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[Illustration: Illustrated by FRIES]


 Tree,
 Spare That Woodman

 By DAVE DRYFOOS


 _The single thing to fear was
 fear--ghastly, walking fear!_


Stiff with shock, Naomi Heckscher stood just inside the door to Cappy's
one-room cabin, where she'd happened to be when her husband discovered
the old man's body.

Her nearest neighbor--old Cappy--dead. After all his wire-pulling to get
into the First Group, and his slaving to make a farm on this alien
planet, dead in bed!

Naomi's mind circled frantically, contrasting her happy anticipations
with this shocking actuality. She'd come to call on a friend, she
reminded herself, a beloved friend--round, white-haired, rosy-cheeked;
lonely because he'd recently become a widower. To her little boy, Cappy
was a combination Grandpa and Santa Claus; to herself, a sort of newly
met Old Beau.

Her mouth had been set for a sip of his home brew, her eyes had pictured
the delight he'd take in and give to her little boy.

She'd walked over with son and husband, expecting nothing more shocking
than an ostentatiously stolen kiss. She'd found a corpse. And to have
let Cappy die alone, in this strange world ...

She and Ted could at least have been with him, if they'd known.

But they'd been laughing and singing in their own cabin only a mile
away, celebrating Richard's fifth birthday. She'd been annoyed when
Cappy failed to show up with the present he'd promised Richard.
Annoyed--while the old man pulled a blanket over his head, turned his
round face to the wall, and died.

Watching compassionately, Naomi was suddenly struck by the
matter-of-fact way Ted examined the body. Ted wasn't surprised.

"Why did you tell Richard to stay outside, just now?" she demanded. "How
did you know what we'd find here? And why didn't you tell me, so I could
keep Richard at home?"

She saw Ted start, scalded by the splash of her self-directed anger, saw
him try to convert his wince into a shrug.

"You insisted on coming," he reminded her gently. "I couldn't have kept
you home without--without saying too much, worrying you--with the
Earth-ship still a year away. Besides, I didn't know for sure, till we
saw the tree-things around the cabin."

The tree-things. The trees-that-were-not. Gnarled blue trunks,
half-hidden by yellow leaf-needles stretching twenty feet into the sky.
Something like the hoary mountain hemlocks she and Ted had been forever
photographing on their Sierra honeymoon, seven life-long years ago.

Three of those tree-things had swayed over Cappy's spring for a far
longer time than Man had occupied this dreadful planet. Until just
now ...

The three of them had topped the rise that hid Cappy's farm from their
own. Richard was running ahead like a happily inquisitive puppy.
Suddenly he'd stopped, pointing with a finger she distinctly recalled as
needing thorough soapy scrubbing.

"Look, Mommie!" he'd said. "Cappy's trees have moved. They're around the
cabin, now."

He'd been interested, not surprised. In the past year, Mazda had become
Richard's home; only Earth could surprise him.

But, Ted, come to think of it, had seemed withdrawn, his face a careful
blank. And she?

"Very pretty," she'd said, and stuffed the tag-end of fear back into the
jammed, untidy mental pigeon-hole she used for all unpleasant thoughts.
"Don't run too far ahead, dear."

But now she had to know what Ted knew.

"Tell me!" she said.

"These tree-things--"

"There've been _other_ deaths! How many?"

"Sixteen. But I didn't want to tell you. Orders were to leave women and
children home when we had that last Meeting, remember."

"What did they say at the Meeting? Out with it, Ted!"

"That--that the tree-things think!"

"But that's ridiculous!"

"Well, unfortunately, no. Look, I'm not trying to tell you that
terrestrial trees think, too, nor even that they have a nervous system.
They don't. But--well, on Earth, if you've ever touched a lighted match
to the leaf of a sensitive plant like the mimosa, say--and I
have--you've been struck by the speed with which _other_ leaves close up
and droop. I mean, sure, we know that the leaves droop because certain
cells exude water and nearby leaves feel the heat of the match. But the
others don't, yet they droop, too. Nobody knows how it works ..."

