13
Increasingly confident of his ability to elude the attentions of whoever was probing this portion of the rain forest, Cheelo finished the last of his supper and prepared to retire for the night. The enormous branch that protruded from the lower portion of the trunk of the diderocarpus would not have been easy for a city dweller to reach, but in his time Cheelo had been forced to do more than his share of scrambling over, around, and through obstacles to avoid the attentions of security guards, alerted authorities, and violated merchants. The modest ascent caused him no difficulty.
In minutes he had his pack snugged deep in a crook formed by two tributary branches and his thin emergency blanket spread out on a flattened portion of the largest. Safer than usual from those forest inhabitants who chose to do their marauding after dark, he settled down to a meal of fruit supplemented with vitamin pills and dehydrates. The latter responded gratifyingly to his experienced ministrations and the application of a little water.
The sun did not so much set as silently evaporate behind the clouds and trees, so he could not watch it drop below a vaporous horizon. But seated silently in his temporary aerie he was able to observe the performance of parrots and macaws, of monkeys and lizards, and to hear the ever-present thrum of hyperactive insects. For company he had a brace of black-and-yellow frogs, each of which was no bigger than his thumb. The rain forest was an unending, round-the-clock carnival in which one never knew what act was going to present itself next.
That did not mean he retained his composure when the meter-and-a-half tall bug wandered out of the woods in the direction of his tree.
At first he thought he was hallucinating, a not-uncommon occurrence in the deep tropics. As opposed to the giant insect, however, everything else looked, smelled, felt, and sounded unceremoniously real. Hallucinations usually involved more than one element of perception. Excluding the outlandish apparition, nothing—not even the clouds, not even the explosion of green growth—appeared abnormal.
As it came closer he saw that while it was insectlike, it was not an insect. It had eight limbs instead of the compulsory six, but neither did that make it a spider. Other details marked it as significantly different. Each of the upper four limbs terminated not in hooks or claws, but in four manipulative digits of equal length. Cheelo could not avoid thinking of them as fingers. Not while one delicately gripped a device of some kind and another casually held a stick.
As he stared, the blue-green, hard-shelled specter halted. It looked down at the device it was carrying, up and around at its immediate surroundings, and again at the device before reaching back to place it in a pocket or slot in the sack slung across its body. The sack was fashioned from a synthetic material Cheelo did not recognize. Unable to reach the pouch with the smaller limb that had held the device up for inspection, the creature was forced to transfer the object to a second set of arms in order to complete the transfer.
Raising itself up onto its four hind limbs, it looked around before resuming its approach. Unless it deviated from its present course, it would pass directly beneath the branch on which Cheelo had chosen to make his bed. Flattening himself out, he fumbled apprehensively for the pistol in his backpack. He could see nothing like a weapon hanging from or attached to the bug or its gear.
That was when he recognized the creature from a hazy remembrance of an old media report. As he recalled, it was his mind that had been hazy at the time, not the report. He had been very, very drunk; he recalled the moment as one of the low points in his life, of which he had suffered many. If he remembered correctly, this creature was a representative of one of the several intelligent, space-traversing species mankind had encountered subsequent to the development of the posi-gravity, or KK-drive, that had made other-than-light travel possible. He tried to remember the species’ name: cranks or drinks or—thranx. That was it. Never one to care about or much keep up with planetary, much less extrasolar, news, he had overheard and filed the information in that corner of his mind where he stored data that was unlikely to immediately impact his personal social and financial standing.
Explorers might contact and encounter a dozen new species or a hundred: It meant nothing to him if he was unable to somehow profit from it. Nor was he alone in his reaction. Convinced that all matter, existence, and the universe revolved around each of them individually, the bulk of humanity paid little attention to that which did not affect their lives directly. The far-reaching, far-ranging vision that the species possessed as a whole tended to dissolve into its billions of self-serving individual components when redacted to the petty concerns of one person at a time.
Well, he was damn well concerned now. Tense and wary, he observed the alien’s approach, marveling at the fluid yet jerky motion of the four hind limbs that propelled it forward. What the hell was one of these buglike thranx things doing here, in the empty reaches of Earth’s largest rain forest preserve? Shouldn’t it be quarantined on an orbiting station, or at the very least confined to a well-established diplomatic site like Geneva or Lombok?
