Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [126]
After a substantial interval the airtruck rose out of the clouds and into sunshine so bright and unfiltered it was painful. In the pure, cerulean distance rose peaks that effortlessly crested five thousand meters. Just ahead, a stony, intermittently green plateau rolled off to the west: hills standing atop mountains. The only signs of habitation were a few detached farmhouses and long stretches of mountainside covered with phototropic sheeting to protect the potatoes and other crops thriving beneath.
On the eastern edge of a high ridge stood a modest, unspectacular domicile attached by a pedestrian corridor to a slightly larger structure. A roll-up door retracted as the airtruck approached. Guiding the vehicle in manually—use of its automatic docking system ran the risk of sending out faint but detectable signals curious rangers might pick up—Maruco brought it to a stop in the exact center of the garage when the appropriate telltale on the truck’s console turned green. A flip of one switch and the vehicle settled gently to the smooth, impervious floor. The door rolled noisily shut behind them as the structure’s internal heating panels roared to life.
Flanking their captives, the poachers led them through the access corridor to the main building, which was sparsely but comfortably furnished. Halfway there Hapec frowned at the alien.
“What’s the matter with it?” He nodded pointedly.
Cheelo, who had been paying little attention to the thranx as he tried to memorize every detail of their prison, now turned to see that the bug was quivering. It took him only a moment to realize what was happening.
“He’s cold.”
“Cold?” Maruco let out a snort of disbelief as they passed a wall readout. “It’s twenty-three in here.”
“That’s too cold for thranx. It told me it found the rain forest brisk. And it’s much too dry in here. It needs at least ninety percent humidity and more like thirty-three, thirty-four degrees to be really comfortable.”
“Shit!” Hapec muttered. “I’ll die.”
“No you won’t. But it’s liable to.”
Grumbling under his breath, the other poacher addressed the house system, directing it to ratchet the interior climate up to something approaching the reported thranx minimum level of comfort.
“Maruco!” His companion protested as both the humidity and the temperature began to climb.
“Quit your bitching,” the smaller of the two poachers snapped. “It’s only for a little while. Couple of days, until we can finalize a deal. Shouldn’t take any longer, not for something as special as this.” He smiled fatuously at Desvendapur. “You’re going to make us rich, you sickening pile of legs and feelers. So be comfortable for a while. We’ll live with it.” The poet regarded the antisocial human blankly and with perfect comprehension.
“And now you,” the poacher informed his other captive coldly, “get tied up.”
“You can’t do that,” Cheelo protested. “It’ll…it will upset the alien. It’s convinced you two are friendlies. Necklace me and you’ll unsettle it.”
“So let it be unsettled. If we have to, we’ll tie it up as well.” Hapec was already removing fasteners from a drawer.
“You could lose it. It could hurt itself struggling to get free, or even choke to death.”
“We’ll take the chance.” Both poachers were moving toward the apprehensive Cheelo, Maruco with a rifle still aimed at him. “If it protests, we can always untie you. Don’t make this hard for us, or for you.”
“Yeah,” Hapec warned him. “Consider yourself lucky. By rights, the ants ought to be scooping out the last of your eyeballs right now.”
Having no choice in the matter, Cheelo submitted to having the plastic restraints secured around his wrists and ankles. When the poachers judged them tight enough, Maruco removed the safety strips and the plastic sealed itself, melt-welding shut at the joints. Glancing behind him, the poacher noted the alien