Free Midworld by Alan Dean Foster

to protect.
    Scouting parties went out in armed skimmers to search the endless forest for useful products. They brought back one revelation after another—the forest proved to be an inexhaustible source of surprises— which were metamorphosed into commercial possibilities within the labs. These findings were relayed to other men who in turn relayed the information to a deep space beam operator, who by various devious means—since the presence of the station was illegal, as it had neither been registered nor inspected nor officially approved—passed it on to a distant world. There one man with a machine transcribed the myriad discoveries into figures, relayed them to a second, who took them to a third, who laundered them for a fourth, who laid them carefully on the desk of a person withered in body but not in mind. That person studied the figures. Every so often she would smile crookedly and nod, and then orders would go back along the carefully concealed chain of command until eventually they were disseminated within the dome on The World With No Name.
    So closely guarded was the location of the world with no name that few of those who worked within the dome had any idea where it was, and no pilot was sent to it twice. Pilot relayed information to successor, for the coordinates could not even be trusted to mechanical safekeeping. This was chancy since the coordinates could be lost forever, but the advantage of absolute secrecy made it worthwhile. Since no one knew its location, no one could divulge it voluntarily or otherwise to agents of Commonwealth or Church. Anyone questioned on the subject could admit freely to what he knew—which was nothing.
    The whole operation was very professional.
    In the largest of those inner laboratories, the most intelligent of the station’s researchers studied the huge, ovoid chunk of dark wood that dominated the far end of the chamber. It had been cut open. This piece of wood had made all the expense and secrecy and effort worthwhile, and Wu Tsing-ahn had been working with it even before the construction of the station had been completed.
    He was a small man, with delicate, tortured features and black hair turned prematurely white at odd places. The private agony which strained his face had not affected the clarity of his mind, or dulled his analytical abilities. Like everyone else in the station, he was aware that his activities on this planet were not in keeping with the Ordainments of the Church or Commonwealth law. Most were there for the money.
    Tsing-ahn showed a certain fluttering of the hands, a twitch of both eyelids. Both were by-products of the drug which gave great pleasure at great expense. Tsing-ahn required it now, required it regularly in large doses. He had been forced to suspend his moral principles to satisfy the craving. But he didn’t care any more. Besides, the work was not especially difficult and was intellectually pleasing. There was emotional refuge in that.
    There was a knock on the door across the room. Tsing-ahn acknowledged the knock, and a large man entered, his slight limp noticeable and unavoidable, contact lenses reflecting the steady overhead light. The man was no giant, but each of his biceps was bigger around than the biochemist’s thigh. He wore a holstered sidearm, prominently displayed.
    “Hello, Nearchose.”
    “Hello, Doc,” the big man responded. He crossed the room, nodded toward the pierced and cut section of wood. “Found out what makes it tick yet?”
    “I’ve been reluctant to risk chancing its drug-producing properties until just now, Nearchose,” Wu replied softly. “Full dissection could destroy that.” He reached out and touched the wood.
    Nearchose studied it. “How much you think a burl that size is gonna be worth, Doc?”
    Tsing-ahn shrugged. “How much is a doubled lifespan worth to a man, Nearchose?” He gazed at the burl with something more than scientific detachment. “I’d guess a burl this size would yield