Anxiously scanning the trees behind the creature revealed no other signs of movement. Though it would be premature to make the assumption, as far as his senses could tell him, the alien was alone. As he stared, it stopped again to take stock of its surroundings. The valentine-shaped head, about the size of his own, turned almost a hundred and eighty degrees to look back the way it had come. In striking contrast to the blue-green exoskeleton, the oversized compound eyes were a muted gold marked by latitudinal streaks of red. Like an extra pair of fingers, the two antennae would incline first one way, then another, and sometimes in opposite directions, as they investigated their immediate surroundings.
Individuals of a different and more advanced intellectual bent would have reacted to the intrusion with curiosity and interest. A nervous, edgy Cheelo just wanted the stiff-legged monstrosity to go away. He had spent too much time in the company of cockroaches, had been stung too often by scorpions, had been bitten too many times in his life by spiders and ants and aggressive tropical beetles, to want this gigantic if distant relation to tarry in his vicinity. Even though he knew it was intelligent and not an insect in the accepted terrestrial sense, he just wanted it to go away. If it did not, if it caused him the slightest bit of trouble, if it reacted in any way, shape, or form that might be construed as hostile—his fingers were firm and unyielding on the butt and trigger of the compact pistol.
That killing the intruder might precipitate some kind of interstellar diplomatic incident never crossed his mind. Interstellar diplomacy and interspecies relations had no immediate impact on the lifestyle of one Cheelo Montoya and therefore did not concern him. If there was trouble of that kind it was up to the government to sort out. All that concerned him was his freedom of movement, his health, and the fluctuating status of his bank account. He did not see how the shooting of one overlarge, out-of-place, alien bug would adversely affect any of that.
Hopefully, he would not have to deal with any such exotic ramifications. Preferably, the extraordinary creature would keep right on walking—through the forest, under his branch, and off in a westerly direction, intent on pursuits or destinations that would remain forever a blissful mystery to the uninterested Cheelo. As it drew nearer still he noted the size of the second, larger sack strapped to the alien’s back and wondered what it contained besides small lumpy devices of unknown purpose. It was preparing to pass beneath his bough now, and he edged a little farther back, the tough bark scraping against his legs, belly, and chest.
Dislodged by his actions, one of the fruits he had scavenged tumbled backward, off the branch, and plunged to the ground directly in front of the extraterrestrial visitor. It halted immediately, gazing down at the green orb where it had landed among the leaf litter. Cheelo held his breath. There was no reason for the creature to look up. In the fecund rain forest, fruit fell from the canopy all the time.
But it did look up—directly at him. Though it had no pupils on which he could focus, he could not escape the feeling that it was staring directly at him. It was an unnerving sensation, an unsettling feeling, as if all the bugs he had ever stomped, sprayed, squashed, or swatted had been rolled up together into one measureless, accusatory, all-encompassing insectoid stare. Even though he knew it was his own memories and guilt that were gazing back up at him, the realization did nothing to alleviate the unease in his mind or the pounding of his heart. Bringing up the hand that held the pistol, he started to point it at the silent specter standing beneath the branch. While he knew nothing about alien physiology or vulnerability, he was willing to chance that it could not take a burst to the skull at close range. He lowered the muzzle so that it was pointed right between the two bulging, reflective eyes. His finger started to tighten on the trigger.
The accent was soft to the point of being incomprehensible, but slight and wispy as it was, there was no mistaking the conjoined syllables of Universal Terranglo.
“Hello,” the big bug said. “I hope you will not expose me.”
Expose me? Had he expected the outrageous apparition to say anything at all, that was not what Cheelo would have predicted. “Greetings, man,” perhaps, or maybe “Can you tell me how to contact the nearest authorities?” not “I hope you will not expose me.” It had also, he noted, not reacted either visibly or verbally to the presence of the lethal weapon that the nervous human was pointing directly at its head. Cheelo hesitated.
Could the soft voice and gentle words be a ploy to relax him and put him off his guard before it attacked and sucked out his innards? Simply by looking at it he could not tell if it could climb. Was it trying to lure him down to the ground where it could set upon him with all eight limbs? It was shorter and looked like it weighed less, but knowing as he did nothing about the species he had no idea how strong it might be. Crabs were smaller than humans, too, but they had jointed chitinous limbs that could effortlessly amputate a man’s fingers.
