Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [143]
“Give me the coordinates for this pack of yours and we’ll see what’s in it. If anything. If it exists.”
“Oh, it exists all right.” He glanced briefly toward the doorway. “But first we need to come to some kind of agreement. Officially recorded and witnessed.”
“Agreement?” Shannon was not pleased. Her bureau’s discretionary expense file was in proportion to her assignment. Iquitos wasn’t Paris. “What kind of agreement?”
For the first time since she had entered the interview room he appeared to relax. “You don’t think I’m going to give away the story of the century out of the goodness of my heart, do you?” For a moment, his eyes took on a faraway look and his voice fell to a whisper. “I have to get something back, because I’ve already missed my appointment. I forfeited the franchise. For this.” He shook his head slowly, his tone disbelieving. “I must be crazy. One other thing: We tell it my way. I want editorial input.”
She started to laugh, but then she saw that he was serious. “So now in addition to being a murderer you want to be a journalist?”
His eyes lowered. “That killing up in San José was unfortunate. An accident. It’ll all come out at my hearing.” The smile returned, sly and knowing. “It’ll be a sealed hearing, you’ll see. I know too much, and the government doesn’t like people who know too much to run around loose babbling what they know. But it’ll be worth it to you. I promise.”
She sat up straight and turned her recorder back on. “Never mind all that other nonsense: What makes you think you know anything about telling a story?”
Pursing his lips, he blew her a kiss. She recoiled distastefully. “You just bought mine, didn’t you?”
The pack was there, surprisingly far to the south, buried in a shallow pit between two gnarled strangler figs. Right where he’d said it would be. That in itself meant nothing. The presence of an identifiable, functioning thranx device inside was likewise conclusive of nothing except the owner’s ability to obtain contraband through channels with which he was clearly familiar. The section of thranx arm, however, was another matter. It was sufficiently fresh and well-enough wrapped so that it had not yet begun to decompose, even under the relentless assault of the opportunistic rain forest. Taken together, they lent veracity if not proof to the prisoner’s story.
The next time Shannon visited Montoya, she had company. Not rangers, but a pair of commentators from her company and one wizened, white-haired senior editor.
The prisoner eyed them with an amiable wariness. On the table between them lay the section of alien limb and the device that had been removed from the buried backpack. Neither appeared to have been touched, though in fact both had been carefully examined with a view toward verifying their authenticity. This had been done. Now it remained for the exceedingly curious media representatives to find out how these unlikely objects had come to be in the possession of a minor criminal whose erstwhile home lay far to the north on the American isthmus.
One of the reporters pushed the device across the table in Cheelo’s direction. “We know that this is of alien manufacture, but we don’t know what it does.”
“I do. It’s a scri!ber. I told you—Des was a poet. That means he did more than just put words together. Among the thranx, poetry is a performance art. I know: He performed a couple of times for me.” A gaunt, regretful smile split his features. “I didn’t get much out of it. Didn’t understand the words or the gestures. There was a lot of clicking and whistling, too. But God, it was beautiful.”
The reporter who had asked the question was about to laugh, but her companion put a restraining hand on her arm. Leaning forward, he spoke understandingly. “I’m Rodrigo Monteverde, from the parliament district. I haven’t seen the kind of performance you’re referring to myself, but I’ve talked to those who have. Your description fits.”
“These thranx have performed for ranking officials.