Lost and found_ a novel - Alan Dean Foster [63]
Sque could not keep herself from demurring. “Actually, human Wal . . . Marc, while I see the need for the active participation of the Tuuqalian, and I, and even yourself, I confess that I am at a loss to recognize the necessity of your small companion’s involvement.” Gleaming horizontal eyes regarded the dog impassively. “Nothing personal.”
“On the contrary,” Walker quickly shot back before the dog could respond, “George’s participation is critical to the success of our undertaking. Among other things, his presence will be vital to looking after your welfare.”
“Oh.” Dexterous tentacles stroked back and forth, making lazy ripples in the cool, clear water. “I confess that I had not thought of that. Naturally all would be doomed to failure should some harm befall me.” Her gaze turned to him. “You are learning, Marc. You show promise. Of course,” she added, “when one begins one’s ascent from the absolute bottom of the cerebral pit, noticeable advances are easier to make.”
Though impressive, Braouk’s stamina was finite. The Anaaragi Saga was difficult to sustain in the telling, and part twelve especially so. The Tuuqalian was starting to show signs of slowing down.
“How soon?” While George’s excitement was betrayed by the rapid wagging of his tail, any watching Vilenjji should put it down to his apparent enjoyment of the Tuuqalian’s resounding recitation.
For an answer, Walker looked to Sque. As long as it was relatively soon, it did not matter to him when they made their move, and she would appreciate being asked to be the one to make the decision. Still, her reply surprised him.
“Tomorrow, at the occasion of the first feeding for those of us who are diurnal. I know the Vilenjji to be light-lovers, as are the majority of their captives. Those who do nocturnal duty will be growing tired and are therefore likely to be less alert and reactive than normal, while those assigned to the daytime period will not yet be fully awake and active enough to participate in the confusion we hope to spawn.”
Walker nodded, glanced down at his ready companion. “George?”
“I don’t give a cat fart,” the dog muttered impatiently. “We’ve been talking about doing this and planning it for so long I can hardly hold my water from thinking about it.” From beneath bushy brows, brown eyes looked up at the human. “Marc, even if we can pull this off, do you really think it will lead to anything?”
“I don’t know.” Walker looked away. “But I do know that being proactive is better than doing nothing. Maybe something unexpected will present itself. We can’t take advantage of an opportunity we don’t try to make.”
“Blatantly obvious.” Like a long, sentient pink worm, Sque’s speaking tube swayed slowly back and forth. “There is one small problem that has not, as yet, been discussed. I have been somewhat reluctant to bring it up, lest its import be misconstrued.”
Tuuqalian eyestalks were aimed directly at them now, a sure sign that despite his concentration, Braouk’s staying power was fading. “What problem?” Walker asked her tersely.
For the first time since he had met her, Sque seemed unsure of herself. “If our gamble should enjoy any degree of success, there is the matter of subsequently securing adequate sustenance to go on.”
“We’ve talked about that,” Walker reminded her. “Depending on how circumstances develop, those in need of food will have to scavenge for it as best they can.”
She remained visibly perturbed. “It is not so much the basal nourishment that concerns me as it is the potential inability to acquire a sufficiency of certain specific ingredients.”
Realization dawned. Walker peered hard into her eyes, not caring if any spying Vilenjji noticed his abrupt shift of attention. “Your daily dose of si’dana and joqil. You’re worried about having to go cold turkey on your stimulants.”
“The metaphor you choose does not translate