“Can you talk?” it inquired in a manner that could only be described as curiously polite. “I spent a great deal of time studying recordings of your language until I thought myself fluent. Of course, mimicry is not the same as competency.”
“Yeah.” Cheelo found himself responding reflexively. “Yeah, I can talk.” As for competency, the thranx’s Terranglo was more cultivated than his own. Montoya’s speech reflected its origin in small villages and mean streets, not fancy recordings or educational programming. “You’re a thranx, aren’t you?”
“I am thranx.” The creature gestured elaborately with its set of small upper limbs and their eight digits. “I am individually, in the sounding of your speech, called Desvenbapur.”
Cheelo nodded absently. Was there any harm in telling this alien his name? Was there anything to be lost or gained by it? If they were going to continue this conversation—and the bug showed no signs of being in a hurry to move on—it would need to call him something. He gave a mental shrug. Whatever else the thranx might represent, he doubted it worked for the local police.
“Cheelo Montoya.”
He smiled at the thranx’s initial attempts to pronounce his name. Maybe its speech wasn’t all that cultivated after all. It was, however, sufficiently inquisitive to cause Cheelo to tense all over again.
“What are you doing out here in this empty place?” Desvendapur inquired innocently. It took a step backward, away from the branch and the tree. “Are you a ranger on patrol?”
At the mention of the word ranger Cheelo started to bring the pistol up again—only to relax, not a little confused, when he saw that the alien suddenly appeared to be more nervous than he was himself. It was looking around with rapid, twitchy movements and had drawn its forelimbs up against its—well, whatever passed for its chest. Being utterly ignorant of alien gesture and motivation, Cheelo could only interpret what he was seeing based on that which he knew, and it looked to him as if the creature was ready to bolt.
“No,” he responded cautiously. “I’m not a ranger. I’m not an official of any kind. I’m…a tourist. An amateur naturalist, studying the forest.”
Sure enough, the two withdrawn forelimbs resumed their previous relaxed position and the searching, rotating, head twisting ceased as the creature focused once more solely on the man in the tree. “You must be a confident one. This is supposed to be an exceptionally remote, uninhabited area.”
“That’s right.” Cheelo nodded agreeably, then found himself frowning. He had drawn the pistol aside, but he did not put it down. “How do you know that? And what are you doing here, anyway?”
Desvendapur hesitated. Unable to interpret human gesture or the extraordinary range of expression their flexible faces were capable of producing, he had no way of determining the biped’s true intent. As such, he had to rely entirely on his knowledge of their language. For a thranx, used to employing and translating gesture as organically as sound, the absence of interpretable gesticulation was akin to hearing only every other word of a conversation. He would have to fill in the gaps by inference, as best he could.
As near as he could tell based on what he thought he knew, the human struck him as curious rather than hostile, though the poet could not help but wonder about the function of the small device it had previously been pointing at him. That it was no longer doing so was a relief. But how to respond to the coarse, guttural inquiry? Of course, if he had simply stumbled into the lair of a wandering naturalist, then there was nothing to fear. He doubted that the human counterpart to a thranx researcher would be much of a threat. Students of science, regardless of species, tended to be reflective rather than violent.
That did not mean it would hesitate, if provoked, to give him away. He could do nothing, could not determine on a course of further action, until he knew what means of communication the human maintained with the outside world. At least, he decided, it had not immediately drawn forth a communicator of some kind to announce the encounter. As a naturalist, it might well be as curious about Desvendapur as the poet was about him.
In any event, benefits from the confrontation were already manifesting themselves. A rush of suggestive stanzas raced through Desvendapur’s freshly stimulated brain. Reaching back with a foothand, he searched for his scri!ber.
The sudden movement alarmed the suspicious biped. “Hey, what are you doing there?” Again, the small pointed device the mammal was holding made an appearance on the rim of the bough.
Maybe it’s got a gun, Cheelo found himself thinking nervously. And if it did, would he be able to recognize an alien weapon if it was pointed in his direction? Maybe he should just shoot it, right now. But what if it was not alone? What if it was a member of some larger exploration party? What if it was working in concert with people, with human scientists? Painfully aware of his ignorance, he realized that until he knew more it would be prudent to react cautiously. He had not survived worse than the rain forest and come as close to realizing his lifelong dream as he had by acting impetuously. Observe, analyze, think, plan, then act: the ancient lessons of the street.
