Lost and found_ a novel - Alan Dean Foster [82]
Tomorrow, he decided as he and Dven-Palt shuffled down the nearest rampway. Except for the instructive postmortem, it would all be over and done with by tomorrow. He almost regretted that it would be so. The escape and its invigorating aftermath had provided the most enjoyment he had experienced in quite some time.
While Walker kept his eyes on the passageway and George his nose to the deck, Sque led the way through the seemingly interminable maze that was the interior of the Vilenjji ship. Their progress was slowed by the need to avoid, duck beneath, or go around sensors designed to detect the presence of moving, nonmechanical forms. If triggered, these would brighten the lights and increase the flow of fresh air to the affected section. In and of themselves, both consequences were desirable. The problem, Sque pointed out, was that by activating such sensors with their presence they might also send notification of same to some central monitoring facility. This would, in turn, pinpoint their location for the Vilenjji eager to find them.
So for two days now they had tolerated stale atmosphere and dim lighting while they progressed, relying on the word and expertise of the overbearing K’eremu because they had no other choice. For his part, Walker was happy to do so—provided that Sque knew what she was doing. If it all went for naught, he could always strangle her with her own tentacles later.
“Tell me something,” he asked after they had just squirmed their way through a particularly difficult and smelly vertical channel. “Are you typical of your kind? I mean, are most K’eremu like you?”
Silvery eyes turned to look up at him. “If by that you are referring to my personality, whose maturity and refinement is beyond your feeble comprehension, I am pleased to say that were you to be fortunate enough to be blessed by a visit to K’erem, you would discover that largely because of my enforced incarceration on this vessel I have become among the most polite and understanding of my kind.”
Walker shuddered from head to foot.
“This is interesting.” Forced to bend low to avoid striking the conduits that ran along the ceiling, Braouk had stopped beside a brace of pale translucent pipes. The others gathered around the curious Tuuqalian’s bulk.
Standing up on his hind legs and balancing with care, George sniffed of the spot Braouk was pointing out, where fluid the color and consistency of spoiled cream was leaking from a tiny crack. The dog’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he settled back down onto all fours.
“Feh. Smells like industrial waste.”
“On the contrary,” Sque informed him, “I believe this syrupy liquid is a major source of nourishment to our captors.” Rotating atop her tentacles, she studied their immediate surroundings, finally settling her attention on several panels that lined an isolated post like protective plates on a dinosaur’s back. “I have an idea.”
A nervous Walker peered back the way they had come. It had been some time since they had seen signs of any Vilenjji, or even a mobile service automaton. “This idea: It’s not going to take long to implement, is it?”
“No.” Reaching up, a trio of tentacles lightly caressed his left forearm. “We may do no more than retain our freedom for a few days longer. Should that sad eventuality be the one to befall us, would it not be uplifting to return to our enclosures knowing that we have caused our misbegotten hosts some small discomfort?”
“Oh, yes!” Without even knowing what the devious K’eremu had in mind, George was enthusiastic.
Braouk was equally willing to assist. “What must do, we who wander shipside, hopefully seeking?”
“First,” she told the Tuuqalian, “I need that lower left panel opened. It appears to be locked.”
Approaching the post, Braouk reached out with his left tentacles, felt tentatively around the edges