The pod quivered, shook, pulsed. The walls blistered, burst. Ichor welled out and trickled into the entrance channel. The pod convulsed, shivered, fell down limp.
The shattered fragments of ribs, the broken furniture, Farr and Penche tumbled the length of the pod, out upon the balcony, and through the dark.
Farr, grabbing on the tendrils of the balustrade, broke his fall. The tendril parted; Farr dropped. The lawn was only ten feet below. He crashed into the pile of debris. Below him was something rubbery. It seized his legs and pulled with great strength: Penche.
They rolled out on the lawn. Fan’s strength was almost spent. Penche squeezed Farr’s ribs, reached up, and grasped his throat. Farr saw the sardonic face only inches from his. He drew up his knees—hard. Penche winced, gasped, but held fast. Farr shoved his thumb up Penche’s nose and twisted. Penche rolled his head back, his grip relaxed.
Farr croaked, “I’ll tear that thing out—I’ll crush it—”
“No!” gasped Penche. “No.” He yelled, “Trope! Carlyle!”
Figures appeared. Penche rose to his feet. “There’s three Iszic in the house. Don’t let ’em out. Stand by the trunk—shoot to kill.”
A cool voice said, “There won’t be any shooting tonight.”
Two beams of light converged on Penche. He stood quivering with anger. “Who are you?”
“Special Squad. I’m Dectective-Inspector Kirdy.”
Penche exhaled his breath. “Get the Iszic. They’re in my house.”
The Iszic came into the light.
Omon Bozhd said, “We are here to reclaim our property.”
Kirdy inspected them without friendliness. “What property?”
“It is in Farr’s head. A house-seedling.”
“Is it Farr you’re accusing?”
“They’d better not,” said Farr angrily. “They watched me every minute, they searched me, hypnotized me—”
“Penche is the guilty man,” said Omon Bozhd bitterly. “Penche’s agent deceived us. It is clear now. He put the six seeds where he knew we’d find them. He also had a root tendril; he anchored it in Farr’s scalp, among the hairs. We never noticed it.”
“Tough luck,” said Penche.
Kirdy looked dubiously at Farr. “The thing actually stayed alive?”
Farr suppressed the urge to laugh. “Stayed alive? It sent out roots—it put out leaves, a pod. It’s growing. I’ve got a house on my head!”
“It’s Iszic property,” declared Omon Bozhd sharply. “I demand its return.”
“It’s my property,” said Penche. “I bought it—paid for it.”
“It’s my property,” said Farr. “Who’s head is it growing in?”
Kirdy shook his head. “You better all come with me.”
“I’ll go nowhere unless I’m under arrest,” said Penche with great dignity. He pointed. “I told you—arrest the Iszic. They wrecked my house.”
“Come along, all of you,” said Kirdy. He turned. “Bring down the wagon.”
Omon Bozhd made his decision. He rose proudly to his full height, the white bands glowing in the darkness. He looked at Farr, reached under his cloak, and brought out a shatter-gun.
Ducking, Farr fell flat.
The shatter-bolt sighed over his head. Blue fire came from Kirdy’s gun. Omon Bozhd glowed in a blue aureole. He was dead, but he fired again and again. Farr rolled over the dark ground. The other Iszic fired at him, ignoring the police guns, flaming blue figures, dead, acting under command-patterns that outlasted their lives. Bolts struck Farr’s legs. He groaned, and lay still.
The three Iszic collapsed.
“Now,” said Penche, with satisfaction, “I will take care of Farr.”
“Easy, Penche,” said Kirdy.
Farr said, “Keep away from me.”
Penche halted. “I’ll give you ten million for what you’ve got growing in your hair.”
“No,” said Farr wildly. “I’ll grow it myself. I’ll give seeds away free…”
“It’s a gamble,” said Penche. “If it’s male, it’s worth nothing.”
“If it’s female,” said Farr, “it’s worth—” he paused as a police doctor bent over his leg.
“—a great deal,” said Penche dryly. “But you’ll have opposition.”
“From who?” gasped Farr.
Orderlies brought a stretcher.
“From the Iszic. I offer you ten million. I take the chance.”
The fatigue, the pain, the mental exhaustion overcame Farr. “Okay… I’m sick of the whole mess.”
“That constitutes a contract,” cried Penche in triumph. “These officers are witnesses.”
They lifted Farr onto the stretcher. The doctor looked down at him and noticed a sprig of vegetation in Farr’s hair. Reaching down, he plucked it out.
“Ouch!” said Farr.
Penche cried out. “What did he do?”
Farr said weakly, “You’d better take care of your property, Penche.”
“Where is it?” yelled Penche in anguish, collaring the doctor.
“What?” asked the doctor.
“Bring lights!” cried Penche.
Farr saw Penche and his men seeking among the debris for the pale shoot which had grown in his head, then he drifted off into unconsciousness.
Penche came to see Farr in the hospital. “Here,” he said shortly. “Your money.” He tossed a coupon to the table. Farr looked at it. “Ten million dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money,” said Farr.
“Yes,” said Penche.
“You must have found the sprout.”
Penche nodded. “It was still alive. It’s growing now… It’s male.” He picked up the coupon, looked at it, then put it back down. “A poor bet.”
“You had good odds,” Farr told him.
“I don’t care for the money,” said Penche. He looked off through the window, across Los Angeles, and Farr wondered what he was thinking.
“Easy come, easy go,” said Penche. He half-turned, as if to leave.
“Now what?” asked Farr. “You don’t have a female house; you don’t deal in houses.”
K. Penche said, “There’s female houses on Iszm. Lots of them. I’m going after a few.”
“Another raid?”
“Call it anything you like.”
“What do you call it?”
“An expedition.”
“I’m glad I won’t be involved.”
“A man never knows,” Penche remarked. “You might change your mind.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Farr.