Besides, the stiff-legged alien didn’t look particularly fast, and it gave no indication of wanting to run away. He could always shoot it later.
Not wanting to upset the biped further, Desvendapur brought the scri!ber out very slowly. “This is a harmless recording device.”
“I don’t give a shit what it is.” Cheelo gestured with the pistol. “Don’t point it at me.” He did not want his picture taken, either.
“As you wish.” Exhilarated by the tension and the unexpectedness of the contact, Desvendapur proceeded to deliver a stream of clicks, whistles, and sibilant syllables to the scri!ber, together with breathless suggestions for appropriate accompanying gestures. Throughout the euphonious discursive, the human continued to gaze down at him from its perch up in the tree. Such a primitive stare! the poet thought. So straightforward and unvarying, heightened by the directness of a single lens. Human eyes were very vulnerable, Desvendapur knew. A thranx could lose part of an eye, dozens of individual lenses, and still be able to see, albeit with a reduced field of vision and focus. Should a human lose its lens, the ocular function of the entire orb would be largely lost. The realization transformed part of his discomfiture into sympathy.
When he was finished he attached the scri!ber to the pouch hanging from his thorax, where it could be accessed quickly. The human responded by lowering the unidentified mechanism it had been clutching so tightly in one hand.
“You still haven’t answered my questions. I told you who I am and what I’m doing here. I’m still waiting to hear your story.”
Desvendapur knew he would have to summon all the creative inventiveness at his command. It was vital to prevent the human from notifying the authorities. If that happened, not only would the poet’s presence be revealed to the outside world, so would that of the colony. He could hardly explain that he had found his way to the forest preserve from the official, highly restricted contact sites halfway around the planet. Officially, few thranx had even set foot on the human homeworld.
The biped claimed to be an amateur naturalist. But unless he was concealing his equipment, he appeared to Des to be traveling exceptionally light even for a casually interested nonprofessional. For that matter, why was he even bothering to have this conversation? Any human encountering an unannounced alien could be expected to immediately contact a higher authority. Instead, this Cheelo individual seemed content, at least for the moment, to perform his own interrogation. Something was not as it seemed, but Desvendapur knew it was far too early for him to render judgments. He needed more information—a great deal more. After all, what did he know of human scientific procedures? Perhaps this self-proclaimed naturalist’s gear was stored or buried nearby.
Irrespective of the actual explanation, the delay was greatly to the poet’s liking. The longer the encounter lasted before it was terminated due to contact with the planetary authorities, the greater the opportunities to set down new and exciting poesy.
“I am a food preparations specialist.” He spoke slowly to make certain he was being understood.
He was being understood, all right. Utterly ignorant of thranx dining deportment, Cheelo did not much like the sound of “food preparations specialist.”
“Who do you prepare food for?” He looked past the bug, scrutinizing the rain forest from which it had emerged. “Not just yourself, surely? There must be more of you.”
“There are,” Desvendapur explained creatively, “but they are, crrrk, carrying out limited studies of their own far, far from here. I am on a solitary expedition of my own.”
“To do what?” Suspicious to a fault, Cheelo kept searching the woods for any hints of closing ambush. “Gather herbs and spices?” He lowered his gaze. “Or maybe you’d like to catch me off guard so you could kill and eat me?”
Utterly unanticipated, the sickening speculative accusation caught Desvendapur completely off guard. He had thought that his surreptitious research and studies adequately prepared him for just this kind of contact, but he was wrong. Unwilled and unbidden, an image formed in his mind: the human, stripped of clothing and nude, its pulpy, fleshy pink form stretched out over a fire; raw animal fat dripping from its scorched limbs, oozing into the flames and sizzling; the smell of carbonizing meat…
Reeling, he promptly regurgitated the undigested portion of the day’s meal that had been quietly fermenting in his upper stomach. He had turned away not out of embarrassment but to avoid retching into the space between himself and the human. That would have constituted a serious breach of manners, though without further knowledge of human habits he was unsure how the biped would have reacted to it.
As it was, the lone male’s tone rose in volume. Based on his studies, a retching Desvendapur thought it sounded slightly alarmed.
