Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [137]
But he did not start feeling better. Cheelo could not believe how rapidly the thranx’s condition deteriorated. Within a short while after their meal the alien began to experience difficulty in walking.
“I…I am all right,” Desvendapur replied in response to the human’s query. “I just need to rest for a time-part.”
“No.” Cheelo was unbending. “No resting. Not here.” Even as the thranx started to sink down onto its abdomen, Cheelo was reaching out to grab the bug and pull it back to its feet. The smooth, unyielding chitin of an upper arm was shockingly icy to the touch. “Shit, you’re as cold as these rocks!”
Golden-hued compound eyes peered up at him. “My system is concentrating its body heat internally to protect vital organs. I can still walk. I just need to rest first, to gather my strength.”
Cheelo’s reply was grim. “You ‘rest’ for very long and you won’t have to worry about gathering any strength.” Why was he so concerned? What did it matter to him if the bug died? He could kick the body over the side of the narrow trail and into the gorge where the rich friends of the dead ninlocos would never find it. Continuing on alone, he would make better time. Soon he’d find himself down by the river, and then back in the outpost of civilization called Sintuya. Climate-controlled hotel rooms, real food, insect screens, and a quick flight to Lima or Iquitos, then on to Golfito and his appointment with Ehrenhardt. After a rapid electronic transfer of credit, his own franchise. Money, importance, fine clothes, sloe gin, and fast women. Respect, for Cheelo Montoya.
It had been promised to him and was all there for the taking. With all that in prospect, why should he exert himself on behalf of a bug, even an oversized, intelligent one? The thranx had brought him nothing but trouble. Oh sure, maybe it had saved his life up on the ridge, but if he’d never met it, he would never have found himself in that life-threatening situation. As if that wasn’t reason enough, the insectoid was a criminal, an antisocial, among its own kind! It wasn’t like he would be extending himself to help rescue some alien saint or important diplomat.
Des’s limbs folded up against his abdomen and thorax as he sank down and huddled beneath the blankets. Even his upstanding antennae folded up, collapsing into tight curls to minimize heat loss. Cheelo stared. Ahead, the trail beckoned: a slender, rutted, dirt-and-mud track leading to one paved with gold. With luck—and if the trail held—he’d be down by nightfall and in Sintuya the following evening. He felt good, and as he went lower, the increasing amount of oxygen gave an additional boost to his spirits.
He took a couple of steps down the trail, turning to look back over a shoulder. “Come on. We can’t stop here if we want to get out of the mountains by nightfall.”
“A moment, just a moment,” the thranx pleaded. Its voice was even wispier than usual.
Cheelo Montoya waited irritably as he gazed at the impenetrable, eternal clouds crawling up the green-clad slopes. “Ah, hell.” Turning, he walked back to where the alien had slumped to the ground, all blue-green glaze and crumpled legs. Swinging his pack around so that it rested not against his spine and shoulders but across his chest, he turned his back to the poet, crouched, and bent forward.
“Come on. Get up and walk. It’s downhill. Let one leg fall in front of the other.”
“Fall?” The barely perceptible, protective transparent eye membrane trembled. “I do not follow your meaning.”
“Hurry up!” Annoyed, impatient, and angry at himself, Cheelo had no time for stupid questions. “Put your upper limbs over my shoulders, here.” He tapped himself. “Hang on tight. I’ll carry you for a while. It’ll warm up quick as we go down, and soon you’ll be able to walk on your own again. You’ll see.”
“You—you would carry me?”
“Not if you squat there clicking and hissing! Stand up, dammit, before I have any more