Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [25]
Disembarking, he found himself alone in the spacious terminal. With no specific destination in mind, he wandered from craft to craft, observing handlers at work and asking what he hoped were innocuously phrased questions that would give the impression he knew about something that might or might not actually exist. The replies he received varied from the bemused to the straightforwardly indeterminate. In this manner he passed most of the remainder of the afternoon, at the end of which period he was no more enlightened than he had been prior to leaving Honydrop.
One young male in particular was having a difficult time shifting a stack of six-sided containers from an off-loading platform onto the back of a small transport vehicle. The machinery he was using to perform the work was balky and uncooperative. It was a rare example of thranx patience wearing thin. Having nothing else to do and already resigned to returning to Honydrop devoid of the edification he sought, Des wandered over and offered his help. If there was nothing here to stimulate his mind, at least he could exercise his body.
The youth accepted the stranger’s offer gratefully. With the two of them working in tandem the process of shifting the containers accelerated noticeably. The open back of the little vehicle began to fill.
“What is in these?” Only mildly interested, Desvendapur glanced down at the container cradled in his four arms. The information embossed on the side of the gray repository was less than descriptive.
“Food,” the other male informed him. “Ingredients. I am a food-preparation assistant, third level.” There was no false pride in his voice. “Graduated at the top of my classification several years ago. That is how I secured this position.”
“You make it sound like it’s something special.” Never known for his tact, Desvendapur was not about to open a new wing case now. He passed another container to the waiting male. “This is Geswixt, not Ciccikalk.” In what had become a rote comment, he fished automatically. “Of course, if the humans were here, it would be different.”
“Here?” The hardworking preparator whistled amusedly. “Why would there be any humans here, in Geswixt?”
“Why indeed? An absurd notion.” A practiced Des displayed neither discouragement nor excitement.
His new acquaintance barely paused to catch his breath. “It really is. They are all up-valley, in their own quarters.” He indicated the rapidly growing stack of containers. “This is food for them. I’m learning how to prepare sustenance not for our kind, but for humans.”
5
Having by now more or less come to the depressing conclusion that the presence of humans in Geswixt was a myth, Desvendapur made the fastest mental adjustment of his life. With admirable lack of hesitation, he responded, “Yes, I know.”
“You know?” The preparator hesitated uncertainly. “How do you know that?”
“By the markings on the containers,” the poet replied without hesitation, supple prevarication being close kin to the white heat of creation. The only difference was that he was creating for the sake of convenience and not for posterity.
His new acquaintance clicked dubiously. “Every shipment is coded. How do you come to know the codes?”
Self-immersed in semantic mud and unable to see a way clear to extricating himself, Des blithely burrowed in deeper. “Because I’m here to cross-check you. I am also in food preparation, just assigned here as a general kitchen assistant.” He tapped the repository he was cradling with all four digits of one truhand. “How are your skills? Current? Up-to-date? Tell me what this contains.”
Distracted, the preparator glanced at the embossing. “Powdered milk. A natural mammalian bodily extract that is used as an ingredient in many meals.”
“Very good!” Des complimented him slavishly even as he wondered what ‘powdered milk’ might be. “This one’s trickier.” He singled out a cylinder with a larger embossed identification area than its predecessor. “How about this?