Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [48]
“The AAnn don’t bother us here.” Unwittingly, the guide had assumed a marginally superior air.
“Chur!kk, the AAnn are very shrewd.” A truhand encased in insulating fabric waved at the much taller guide, who comprehended nothing of the meaning behind the gesture. “Thinking oneself safe from them, bound by alliances and agreements, secure behind a thin barrier of treaties and covenants, is the most dangerous attitude a people can have.”
“Well, I’m not a diplomat, but all I can say is that they haven’t given us any trouble.”
“Have they paid you a visit?”
The guide blinked. “Several times, I believe. I only settled here last year myself. But yes, ships of the Empire have called at Treetrunk. If I remember correctly they had a look around, extended their hopes for a successful enterprise on the part of the colonial government, took some straightforward and innocuous scientific readings, and left. I understand that their visits were very brief.” He couldn’t keep from smiling. “No doubt they found it a bit nippy for their liking.”
Once more the thranx gestured. “The AAnn require an ambient temperature similar to ours, but infinitely drier than even your kind prefers.” A pair of hands wagged in his direction. “Ensure that those who monitor your scanning instrumentation are well trained and remain alert. Nothing is more dangerous than a well-wishing AAnn.”
“We’ll have a care,” the guide replied with polite nonchalance.
Whether the thranx detected something in her host’s voice or if she simply decided to have a further say in the matter the man never knew, but the heavily bundled insectoid turned to him with an effort and met his eyes with hers. Leastwise, he thought she did. When gazing at compound eyes, it is difficult to tell for certain exactly where they are focused.
“We are always astonished at the confidence you humans display in the face of a lethal and indifferent universe. Have a care that your confidence does not exceed your ability to sustain it.”
“Thank you for that solicitous homily,” he replied tartly. “We know what we’re doing here.”
“Does anyone know what they’re doing anywhere? Individual or species, it does not seem to matter. We are all of us sapients adrift together in a cosmos in which the largest single constituent of matter seems to be composed of unanswered questions.” Turning away, she started up along the path that would lead them back to the terminus where the ground skimmer would pick them up. “I have seen enough. I’m cold, and ready to return to my cubicle on board the Glistener.
I’m ready for you to do so too, he murmured silently. Most of us here on Treetrunk have better things to do than escort garrulous bugs around, answering their inane questions while trying to ponder their cryptic aphorisms. Even if, he reflected, one or two did smell like attar of frangipani.
8
Trohanov was relaxing in his cabin with one of the few tridee recordings he hadn’t already watched on the run out from Earth. It was some trifle about a genetically engineered lone avenger on an endless voyage of self-discovery whose ultimate denouement the creators of the entertainment had left purposely obscure. The protagonist struck him as shallow and his paramour devoid of depth, but they were both pleasant to look upon.
Presently, their beguiling three-dimensional forms were occupied in an activity that, while not in any wise significant to the advancement of the plot, was nonetheless engaging. So it was with some ire that he acknowledged the insistent hail from the bridge.
“Hollis, I’m off duty!” he barked, knowing that the omnidirectional pickup would convey his tone as well as his words to the ship’s second-in-command. “Maybe that doesn’t mean much to you, but when you