"But _that's_ just defensive!"

"Sure. But _that's_ just on Earth!"

"All right, dear. I won't argue any more. But I still don't understand.
Go on about the Meeting."

"Well, they said these tree-things both create and respond to the
patterned electrical impulses of the mind. It's something like the way a
doctor creates fantasies by applying a mild electric current to the
right places on a patient's brain. In the year we've been here, the
trees--or some of them--have learned to read from and transmit to our
minds. The range, they say, is around fifty feet. But you have to be
receptive--"

"Receptive?"

"Fearful. That's the condition. So I didn't want to tell you because you
_must not_ let yourself become afraid, Naomi. We're clearing trees from
the land, in certain areas. And it's their planet, after all. Fear is
their weapon and fear can kill!"

"You still--all you men--should have let us women know! What do you
think we are? Besides, I don't really believe you. How can fear kill?"

"Haven't you ever heard of a savage who gets in bad with his
witch-doctor and is killed by magic? The savage is convinced, having
seen or heard of other cases, that he _can_ be killed. The witch-doctor
sees to it he's told he _will_ be killed. And sometimes the savage
actually dies--"

"From poison, I've always thought."

"The poison of fear. The physical changes that accompany fear, magnified
beyond belief by belief itself."

"But how in the world could all this have affected Cappy? He wasn't a
savage. And he was elderly, Ted. A bad heart, maybe. A stroke.
Anything."

"He passed his pre-flight physical only a year ago. And--well, he lived
all alone. He was careful not to let you see it, but I know he worried
about these three trees on his place. And I know he got back from the
Meeting in a worried state of mind. Then, obviously, the trees
moved--grouped themselves around his cabin within easy range. But don't
be afraid of them, Naomi. So long as you're not, they can't hurt you.
They're not bothering us now."

"No. But where's Richard?"

Naomi's eyes swept past Ted, encompassing the cabin. No Richard! He'd
been left outside ...

Glass tinkled and crashed as she flung back the cabin door. "Richard!
Richard!"

Her child was not in sight. Nor within earshot, it seemed.

"Richard Heckscher! Where are you?" Sanity returned with the
conventional primness. And it brought her answer.

"Here I am, Mommie! Look-at!"

He was in a tree! He was fifteen feet off the ground, high in the
branches of a tree-thing, swaying--

For an instant, dread flowed through Naomi as if in her bloodstream and
something was cutting off her breath. Then, as the hands over mouth and
throat withdrew, she saw they were Ted's. She let him drag her into the
cabin and close the broken door.

"Better not scare Richard," he said quietly, shoving her gently into a
chair. "He might fall."

Dumbly she caught her breath, waiting for the bawling out she'd earned.

But Ted said, "Richard keeps us safe. So long as we fear for him, and
not ourselves--"

That was easy to do. Outside, she heard a piping call: "Look at me now,
Mommie!"

"Showing off!" she gasped. In a flashing vision, Richard was half boy,
half vulture, flapping to the ground with a broken wing.

"Here," said Ted, picking up a notebook that had been on the table.
"Here's Cappy's present. A homemade picture book. Bait."

"Let _me_ use it!" she said. "Richard may have seen I was scared just
now."

Outside again, under the tree, she called, "Here's Cappy's present,
Richard. He's gone away and left it for you."

Would he notice how her voice had gone up half an octave, become flat
and shrill?

"I'm coming down," Richard said. "Let me down, tree."

He seemed to be struggling. The branches were cagelike. He was caught!

Naomi's struggle was with her voice. "How did you _ever_ get up there?"
she called.

"The tree let me up, Mommie," Richard explained solemnly, "but he won't
let me down!" He whimpered a little.

He must _not_ become frightened! "You tell that tree you've got to come
right down this instant!" she ordered.

