorwald. He was told that Thorwald’s condition was serious and that he could not possibly see anyone.
Hobbs sat in the lobby for an hour or so and tried to think. At the end of that time he had come to a decision. Tiglath Hobbs was a stubborn man.
He called a ‘copter and had it take him to the local office of the Bureau of Extra-Systemic Plant Conservation. Scott, the young man in charge of the office, was out and Hobbs had to wait for him.
It was nearly noon when Scott came in, very brown and erect in his clothing of forest green. He had been supervising the weeding of a plantation of young Tillya trees and there was mud on the knees of his trousers from kneeling beside the seedlings. The knees of his trousers were always a little muddy. He had the green heart of the true forester.
Hobbs came to the point at once. “Scott,” he said, “I want you to go to Cassid and supervise the uprooting of the plantation of Butandra trees there.”
Scott looked at him for a moment incredulously. “I beg your pardon, sir?” he said at last in a neutral tone.
“I said, I want you to go to Cassid and supervise the uprooting of the plantation of Butandra trees there.”
“I— sir, what is the reason for this order?”
“Because I say so.”
“But, Mr. Hobbs, the Butandra trees are unique. As you of course know, there is nothing like them anywhere else in the universe. Scientifically it would be criminal to destroy those trees.
“Further than that, they play a considerable role in Cassidan planetary life. To the inhabitants the trees have a large emotional significance. I must ask you, sir, to reconsider your decision.”
“You have your orders. Carry them out.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I decline to do so.”
Hobbs thick neck had turned red. “I’ll have your job for this,” he said chokingly.
Scott permitted himself a thin smile. “I have civil service tenure, sir,” he said.
“You can be removed for cause. Insubordination, in this case.”
Scott’s smile vanished, but he did not retreat. “Very well,” he said. “If it comes to a public hearing we’ll see. In any case I can’t carry out that order. And I very much doubt, Mr. Hobbs, that you’ll find anyone who will. It’s not the kind of thing you can ask of a forester.”
Hobbs raised his stick of Butandra wood. His expression was murderous. Then his common sense reasserted itself. He gave Scott a nod and left.
He called the travel bureau, canceled his Earthward passage and made reservations for a cabin on the next ship back to Cassid. If he could not find anyone to carry out his orders to destroy the plantation of Butandra trees he would do it himself. Tiglath Hobbs, as has been said before, was a stubborn man.
The trip back to Cassid was unexceptional. Nothing came to rap at Hobbs’ viewing pane or to peer in at him. It was so quiet, in fact, that Hobbs had fits of wondering whether he was doing the right thing.
The Butandra trees were, as Scott had said, of considerable scientific interest and Hobbs might be letting himself in for a good deal of unfavorable criticism by destroying them. And the attack on Thorwald might have been only a coincidence.
But by now Hobbs bitterly hated the Butandra trees. Guilt, anxiety, and self—righteousness had coalesced in him to form an emotion of overwhelming intensity. He hated the Butandra trees. How could there be any question about destroying them?
With their repulsive staring white bark and the nasty whispering rustle their long green leaves made they deserved—yes, they positively deserved—to be killed. How could a decent-minded man let the Butandra trees live?
Usually, by the time he got to this point in his thoughts, Hobbs began to pant. He had to make a conscious effort to calm himself.