“Ay—what’re you doing? Are you all right?” It looked like the alien was throwing up, but for all Cheelo knew it might have been seeding the ground with its spores, planting more of its kind deep in the rain forest soil. As the creature explained when it finally recovered its equilibrium, Cheelo’s initial assumption had been the correct one.
“I am apologizing.” As it spoke, the bug was cleaning its four opposing mandibles with the back of a leaf it plucked from a nearby plant. “Your insinuation conjured up a most unpleasant picture. Thranx do not eat”—his voice quavered—“do not eat…other creatures.”
“Ay—vegetarians, eh?” Cheelo grunted. “Okay, so you’re a cook or something. That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing out here all by your lonesome.”
Desvendapur plunged ahead. He had nothing to lose now, less so by revealing himself to this representative of another species. “I am also an amateur poet. I was transmuting my impressions of my alien surroundings into art.”
“No shit? You don’t say?”
Desvendapur was unsure if he had heard correctly. “Yes I do say,” he responded hopefully.
A poet. That sounded about as unthreatening as anything Cheelo could imagine. “So when you were speaking into that recording device of yours, you were composing poetry?”
“A portion of it. Much of the artistry lies in the delivery. You humans use gesture as a supplement to language. For thranx, how we move is as important a part of communication as what we say and how we say it.”
Cheelo nodded slowly. “I can see that. If I had four arms, waving them around would probably be twice as important to me, too.” While he still did not trust the alien, neither did it appear as threatening as it had at first appearance. Nevertheless, a giant bug was still a giant bug, even if taxonomically it wasn’t a bug at all. He kept the pistol drawn as he rose from his crouch and scrambled down the trunk of the tree.
Desvendapur watched in awe. While adept at traversing rocky slopes or narrow ledges, a thranx had difficulty with verticalities. A certain sinuosity of self was required that their inflexible exoskeletons did not permit. To thranx eyes, the actions of a climbing human were as fluid as those of a snake.
Leaping the last meter to the ground, Cheelo found himself confronting the outlandish visitor. Inclined back on its four hind legs with thorax, neck, and head stretched as high as possible, the creature’s face came about to Cheelo’s chest. He estimated its weight at fifty kilos or so, perhaps slightly less. When erected, the twin feathery antennae added another thirty centimeters to its height.
“So,” Cheelo continued, “this expedition of yours? It’s authorized by the authorities? I thought all aliens were restricted to contact on orbiting stations, with only a few high-ranking diplomatic types allowed to actually set foot on Earth.”
Desvendapur falsified rapidly. “A special waiver was granted to my group. They are being supervised by representatives of your own kind.” Years of practice had given him the ability to lie with great facility and skill.
“Then you’ll be rejoining them soon?”
How best to answer so as neither to make the biped suspicious nor activate its defensive instincts? “No. They will be continuing their work for,” he fumbled for the appropriate human time referents, “another of your months.”
“Uh-huh.” The human’s head bobbed up and down several times. From his studies Desvendapur recognized the gesture as a “nod,” an indication of general concurrence. It was one the thranx could easily mimic. Though he normally would have used his truhands to suggest agreement, the poet duplicated the motion in so natural and relaxed a fashion that the biped did not think to question its unlikely origin.
For a self-proclaimed naturalist, Desvendapur reflected, the human’s queries seemed to troll far from the realms of science.
“So this special group of yours is here kind of secretly, so it can do its work without alerting the media or even the locals?”
For a second time Desvendapur “nodded,” finding the movement natural if overly simplistic, as were the majority of human gestures.
Cheelo was more than merely relieved. For a disquieting time he had been forced to deal with the prospect of dozens of reporters swarming the site of the first thranx expedition to pastoral Earth. Wandering media types might well have trailed an adventurer like this Desvenbapur, anyway. That was all Cheelo needed—half a dozen tridee pickups shoved in his face as their manipulators asked the rain forest hiker for comments. Following broadcast, one of the automated fugitive matchers that monitored the media would set off alarms in half the police centers in this part of the world, and that would be the end of his freedom and anonymity, not to mention any chance of delivering his fee to the waiting Ehrenhardt in time to secure the precious franchise.
