Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [20]
The transport slipped smoothly into a weather-battered shelter. Immediately, double doors labored to close behind it. To Des’s surprise, the two drivers did not wait for the interior temperature to be raised to a comfortable level. They cracked the dome soon after shutting down the vehicle’s engines.
The blast of cold air that struck the poet made him gasp. Shocked spicules caused his entire thorax to contract in reaction. Using all four hands he hurried to tighten the unfamiliar, constricting clothing around his unacclimated limbs and abdomen.
At least the interior of the warehouse reflected traditional thranx values. Everything was organized and in its place, although he had expected to see more in the way of supplies. An isolated community like Honydrop would require more support than a hive of similar size set in an equitable climate. Perhaps there were other storage facilities elsewhere. Disembarking from the cargo carrier, he took further stock of his surroundings. Power suits and mechanical assistants at the ready, a stevedore crew appeared. Working in tandem with the drivers, they began to unload the big bulk carrier. Des waited impatiently for his baggage, buried unceremoniously among the rest of the cargo.
A foothand prodded him from behind. Turning clumsily in the cold-weather gear, he saw a middle-term male staring back at him. Seeing that the local was encumbered by even more clothing than himself made Desvendapur feel a little bit better. The people who lived up here were not superthranx, inured to temperatures that would stiffen the antennae of any normal individual. They were subject to the same climatic vagaries as he.
“Greetings. You are the soother who has been assigned from the lowlands?”
“I am,” Des replied simply.
“Wellbeing to you.” The salutation was curt, the touch of antenna to antenna brief. “I am Ouwetvosen. I’ll take you to your quarters.” Pivoting on four trulegs, he turned to lead the way. When Des hesitated, his host added, “Don’t worry about your things: They will be brought. Honydrop is not a big enough place in which to lose anything. When can you be ready to recite?”
Apparently, traditional protocol and courtesy were as alien to his new home as was the climate. A bit dazed, Des followed his guide. “I’ve only just arrived. I thought—I thought I might accustom myself to my new surroundings first.”
“Shouldn’t take you long,” Ouwetvosen declared bluffly. “The people here are starved for therapeutic entertainment. Recordings and projections are all very well in their way, but they’re not the same as a live performance.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” Des followed his host into a lift. When the doors closed, the temperature within approached something closer to normal. His body relaxed. It was as if he had stepped into a larval nursery. Aware that Ouwetvosen was watching him closely, he straightened his antennae and shifted from six legs back onto four.
“Chilled?”
“I’m fine,” Des lied.
His guide’s attitude seemed to soften slightly. “It takes some getting used to. Be thankful you’re not an agricultural worker. You don’t have to spend time on the outside if you don’t want to. Myself, I’m a fourth-level administrator. I don’t go to the surface unless somebody orders me.”
Desvendapur felt emboldened. “It can’t be that bad.” He indicated his cold-weather gear. “Equipped like this, I think I could stand it for a workday.”
The administrator eyed him thoughtfully. “After a while, you probably could. That’s how the agri folk dress. Except when the rilth is precipitating out of the atmosphere, of course. Then they require full environmental suits.” His mandibles clicked sharply. “One might as well be working in space.”
Des had not made it to the administrator’s sarcasm. “You are subject to falling rilth? Here, at Honydrop? I saw some compacted on the high peaks, of course—but it actually falls here?”
“Toward the end of the wet season, yes. It does sometimes grow cold enough to freeze precipitation and make it fall to the