Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [58]
Reldmuurtinjak replied as expected. “There is much surviving information. Unfortunately, none of it is relevant to our inquiry.”
Nodding to indicate that he understood, the human turned sideways and slip-slid cautiously down into the dimple in the stelacrete floor. “Your people are very good at this kind of work. You never seem to get tired, or bored.”
Reldmuurtinjak struggled to reply in his recently acquired Terranglo, even as the lanky human sought to address him in Low Thranx. Their conversation was a melange of both, an uncertain brew of slippery human vowels and fricative thranx clicks and whistles. The ungainly but evolving interspecies patois had unofficially been dubbed Symbospeech, and the name had stuck. As yet, the results were far from justifying even so semigrandiose an appellation. But with each encounter between the species, the shared vernacular grew.
“We are accustomed to slow, methodical work.” Reldmuurtinjak did not look up from his labor. It was not necessary, since there were few human gestures critical to interpret. Aural conversation conveyed the majority of their communication. “We are glad to help.”
“You know, some of my coworkers—not myself, understand—have wondered about that. Of all the other intelligent species, you and the Pitar were the first to volunteer your assistance.” He looked distinctly uncomfortable, but Reldmuurtinjak had not dealt with enough humans for long enough to be able to interpret the extravagant range of human facial expressions. “There’s been talk—I haven’t participated in it myself—that maybe, and I hope you won’t be offended by this, that maybe a rogue element of your people might have had something to do with this.”
It took a moment for the import of the human’s words to sink in and for the thranx to review it in his mind to make certain that he had not heard incorrectly.
“‘With this’?” Putting down the four tools he was handling simultaneously, he now turned face and antennae up to the human. “I believe I understand the implications of what you are saying. I just do not want to.”
Lee raised both hands in a gesture unfamiliar to Reldmuurtinjak. “Hey, it’s not me! I don’t give any credence to it for a moment.” To emphasize his stance on the matter he concluded with a fairly fluent double click from the back of his throat. “I just think you ought to know what’s being said about you. Not about you personally, understand. About some hypothetical thranx who might have had a hypothetical part in the real tragedy.”
Utilizing the by-now common human gesture, the researcher nodded deliberately. “There is tragedy in what you say, but it has nothing to do with what happened to this world.” He turned slowly back to his work.
The human started to edge a little closer and then, uncertain, held his ground. “I don’t believe a word of it, of course. I mean, it doesn’t make any sense. What would the thranx, any thranx, have to gain by participating in such a bloodbath? Not new lands to settle. Your kind get chilled in Earth’s tropical regions. You’d be uncomfortable here on a midsummer’s afternoon, like today. Most of the year you’d just freeze.”
“Quite true,” Reldmuurtinjak agreed, trying to bundle his own cold-climate attire more tightly around his thorax. “We have no use for this world.”
“And we’ve had contact with each other for more than half a century now, with no major conflicts or disputes. Just the usual ranting and raving from xenophobes on both sides.” He went silent.
As the human appeared to be awaiting a response, Reldmuurtinjak supplied the one he thought the biped might be waiting to hear. “Those thranx who are suspicious of and wish no contact with your kind inveigh against it because they are frightened of your unpredictability.”
Lee frowned uncertainly. “Not our proclivity to violence?”
“No. Recognizing that aggressiveness is not an uncommon characteristic among sentient species, we are not unsettled to find it among your kind. Our ancestors fought one another as ruthlessly as did yours. And we have been dealing with the feints