Lost and found_ a novel - Alan Dean Foster [100]
If nothing else, he told himself, they were off the main Vilenjji vessel. No matter what happened next, that had to be considered a plus. At least until something came along to prove otherwise.
Given the comparatively diminutive stature of their new contacts, the corridor they entered into upon exiting the transfer vessel was higher and wider than he expected, a development for which the oft physically put-upon Braouk was especially grateful. Its expansiveness might be explained by the number of tripodal Sessrimathe, who seemed to be everywhere. While many took the time to favor the new arrivals with evident interest, none paused in their activities. An efficient species, Walker decided. Efficient, well dressed, well armed, well equipped. What might their corresponding ethics be like?
For the very first time since he had been abducted, he dared to visualize a glimmer of genuine hope. Hope for what, he could not be sure, but having been deprived of any for so long, he was more than ready to accept whatever might present itself for the taking. Encouragingly, there was still not a single tall, shuffling, condescending Vilenjji to be seen.
They were led into a truck-sized compartment that, like its surroundings, was painted (or stained, or enameled, or poured—Walker could not decide which) white, with silver stripes embedded in the walls that might be decorative, functional, or both. When the stripes began to glow softly, his skin started to tingle. He fought down the urge to scratch, not wanting to do anything that might be misconstrued by their hosts. Though he had no reason to do so, he was beginning to think of them as hosts rather than captors. That old bugaboo hope would not go away.
Though there was no definitive sense of motion, he felt that the compartment must be some kind of internal transport. In order to function efficiently, a vessel this vast would need such, he reasoned. And when they emerged from the compartment’s interior, it was to exit into a different, smaller corridor from the one they had traversed before. Here, the curious stares of the far fewer Sessrimathe present lingered longer on the visitors.
Their guards/guides escorted them into another chamber—Braouk barely managed to squeeze through the entryway—and left them there. Enclosed by white walls devoid of ports or windows, the foursome waited for whatever might come. They were restless, but not worried. Whatever the Sessrimathe decided to do with them could be no worse than what they had already fled.
“I could use a drink,” George murmured.
A few moments later, a portal opened in one wall, and three metal canisters glided into the room. Opening the simple lids, the captives were treated to glimpses, smells, and the sheen of water, some kind of powerful alcohol, and in the third canister what Walker thought might be blue-tinted hydrogen peroxide. Eagerly, the foursome took turns at the water.
Settling back against a wall and wiping lingering droplets from his chin, Walker found himself mentally racing through every metaphor employing whiteness that he could recall. In the end, he likened his present situation to being trapped inside a tube of toothpaste, wondering whether the Sessrimathe would turn out to be germs or cavity fighters. The allegory displeased him. Aside from its juvenile aspects, he was disappointed he could not do better. The Tuuqalian summed up their situation far more elegantly.
“Could be worse, dallying in this place, sucking atmosphere.” The thoughtful Braouk considered testing the doorway to see if it was locked, then decided against doing so. Even if he could manage an exit, there was nowhere to go. Nothing to see but more ivory-hued walls and bustling tripartite Sessrimathe.
Hours later, when the portal through which they had been herded opened anew, they were not surprised to