But if he was reading the situation correctly, then this small group of thranx this Desvenbapur was talking about were as anxious to keep their presence hidden from the rest of the world as was he. He and this cook-poet were symbiotes in secrecy. Unless…
“Okay, I accept that you are what you claim to be. But what are you doing out here by yourself?” He gestured expansively without stopping to wonder if the sweeping movement of his arm would be interpreted correctly, or indeed if it would mean anything at all to the alien. “This is one of the most isolated, primitive places on the planet. There are dangerous animals here.”
“I know.” With its inflexible face the thranx could not smile, but its upper limbs moved expressively. “I have met several of them. As you can see, I am still unharmed.”
“Defended yourself, huh?” Cheelo squinted as he tried to identify the purpose of the visible bulges in the creature’s backpack. Amiably as they were conversing, he still did not trust the alien as far as he could throw it.
“Not really. Some I avoided, while others proved not as dangerous to me as I believe they are to your kind.” With the middle digits of his left truhand Desvendapur tapped the center of his thorax. “Unlike you, my people wear their supportive skeletons on the outside. We are more resistant to punctures and cuts. However, because of the nature of our respective circulatory systems, if epidermally compromised, we bleed more easily.”
“Then you’re not armed?” Cheelo tried to peer deep into the alien’s eyes but was unsure where to focus.
“I did not say that. Should it prove needful, I can protect myself.” The biped was being agreeable, but it would not do to let it know how helpless Desvendapur really was. Capabilities unrevealed are capabilities held in reserve.
“Glad to hear it.” Cheelo was mildly disappointed. Not that the alien had acted in any way hostile.
“Actually,” it continued in its soft, melodious rendering of Terranglo, “I am lying. I am actually part of a large complement of warriors scouting sites for the invasion.”
Cheelo’s expression dropped, and he started to bring up the hand holding the pistol. Then he hesitated. The bug was emitting a vibrant, high-pitched whistle, and the feathers of its antennae were quivering.
“Chinga—that was a joke, wasn’t it? A goddamn up-front right-out-there joke! Bugs with a sense of humor. Who woulda thought it?” Carefully, he holstered the pistol, though he kept the safety off.
“You see, despite your unavoidably hideous appearance we have many things in common.” The valentine-shaped head inclined slightly to one side, momentarily giving the alien the appearance of a querulous canine. “You will not reveal my presence here to the local authorities? To do so would be to put an end to my gathering of raw material for my artistry—and to the work of my fellow expedition members as well.”
“Naw, I won’t give you away. Tell you what—I won’t mention your presence here, and you don’t mention mine to your coworkers when you rejoin them.”
“I am pleased with the arrangement, but why do you wish your presence here to remain unknown? Surely secrecy is not a necessary component to the work of a naturalist?”
Cheelo did not think as fast as the poet, but he managed to improvise a reply before Desvendapur could grow uneasy.
Lowering his voice, he moved a little nearer. As the lanky bipedal form loomed over him, Des took a step backward, then forced himself to halt. Was this not, after all, what he had come for? The decreasing distance that separated them would have been easier to deal with if the human had not smelled so bad. The climate of the humid rain forest served to magnify the pungency of its body odor, which unavoidably reeked of previously ingested flesh.
“To tell you the truth, I’m sort of here illegally myself. Access to this part of the Reserva is restricted. Not everyone can get a permit to do work in the Manu. And I needed to be here.” Oh, how I needed to be here, he thought. “So I just kind of slipped in, quietly and on my own. It’s not hard to do, if you know how to go about it. The Manu is big, and ranger outposts hereabouts are isolated and lightly staffed.” He drew himself up proudly.
“Not many people would think of exploring this region on their own, much less actually try to do so. You might say that I’m an exceptional person.”
“Yes, I can sense that.” Were humans, too, vulnerable to praise and flattery? It was another similitude, but this time one that Desvendapur chose not to expound upon. Such knowledge could prove valuable in the days ahead.
“Well, this has been fascinating, really fascinating, but I have to get on with my work, and I’m sure you feel the same about your own.” Demonstrating astonishing balance, the biped pivoted and turned to leave. In so doing, Desvendapur saw the wrenching, intense inspiration he had worked so long and hard to access disappearing with it.
By taking several steps forward, he induced the human to turn back once again. Rather abruptly, the poet came to a decision. “Your pardon.” He fought down the churning in his stomachs that was induced by proximity to the creature. “But if you would not object, I would just as soon adapt my route so that it coincides with yours.”