Drowning World by Alan Dean Foster Page B

grimace than usual.
    His fingers would not move.
    They might as well have been welded to the deck. Cursing aloud, he turned around and grabbed his imprisoned right hand with the other. As he did so, rain slid down the front of his rain cape and the shirt beneath, warm and cloying and alien. A sharp yank failed to dislodge the blond substance. So did a steady pull. His booted feet slid on the smooth deck, unable to gain much of a purchase.
    By this time the goo had crept over his hand, up his wrist, and was making steady, silent progress up his arm in the direction of his elbow. It emerged from a seemingly unending supply provided by the root or branch. From the wrist to the tip of his fingers, it had already hardened into a transparent polycarbonate-like casing. Nearby, a second branch was creeping visibly in his direction. Sinister yellowish gunk oozed from its open, hollow tip.
    What would happen if he became completely covered in the rock-hard substance was a vision he chose not to entertain. It would not be a pretty way to die.
    His mind working furiously, he considered his options. The laser welder would probably melt the material, but the welder had been sealed to the deck by the first oozings. With his right hand now firmly stuck, he strained with his other hand to reach back down into the small tool chest that was secured beside the open compartment. The small hammer he picked up bounced harmlessly off the hardened saplike material. When he missed and accidentally struck the still soft portion of the ooze, it threatened to grasp and hold the hammer fast. There was nothing else like the welding laser in the tool chest.
    The crawling goo had ascended past his right elbow and was climbing toward his shoulder. The second invasive root had been joined by a third. He had to twist and shuffle his legs and lower body sideways to keep them from being enveloped by the new invaders.
    Nothing in the tool chest worked on either the roots or the fluid they were so copiously disgorging. A couple of bottles of strong solvent proved useless. The directions on one claimed that its contents had the ability to dissolve metal. Maybe so, but the powerful liquid had no effect on the creeping golden goop. Jabbing the ooze with assorted sharp instruments was an exercise in futility.
    The stuff was up to his shoulder now and showing no signs of slowing down. His right arm was completely immobile, and he couldn't move his legs any farther without dislocating his hips. A couple of brightly colored legless miwots had settled in one of the trees opposite. Fortunately for him, they were scavengers only of curiosity. He cursed them anyway, adding a few choice words for the root system of the large epiphyte that was threatening to entomb him alive inside his own vessel.
    Reaching down into the open compartment one more time, he risked electrocution by grabbing a live conduit and yanking hard. Desperation and adrenaline lent strength to his efforts. The conduit protested at this treatment by parting in a small shower of sparks. Desperately he thrust the raw end against his inhumed right arm and was promptly rewarded with a truly terrible stink.
    The yellow material dissolved away like so much solidified piss. Whether the flow of electrons upset its internal pH or shocked the host epiphyte or affected the molecular bonds of the substance he didn't know and didn't care. A couple of moments later he was completely free. Rain washed the dissolving yellow goop away as freely as if it had been lemon soda.
    First he fixed the conduit, shoving the torn ends back together until they automatically resealed. Then, picking up the liberated welder, he thumbed it to life as he climbed out of the skimmer and into the full force of the morning rain. Tracing the intruding roots back to their origin, he proceeded to cut the offending epiphyte from which they emerged into quarter sections and then to further slice the quarters into smaller and smaller pieces. A flurry of