She leaned against the cabin for support. Ted came out and slipped his
arm around her.

"Break off a few leaves, Richard," he suggested. "That'll show your tree
who's boss!"

Standing close against her husband, Naomi tried to stop shaking. But she
lacked firm support, for Ted shook, too.

His advice to Richard was sound, though. What had been a trap became,
through grudging movement of the branches, a ladder. Richard climbed
down, scolding at the tree like an angry squirrel.

       *       *       *       *       *

Naomi thought she'd succeeded in shutting her mind. But when her little
boy slid down the final bit of trunk and came for his present, Naomi
broke. Like a startled animal, she thrust the book into his hands,
picked him up and ran. Her mind was a jelly, red and quaking.

She stopped momentarily after running fifty yards. "Burn the trees!" she
screamed over her shoulder. "Burn the cabin! Burn it all!" She ran on,
Ted's answering shouts beyond her comprehension.

Fatigue halted her. At the top of the rise between Cappy's farm and
their own, pain and dizziness began flowing over her in waves. She set
Richard down on the mauve soil and collapsed beside him.

When she sat up, Richard squatted just out of reach, watching curiously.
She made an effort at casualness: "Let's see what Daddy's doing back
there."

"He's doing just what you said to, Mommie!" Richard answered
indignantly.

Her men were standing together, Naomi realized. She laughed. After a
moment, Richard joined her. Then he looked for his book, found it a few
paces away, and brought it to her.

"Read to me, Mommie."

"At home," she said.

Activity at Cappy's interested her now. Wisps of smoke were licking
around the trees. A tongue of flame lapped at one while she watched.
Branches writhed. The trees were too slow-moving to escape ...

But where was Ted? What had she exposed him to, with her hysterical
orders? She held her breath till he moved within sight, standing quietly
by a pile of salvaged tools. Behind him the cabin began to smoke.

Ted wasn't afraid, then. He understood what he faced. And Richard wasn't
afraid, either, because he didn't understand.

But she? Surreptitiously Naomi pinched her hip till it felt black and
blue. That was for being such a fool. She must _not_ be afraid!

"Daddy seems to be staying there," she said. "Let's wait for him at
home, Richard."

"Are you going to make Daddy burn _our_ tree?"

She jumped as if stung. Then, consciously womanlike, she sought relief
in talk.

"What do _you_ think we should do, dear?"

"Oh, I _like_ the tree, Mommie. It's cool under there. And the tree
plays with me."

"How, Richard?"

"If I'm pilot, he's navigator. Or ship, maybe. But he's so dumb, Mommie!
I always have to tell him everything. Doesn't know what a fairy is, or
Goldilocks, or anything!"

He clutched his book affectionately, rubbing his face on it. "Hurry up,
Mommie. It'll be bedtime before you ever read to me!"

She touched his head briefly. "You can look at the book while I fix your
supper."

       *       *       *       *       *

But to explain Cappy's pictures--crudely crayoned cartoons, really--she
had to fill in the story they illustrated. She told it while Richard
ate: how the intrepid Spaceman gallantly used his ray gun against the
villainous Martians to aid the green-haired Princess. Richard spooned up
the thrills with his mush, gazing fascinated at Cappy's colorful and
fantastic pictures, propped before him on the table. Had Ted been home,
the scene might almost have been blissful.

It might have been ... if their own tree hadn't reminded her of
Cappy's. Still, she'd almost managed to stuff her fear back into that
mental pigeon-hole before their own tree. It was unbelievable, but she'd
been glancing out the window every few minutes, so she saw it start.
Their own tree began to walk.

Down the hill it came--right there!--framed in the window behind
Richard's head, moving slowly but inexorably on a root system that
writhed along the surface. Like some ancient sculpture of Serpents
Supporting the Tree of Life. Except that it brought death ...

"Are you sick, Mommie?"

No, not sick. Just something the matter with her throat, preventing a
quick answer, leaving no way to keep Richard from turning to look out
the window.

