Lost and found_ a novel - Alan Dean Foster [62]
Today they had gathered in Walker and George’s transplanted bit of homey Sierra Nevada. While Braouk propagated the requisite camouflaging noise in the form of a loud recitation of the Anaaragi Saga, part twelve, the remaining threesome gathered in the chilly shallows of the fragment of Cawley Lake. Finding the alpine air far too dry for her liking, Sque would only participate in conversation while lying half submerged in the hydrating cold water. Walker sat close to her, George resting in his lap, while the three of them pretended to watch and listen to the animated vocal performance of the flailing, impassioned Tuuqalian.
Contrary to the attitude of general indifference she usually chose to present, Sque had plainly been devoting some time to studying the plan. “For this to have any chance of working, the Vilenjji must be kept as busy as possible as soon as it is put into effect.”
George nodded his agreement. “The larger a squabbling pack, the easier it is for a dog with a cool head to slip away with the biggest piece of carrion.”
While his eyes were on the stomping, roaring Braouk, Walker’s attention was directed at his other two companions. “We can’t tell anyone else what we’re planning. You never know who might be Ghouabaesque and who might not.”
George frowned. “Then how do we motivate our fellow captives to start the diversion?”
“By not telling them, my short and stumpy quadruped,” Sque explained carefully, “that they are being asked to engage in such an endeavor. Human Walker is quite correct. Tell but one other the details of our venture, and there is every chance it will soon be known to all. I have no doubt that would be fatal to the enterprise.” The cartilage that formed her deep eye sockets would not permit squinting, so she compensated by leaning toward her companions.
“What we can do is spread the story—that did not originate with any of us, of course—that we were told, by one who had heard, from another in a position to know, that there was a rumor that at a certain time, without warning, the barrier that surrounds all the enclosures would have to be momentarily deactivated. For what reasons, this rumormonger did not know. Maintenance, perhaps, or a periodic checking of the structure that delivers power to the system. The reason will not matter to those who are alerted. All they will want to know is when will this happen.
“If it does, when it does, then everyone will be free to react to the resulting state of affairs as each sees fit. Some may elect to do nothing. Some may choose to take a step or two out into a corridor and then retreat to the safety and familiarity of their personal enclosures. But some—hopefully many—may opt to make a break for as much fleeting freedom as they can achieve.”
Chilled as Walker’s backside was becoming from sitting in the icy water, he was reluctant to stand for fear of having to raise his voice, thus risking that some sensitive, unseen Vilenjji pickup might overhear. So he remained seated, and cold, and continued to whisper in between shivers.
“Even if the Vilenjji are informed of the ‘rumor,’ or overhear discussions about it, it’s still only a rumor. Most likely they’d ignore it. If they try to track it to its source, they’ll fail, because everyone including us will say that we heard it from someone else. In the unlikely event that they get really interested, and ultimately manage to isolate one of us as the originator of the story, we can just say that we were trying to boost the spirits of our fellow captives by spreading around an artful fiction.”
“What if they do get curious?” George wanted to know. “And start paying extra attention to us?”
Walker found himself gazing at distant sham mountains, wishing so hard they were real that his stomach knotted. “We’ll just have to do the best we can. We can’t ever be sure when they’re increasing surveillance or when they’re disinterested, and we can’t wait forever