"Laumer, Keith - Hybrid-01" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

"His was the fate of all males of his kind who lived too long, to stand forever on some height of land, to remember through unending ages the brief glory of youth, himself his own heroic monument."
"Where do you get all that crud?" Malpry said.
"Here was the place," Pantelle said. "Here all his journeys ended."
"OK, Pantelle. Very moving. You said something about this thing being valuable."
"Captain, this tree is still alive, for a while at least. Even after the heart is dead, the appearance of life will persevere. A mantle of new shoots will leaf out to shroud the cadaver, tiny atavistic plantlets without connection to the brain, parasitic to the corpse, identical to the ancestral stock from which the giants sprang, symbolizing the extinction of a hundred million years of evolution."
"Get to the point."
"We can take cuttings from the heart of the tree. I have a book--it gives the details on the anatomy--we can keep the tissues alive. Back in civilization, we can regenerate the tree--brain and all. It will take time-"
"Suppose we sell the cuttings."
"Yes, any university would pay well--"
"How long will it take?"
"Not long. We can cut in with narrow aperture blasters--"
"OK. Get your books, Pantelle. We'll give it a try."

Apparently, the Yanda mind observed, a very long time had elapsed since spore propagation had last been stimulated by the proximity of female. Withdrawn into introverted dreams, the tree had taken no conscious notice as the whispering contact with the spore-brothers faded and the hostcreatures dwindled away. Now, eidetically, the stored impressions sprang into clarity.
It was apparent that no female would pass this way again. The Yanda kind was gone. The fever of instinct that had motivated the elaboration of the mechanisms of emergency propagation had burned itself out futilely. The new pattern of stalked oculi gazed unfocussed at an empty vista of gnarled jungle growth, the myriad fiaments of the transfer nexus coiled quiescent, the ranked grasping members that would have brought a host-creature near drooped unused, the dransacs brimmed needlessly; no further action was indicated. Now death would come in due course.
Somewhere a drumming began, a gross tremor sensed through the dead hush. It ceased, began again, went on and on. It was of no importance, but a faint curiosity led the tree to extend a sensory filament, tap the abandoned nerve-trunk--
Convulsively, the tree-mind recoiled, severing the contact. An impression of smouldering destruction, impossible thermal activity....
Disoriented, the tree-mind considered the implications of the searing pain. A freak of damaged sense organs? A phantom impulse from destroyed nerves?
No. The impact had been traumatic, but the data were there. The tree-mind re-examined each synaptic vibration, reconstructing the experience. In a moment, the meaning was clear: A fire was cutting deep into the body of the tree.
Working hastily, the tree assembled a barrier of incombustible molecules in the path of the fire, waited. The heat reached the barrier, hesitated--and the barrier flashed into incandescence.
A thicker wall was necessary.
The tree applied all of its waning vitality to the task. The shield grew, matched the pace of the fire, curved out to intercept--
And wavered, halted. The energy demand was too great. Starved muscular conduits cramped. Blackness closed over the disintegrating consciousness.
Sluggishly, clarity returned. Now the fie would advance unchecked. Soon it would by-pass the aborted defenses, advance to consume the heart-brain itself. There was no other countermeasure remaining. It was unfortunate, since propagation had not been consummated, but unavoidable. Calmly the tree awaited its destruction by fifire.

Pantelle put the blaster down, sat on the grass and wiped tarry soot from his face.
"What killed 'em off?" Malpry asked suddenly.
Pantelle looked at him.
"Spoilers," he said.
"What's that?"
"They killed them to get the dran. They covered up by pretending the Yanda were a menace, but it was the drnn they were after."
"Don't you ever talk plain?"
"Malpry, did I ever tell you I didn't like you?"
Malpry spat. "What's with this dran?"
"The Yanda have a very strange reproductive cycle. In an emergency, the spores released by the male tree can be implanted in almost any warm-blooded creature and carried in the body for an indefinite length of time. When the host animal mates, the dormant spores come into play. The offspring appears perfectly normal; in fact, the spore steps in and corrects any defects in the individual, repairs injuries, fights disease, and so on; and the life-span is extended; but eventually, the creature goes through the metamorphosis, roots, and becomes a regular male Yanda trefiinstead of dying of old age."
"You talk too much. What's this dran?"
"The tree releases an hypnotic gas to attract host animals. In concentrated form, it's a potent narcotic. That's dran. They killed the trees to get it. The excuse was that the Yanda could make humans give birth to monsters. That was nonsense. But it sold in the black market for fabulous amounts."
"How do you get the dran?"
Pantelle looked at Malpry. "Why do you want to know?"
Malpry looked at the book which lay on the grass. "It's in that, ain't it?"
"Never mind that. Gault's orders were to help me get the heart-cuttings."
"He didn't know about the dran."
"Taking the dran will kill the specimen. You can't-"
Malpry stepped toward the book. Pantelle jumped toward him, swung a haymaker, missed. Malpry knocked him spinning.
"Don't touch me, Creep." He wiped his fist on his pants leg.
Pantelle lay stunned. Malpry thumbed the book, found what he wanted. After ten minutes, he dropped the book, picked up the blaster, and moved off.

Malpry cursed the heat, wiping at his face. A many-legged insect scuttled away before him. Underfoot, something furtive rustled. One good thing, no animals in this damned woods bigger than a mouse. A hell of a place. He'd have to watch his step; it wouldn't do to get lost in here ...
The velvety wall of the half buried trunk loomed, as dense growth gave way suddenly to a clear stretch. Malpry stopped, breathing hard. He got out his sodden handkerchief, staring up at the black wall. A ring of dead-white stalks sprouted from the dead tree. Nearby were other growths, like snarls of wiry black seaweed, and ropy looking things, dangling--
Malpry backed away, snarling. Some crawling disease, some kind of filthy fungus--But--