Lost and found_ a novel - Alan Dean Foster [40]
“Best to hope for placement with an understanding buyer, on a world whose ecology is not uncomfortably dissimilar to your own. That, and a remaining life given over to tolerable pursuits. My personal fear is that I will be sold not on the basis of my mental powers but for the attraction of my digital dexterity, and that I will be asked to provide entertainment by juggling with my limbs instead of my mind.”
Walker had visions of himself, consigned forever to life on some unknown, unimaginable alien world, collared and chained side by side with George.
“There has to be something we can do,” he protested. He’d already asked as much of the dog, whose response had been the canine equivalent of “Stick your head between your legs and kiss your ass good-bye.” He doubted he would get that kind of response from Sque. For one thing, she had no ass.
But while less colorful, her response was not any more encouraging. “To the Vilenjji you represent an expenditure of time, money, and effort. They will want that returned to them, with a profit. No amount of pleading, of asserting your intelligence, however difficult that might be to prove, of outrage, of appeal to whatever ethical standards the Vilenjji might possess, is going to get you back to your homeworld. I have seen it tried by others; all of that, and more. Nothing works. The Vilenjji are implacable. They are also large, physically powerful, determined, and personally disagreeable. Better to spend your time concentrating on maintaining your health. There is nothing you can do.”
He rose. “Maybe there’s nothing you can do, for all your vaunted intelligence! But I’m getting out of here. Someday, some way, I’m getting out!” Pivoting sharply, he slipped and nearly fell. Recovering as much of his dignity from the near fall as he could, he straightened and stomped out of the K’eremu ecosystem and back toward the grand enclosure.
A lilting, moist voice called after him. “When you do, hold your breath. By doing so, most oxygen breathers can live for another minute or so in the vacuum of space before they either boil or freeze solid, depending on their proximity to the nearest stellar body.”
He slowed slightly, turned, and shouted back into the mist that had already swallowed up the K’eremu. “It was very nice to meet you, Sque. Thanks for all the information.”
There was no response. He would have been surprised if there had been.
Lying on the ground cover, his head resting on his crossed forepaws, George perked up immediately when Walker emerged from the mist-shrouded compartment. The dog was livid. While George could not flush, he could certainly make use of his voice.
“What the lost bones happened to you in there? Where have you been? I was almost ready to come in after you!” He paused. “Almost.”
Kneeling, Walker reached out to pet the dog. George would have none of it, backing swiftly out of the man’s reach. “Don’t be angry, George. I learned a lot from the resident.”
Anger immediately forgotten, the dog looked past him, toward the rain-swept private enclosure. “Something does live in there? What is it? A talking mold?”
Walker shook his head. “Kind of hard to describe to a dog from Chicago. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen an octopus, or a squid?”
George surprised him. “Sure. Lots of times. Fancy restaurants throw them out all the time. People order them, see what they look like on a plate, then refuse to eat them. I’m perfectly happy to take the throwaways. One being’s refusal is another’s edible refuse. Not much taste, but filling, and nice and chewy.”
“Don’t let Sque ever hear you talk like that. She doesn’t think much of anything besides her own kind as it is.”
“So it’s a she. Well, what did ‘she’ have to say that was so important it kept you in there for hours?”
“I told you I was sorry.” Since kneeling was starting to cause the backs of his thighs to ache, he chose a soft-looking spot and sat down. Initial annoyance forgotten, the dog promptly plopped its head onto his lap. Absently, Walker stroked the back of George’s head as he