Lost and found_ a novel - Alan Dean Foster [64]
“Oh yeah,” George muttered. “Herbs you ‘really like.’ It’s not like you’re ‘hooked’ or anything.”
“On the contrary, I admit to the addiction.” Silver eyes turned toward the dog. “I am not one to dispute the actuality of a reality. The question is, what can be done about it?”
Walker started to rise. Proceedings had progressed too far to turn back now. If necessary, he was prepared to go ahead without the K’eremu. Better to embark on an ill-prepared effort than none at all.
“You’ll just have to eat your fill the night before,” he told her. “After that . . . ,” he paused. “After that, you’ll have an unprecedented opportunity to demonstrate to all of us how a superior intellect can overcome something as trifling as mere physical dependence.” Water dripped from his bare legs. “I know you can do it, Sque, because I’ve seen humans do it.
“One casual friend of mine was a chocolate aficionado. So great was his obsession that he had made a living trading solely in cocoa futures. Whenever anyone would question him about his fondness for chocolate, both professionally and personally, he would go on and on about its hidden health benefits, how it stimulated his libido, and how much of an energy rush he got every time he ate some. Eventually, it killed him.” He went silent, wondering if she would buy the edifying fiction.
Sque indicated her understanding. “I will apply the utmost self-control of which I am capable, Marc. I assure you that is quite a considerable amount. But it will still be grueling. An acquired fondness for joqil is not easily forsaken.” Though he knew she was not cold, several tentacles quivered. “Surely I can do better than the poor pathetic acquaintance of which you speak.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment.” It would be a sad day indeed, he mused, if a determined K’eremu could not show more determination than a nonexistent human. Straightening, he used the camp towel that had been draped around his shoulders to begin drying himself. Seeing that the conclave was in the process of breaking up, a grateful (and exhausted) Braouk jumped ahead to the rousing conclusion he had chosen for his oration.
Afterward, they each of them went their separate ways. Sque left with the Tuuqalian, riding (to save time) in the supporting curve of two of his massive appendages. While they walked, she would find an appropriate time and place to inform him that the decision had been made to make their move on the morrow. Walker retired to his tent with George following at his side. While its batteries were beginning to fade, the compact music player he had brought with him could still put out enough decibels to allow man and dog to converse in comparative privacy. He turned it on, and up, as soon as they entered the tent.
George lay down, chin on front paws, watching as Walker finished drying himself and prepared to get dressed. “How about it, Marc? You’re convinced we won’t get shot, or worse, for trying this. I wish I had your confidence. Not even that squirmy bunch of bitch-slime Sque can really predict how the Vilenjji are going to react.”
“I know.” Slipping clean feet into dry socks was one of the few earthly pleasures remaining to Walker. It was one that was not going to last much longer, as his limited supply of camp soap had just about run out. At least if he and Sque were wrong and they did get shot, or worse, he wouldn’t die in dirty underwear.
His one consolation was that the Vilenjji, faced with a situation they had hopefully never been forced to deal with previously, would also not know how to react. As for the likelihood of dying, he had already given it far too much thought. To his own surprise, the possibility no longer troubled him. There was a time when the thought of a premature death would have sent him rushing for a drink, or set him to silently bawling, or lamenting the loss of all that he had worked so hard to build.
All that was in the past now. Part of a life half forgotten. A