Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [38]
“But your face, and your hands—they’re exposed.”
The creature had only two opposing mouthparts instead of the usual four. These parted to reveal teeth as white as the falling rilth. Des did not have teeth, but he knew what they were. He struggled to recall the library information that dealt with the utterly alien aspect of human facial expressions. While the bipeds could and did gesture with their limbs, they preferred to use their obscenely flexible faces to convey meaning and emotion. In this ability they exceeded even the AAnn, whose visages were also flexible but because of the scaly nature of their skin, far more stiff and restricted.
As the human continued to brush rilth from the thranx’s numbed body, seemingly oblivious to the dangerous damp coldness melting against its hands, Des marveled at the exposed flesh. Why the rippling pink stuff simply did not slough off the internal skeleton was another of nature’s marvels. There was nothing to protect it: no exoskeleton, no scales, not even any fur except for a small amount that covered the top of the skull. The creature was as barren of natural cover as the muscles that were barely concealed within. The poet shuddered, and not entirely from the cold. Here was the stuff of nightmares indeed—and of shocking inspiration. Animals could exist so, but something sapient? He found it hard to believe the evidence of his eyes.
“We’ve got to get you inside. Hang on.”
If Des had wondered at the biped’s ability to ambulate on only two limbs without toppling sideways at every third or fourth step, he was positively stunned when it bent at the middle lower joints, reached beneath his abdomen, and lifted. He felt himself rising, the lethal cold of the drifted rilth sliding away from his exposed feet, the heat of the creature reaching out even through its protective clothing. Then he was being carried. That the biped, heavily burdened with its load, did not immediately fall over backward was scarce to be believed.
Not only did it not collapse or lose its balance, it carried Des all the way back through the temperature curtain. Warm moist air enveloped them like a blanket. Feeling began to return to Desvendapur’s limbs, and the creeping stiffness started to recede.
“Can you stand by yourself?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Once they were through the main door the human set him down, keeping a steadying hand on his thorax. Despite the absence of a supportive exoskeleton, the digits were surprisingly strong. The sensation was one no library spool could convey.
“Thank you.” He gazed up into the single-lensed human eyes, trying to fathom their depths.
“What the hell were you doing outside like that? If I hadn’t come along you’d be in a bad way.”
“I would not be in a bad way. I would be dead. I intend to compose a sequence of heroic couplets about the experience. The sensation of the cold alone should be worth several inspiring stanzas.”
“Oh, you’re a poet?” Absently, the human checked a numerical readout attached to his wrist. Desvendapur had decided the creature was a male due to the presence of certain secondary sexual characteristics and the absence of others, though given the thickness of the voluminous protective clothing it was difficult to be absolutely certain.
“No,” Des hastily corrected himself. “That is, I am an assistant food preparator. Composition is a hobby, nothing more.” To try to change the subject he added, “If you have sampled thranx fare, I have probably worked on the initial stages of its preparation.”
“I’m sure that I have. We eat your stuff all the time. No way we could import enough to keep everybody fed and still maintain our privacy here. Willow-Wane fruits and vegetables and grains are a welcome change from concentrates and rehydrates. What’s your name?”
“Desvenbapur.” He whistled internally as the human gamely assayed a comical but passable imitation of the requisite clicks and whistles that comprised the poet’s cognomen. “And you?”
“Niles Hendriksen. I’m part of the construction