"I think our tree is coming to play with me, Mommie."

No, no! Not Richard!

"Remember how you used to say that about Cappy? When he was really
coming to see your daddy?"

"But Daddy isn't home!"

"He'll get here, dear. Now eat your supper."

A lot to ask of an excited little boy. And the tree _was_ his friend, it
seemed. Cappy's tree had even followed the child's orders. Richard might
intercede--

No! Expose him to such danger? How could she think of it?

"Had enough to eat, dear? Wash your hands and face at the pump, and you
can stay out and play till Daddy gets home. I--I want----I may have to
see your friend, the tree, by myself ..."

"But you haven't finished my story!"

"I will when Daddy gets home. And if I'm not here, you tell Daddy to do
it."

"Where are you going, Mommie?"

"I might see Cappy, dear. Now go and wash, please!"

"Sure, Mommie. Don't cry."

Accept his kiss, even if it _is_ from a mouth rimmed with supper. And
don't rub it off till he's gone out, you damned fool. You frightened
fool. You shaking, sweating, terror-stricken fool.

Who's he going to kiss when you're not here?

The tree has stopped. Our little tree is having its supper. How nice.
Sucking sustenance direct from soil with aid of sun and air in true
plant fashion--but exhausting our mineral resources.

(How wise of Ted to make you go to those lectures! You wouldn't want to
die in ignorance, would you?)

The lecture--come on, let's go back to the lecture! Let's free our soil
from every tree or we'll not hold the joint in fee. No, not joint. A
vulgarism, teacher would say. Methinks the times are out of joint.
Aroint thee, tree!

Now a pinch. Pinch yourself hard in the same old place so it'll hurt
real bad. Then straighten your face and go stick your head out the
window. Your son is talking--your son, your sun.

Can your son be eclipsed by a tree? A matter of special spatial
relationships, and the space is shrinking, friend. The tree is only a
few hundred feet from the house. It has finished its little supper and
is now running around. Like Richard. _With_ Richard! Congenial, what?

Smile, stupid. Your son speaks. Answer him.

"What, dear?"

"I see Daddy! He just came over the hill. He's running! Can I go meet
him, Mommie?"

"No, dear. It's too far."

Too far. Far too far.

"Did you say something to me, Richard?"

"No. I was talking to the tree. I'm the Spaceman and he's the Martian.
But he doesn't want to be the Martian!"

Richard plays. Let us play. Let us play.

You're close enough to get into the game, surely. A hundred and fifty
feet, maybe. Effective range, fifty feet. Rate of motion? Projected
time-interval? Depends on which system you observe it from. Richard has
a system.

"He doesn't want to play, Mommie. He wants to see you!"

"You tell that tree your Mommie _never_ sees strangers when Daddy isn't
home!"

"I'll _make_ him wait!"

Stoutly your pot-bellied little protector prevents his protective mother
from going to pot.

"If he won't play, I'll use my ray gun on him!"

Obviously, the tree won't play. Watch your son lift empty hands, arm
himself with a weapon yet to be invented, and open fire on the advancing
foe.

"Aa-aa-aa!"

So _that's_ how a ray gun sounds!

"You're dead, tree! You're dead! Now you _can't_ play with me any more.
You're dead!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Seeing it happen, then, watching the tree accept the little boy's
fantasy as fact, Naomi wondered why she'd never thought of that herself.

So the tree was a treacherous medicine-man, was it? A true-believing
witch-doctor? And who could be more susceptible to the poisoning of fear
than a witch-doctor who has made fear work--and believes it's being used
against him?

It was all over. She and the tree bit the dust together. But the tree
was dead, and Naomi merely fainting, and Ted would soon be home ...

                                                        --DAVE DRYFOOS




Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ October 1952.
    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
    typographical errors have been corrected without note.





End of Project Gutenberg's Tree, Spare that Woodman, by Dave Dryfoos