plant world, deciding. “Pain will be ended by making dryness, non-growth, death. Death ends pain.” Pain reached around the world in surges, throbbing, flowing into the channels of that thought, making it huge and powerful, making memory of how to think pain into death into huge amplified images. The hysterical thought-voice of the plant world screamed: “Die! You hurt. Die!”
“Die!” screamed the bushes. “Die, wither, whiten, let your sap not rise to your twigs. Dry up, cease to know and feel.”
“Die” screamed the flowers. “ You are hurting us with your broken stem!”
The man lifted his eyes from fastening a telescope splint to his wrist.
“ Die!'’ silently screamed the grass, waving hatefully in the wind. “ Whither! Cease to feel! Stop hurting!”
“Going crazy,” muttered the man. “I hate that—what is it?—grass? How can I hate grass?”
His shoulder was already circled by the loop at the other end of the splint. Sitting, the man bent both legs, set a boot against the hook at the end of the wrist splint, and pushed outward, stretching the arm until the bones slipped back into a straight line as if they were unbroken. The splint clicked and remained at its stretched length
as his boot slipped out of the hook. He fell back against the grass and looked at the sky. He did not faint, but the waves of pain oddly surged and changed into hate and a great decision to act, to do something about his pain.
Do what? Something alive was making this pain, he must make the thing stop. Crazy thought—a broken arm was just a broken arm—no thing could . . .
Pain wiped out the thought. The plain seemed still to heave like a rolling surf, but he staggered to his feet and glared defiantly around in a circle.
“Die!" screamed the grass.
“Die!" screamed the flowers.
“Die—death,” remembered bushes and trees. “Drought ... broken branches ... forest fires.”
“Strange idea,” muttered the man “Hate that grass. Hate that forest over there. Wish it would bum up. Hate this whole planet. Making my arm hurt. Looking at them makes my arm hurt.”
He put his good hand over his eyes, shutting out the view. “Must stay rational. Can’t go crazy. Must signal for help. They’ll rescue me soon.”
Concentrating, he searched inside himself for rationality, for philosophy, for calm and peace.
“Yes—peace and silence—we want itP' screamed the flowers. “Die, hateful brother, and there will be peace”
“Die. Kill.” When the man lifted his head and looked around, his eyes were despairing and mad. He pulled out a laser pistol clumsily with his good hand, set it to WIDE and pointed it at the nearest grass.
“Wither," screamed the grass. “ Stop hurting sentience with your broken stem"
“Die,” muttered the man. He pressed the trigger and a spray of fire took the grass. “Stop hurting my arm,” he muttered. He spun and burned a swath across the grassy growths on the other side and walked onto the black charred ground while it still smoked.
“That’ll show you, you rats,” he said, swaying drunkenly.
“Hurt, stop, hurt. Die. Stop,” screamed the planet of plants. And, slowly aroused and awake, the deep and ancient things like pines added their memories of the death of trees. “Fire . . . avalanche . . . lightning . . . thirst . . .” they remembered in slow thunder across the moth-like thoughts of the smaller plants.
The man swayed under the impact. He took another step toward the distant forest, widened the setting of the laser pistol still further and held the trigger down.
When the rescue ship arrived they traced him easily by the black trail across the green new world, and the red and smoky forest fires rolling away from his black highway of ashes.
They set the ship down in the char, and manhandled him aboard. Once they had him under heavy sedation, plant-thoughts came through again: die . . . stop . . . hurt ...
He pounded his image in the mirror until the sap ran
“Die!” screamed the bushes. “Die, wither, whiten, let your sap not rise to your twigs. Dry up, cease to know and feel.”
“Die” screamed the flowers. “ You are hurting us with your broken stem!”
The man lifted his eyes from fastening a telescope splint to his wrist.
“ Die!'’ silently screamed the grass, waving hatefully in the wind. “ Whither! Cease to feel! Stop hurting!”
“Going crazy,” muttered the man. “I hate that—what is it?—grass? How can I hate grass?”
His shoulder was already circled by the loop at the other end of the splint. Sitting, the man bent both legs, set a boot against the hook at the end of the wrist splint, and pushed outward, stretching the arm until the bones slipped back into a straight line as if they were unbroken. The splint clicked and remained at its stretched length
as his boot slipped out of the hook. He fell back against the grass and looked at the sky. He did not faint, but the waves of pain oddly surged and changed into hate and a great decision to act, to do something about his pain.
Do what? Something alive was making this pain, he must make the thing stop. Crazy thought—a broken arm was just a broken arm—no thing could . . .
Pain wiped out the thought. The plain seemed still to heave like a rolling surf, but he staggered to his feet and glared defiantly around in a circle.
“Die!" screamed the grass.
“Die!" screamed the flowers.
“Die—death,” remembered bushes and trees. “Drought ... broken branches ... forest fires.”
“Strange idea,” muttered the man “Hate that grass. Hate that forest over there. Wish it would bum up. Hate this whole planet. Making my arm hurt. Looking at them makes my arm hurt.”
He put his good hand over his eyes, shutting out the view. “Must stay rational. Can’t go crazy. Must signal for help. They’ll rescue me soon.”
Concentrating, he searched inside himself for rationality, for philosophy, for calm and peace.
“Yes—peace and silence—we want itP' screamed the flowers. “Die, hateful brother, and there will be peace”
“Die. Kill.” When the man lifted his head and looked around, his eyes were despairing and mad. He pulled out a laser pistol clumsily with his good hand, set it to WIDE and pointed it at the nearest grass.
“Wither," screamed the grass. “ Stop hurting sentience with your broken stem"
“Die,” muttered the man. He pressed the trigger and a spray of fire took the grass. “Stop hurting my arm,” he muttered. He spun and burned a swath across the grassy growths on the other side and walked onto the black charred ground while it still smoked.
“That’ll show you, you rats,” he said, swaying drunkenly.
“Hurt, stop, hurt. Die. Stop,” screamed the planet of plants. And, slowly aroused and awake, the deep and ancient things like pines added their memories of the death of trees. “Fire . . . avalanche . . . lightning . . . thirst . . .” they remembered in slow thunder across the moth-like thoughts of the smaller plants.
The man swayed under the impact. He took another step toward the distant forest, widened the setting of the laser pistol still further and held the trigger down.
When the rescue ship arrived they traced him easily by the black trail across the green new world, and the red and smoky forest fires rolling away from his black highway of ashes.
They set the ship down in the char, and manhandled him aboard. Once they had him under heavy sedation, plant-thoughts came through again: die . . . stop . . . hurt ...
He pounded his image in the mirror until the sap ran
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