Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [28]
“So, where did you study?” he inquired innocently of his newly arrived counterfeit colleague.
Nothing if not voluble, Des spun an elaborate story woven around what he knew of Hivehom. Since Ulu was a native of Willow-Wane and had never been offworld, he could hardly catch Des in any mistakes. By the time the truck finally began to slow as they approached another floor-to-ceiling barrier, the poet had half convinced himself of his own skill at food preparation.
He held his breath, but the facility on the other side of the seal was disappointingly ordinary. Certainly there was nothing to indicate the presence of aliens. He was reluctant to press Ulu for details lest he appear too eager. Besides, the less he opened his mouthparts, the better. Silence was the best way of hiding ignorance.
Turning down a subsidiary corridor, Ulunegjeprok eventually parked the truck in a vacant unloading slot. Wordlessly, acting as though he knew exactly what he was doing and that he belonged, Des proceeded to help him unload. The kitchen facilities were extensive, spotless, and more or less familiar, though he did espy several devices whose purpose was foreign to him. That did not necessarily mean they were intended for the preparation of mammalian food, he reminded himself. He was a poet, not a cook, and the only food preparation equipment he was familiar with was the individual kind that he had made use of personally.
Encountering and finding himself introduced to a couple of Ulu’s coworkers, he was delighted to discover that he could pass himself off as a colleague with a certain aplomb. They in turn were able to present him to still others, with the result that by nightfall he was an accepted member of the staff. Thus accredited through personal contact, his presence was not further remarked upon. He even assisted in the preparation of the nighttime meal, noting that for this purpose the staff responsible for the preparation of the alien food had the extensive facility entirely to themselves.
To his surprise he discovered among the courses a number that were familiar to him. He did not comment on this revelation lest he expose his ignorance. But it was fascinating to learn that the humans could eat thranx food.
“Not all of it, of course,” Ulu remarked in the course of their work, “but then you know that already. Fortunately, they don’t ask us to assist in the treatment of meat.”
“Meat?” Desvendapur was not sure he had heard the preparator correctly.
“That’s right, joke about it,” Ulu whistled. “I cannot imagine it myself. They warned us when we were taking the special courses, but still, the idea of intelligent creatures consuming the flesh of others of their own immediate family was more than a little terrifying. Didn’t you find it so?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Desvendapur was quick to improvise. “Meat eaters! The proclivity seems utterly incompatible with true intelligence.”
“I have not seen them do it myself. I do remember asking, early on in the first seminar, why they did not just do all their own food preparation, but as you know the idea is to encourage them to become as comfortable as possible here. That means learning to eat food that we prepare.” He whistled a soft chuckle. “What the media would not give to know that the only contact project isn’t on Hivehom.” Light flashed from his compound eyes as he looked over at Des, who was whitened up to his foothands in something called flour. “Wouldn’t it be funny if you were a correspondent who had slipped in here under cover, and not a preparator assistant?”
Desvendapur laughed in what he fervently hoped was an unforced manner. “What an amusing notion, Ulu! Naturally, I am as sworn to secrecy as everyone else who has been chosen to work with the aliens.”
“Naturally.” Ulunegjeprok was forming the flour into loaves. Watching and learning something new and useful every