Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [24]
He felt some sort of thanks was in order. “This is very good of you.”
A reply that was more grunt than whistle assailed his ears. “This job is boring enough. A little risk is worth it for a little company. Talk to me, poet. Tell me about yourself, and the world beyond this cold hell. How goes life in Ciccikalk?”
“Why ask me? You have pictures, images.”
“That’s not the same as hearing it from someone who’s recently been places. Use flowery language, poet. I like being soothed in High Thranx.”
He complied as best he was able, resorting to improvisation when knowledge and experience failed, and all the while doing his best not to look outside. Doing so reminded him of the cold death that awaited below.
In spite of his nervousness he found that the time passed quickly. When Melnibicon indicated that they had crossed the ridge and were descending into Geswixt, he forced aside his unease and pressed his face and antennae to the port.
The view was less than instructive. Not having any idea what to expect, he was still disappointed. The panorama was less than inspiring. Certainly it dispensed no revelations.
Below them, a long, narrow valley stretched from the impossibly inhospitable high mountains that lay to the north off in the direction of the distant sea. A fast-flowing river ran down the center of the valley. Unlike the country above and around Honydrop, the land showed no signs of cultivation. Only the rubble-free disc of the landing platform indicated the presence in the valley of intelligent inhabitants. They were flying over one of the most remote regions on Willow-Wane. Geswixt, like Honydrop and every other thranx hive built in a less than ideal climatic zone, would of course be located entirely underground.
What did you expect? he admonished himself as the lifter hummed through a pass between two rilth-clad crags. Hordes of humans dashing about in all directions, or genuflecting at the approach of every craft making an arrival? The absence of any visible indication that the bipedal mammals were present was hardly conclusive proof of their absence.
Neither, however, was it encouraging.
After an uneventful descent, Melnibicon set the lifter down gently on the landing disc and taxied forward until they were once more within a sheltering enclosure and surrounded by other vehicles. The assortment of battered, weather-scoured craft parked in the Geswixt terminal betrayed no hidden uses. The terminal looked exactly like the one in Honydrop, only larger. Cargo was being unloaded from one aircar while a small lifter was being filled with an assortment of crates and barrels from a pair of container transports. There was no evidence of unusual activity or exceptional security.
If it was after all nothing but rumor, he thought disappointedly, then he had wasted not just an afternoon but the past several seasons of his life on a quixotic, futile quest.
The muted hum of the lifter’s engine died. Slipping free of the pilot’s bench and gear, Melnibicon turned to look back at him. “Welcome to Geswixt. Is it what you expected?”
He gestured noncommittally. “I haven’t seen anything yet.”
She generated the high-pitched whistle that was thranx laughter. “Have a look around. I need to make delivery of that medication. They’re waiting for it, so it shouldn’t take long. Then I am going to take a little break for myself, chat with some fliers I know here.” She spoke to the lifter and it replied with the correct time. “Be back in four time-parts. I’d rather not fly through these mountains after dark, even if the lifter does most of the flying itself.