Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [39]
Expand, Des thought. Then the human presence on Willow-Wane likely did consist of more than just a small scientific station. Still, that did not make it a colony. He needed to learn more. But how? Already the human was exhibiting signs of impatience. It wanted to resume its own schedule, Des suspected. Furthermore, perspiration was pouring down its exposed face. Even deprived of every last piece of attire, Desvendapur knew, it would find the heat and humidity within the unloading area acutely uncomfortable.
“I would like to see you again, Niles. Just to talk.”
The human’s smile was not as wide this time. “You know that’s not allowed, Desvenbapur. We’re breaking a couple of pages of stipulations and restrictions right now by just standing here conversing. But I’ll be damned if I was going to walk on by and let you freeze to death.” He started to back up, still without falling down. “Maybe we’ll see each other again. Why don’t you apply to come work in our sector?”
“There is such a position?” Des hardly dared to hope.
“I think so. There are always a couple of thranx working with our own food people. But I think they must be master preparators, not assistants. Still, with the installation expanding and all, maybe they can use some lower-level help.” With that he turned and headed back up the ramp, closing the door at the top behind him.
Thoughts churning, Desvendapur made his way back to the central dock and the waiting truck. A distraught Ulu and an angry Shemon were waiting for him, having long since completed the unloading.
“Where were you?” Shemon inquired immediately.
“I needed to relieve myself. I told you.” Desvendapur met her gaze evenly, his antennae held defiantly erect.
“You’re lying. Ulu went to check on you. You were not in the facility.”
“I was having digestive convulsions so I took a walk, thinking that it might ease the discomfort.”
She was having none of it. Her antennae dipped forward. “What more appropriate place to deal with intestinal convulsions than the hygienic facility you were already inside?”
“I wasn’t thinking straight. I am sorry if I caused you to worry.”
Ulunegjeprok stepped forward and spoke up in his coworker’s defense. “There is no need to torment him. Look at his eyes. Can’t you see that he is not feeling well?” He reached out to lay a reassuring hand on Des’s thorax.
Desvendapur quickly stepped back. His friend gestured surprise, and Des hastened to concoct an explanation. “I am sorry, Ulu. It’s nothing personal, but I do not want to be touched just now. I am afraid it might irritate my insides, and they do not need any more stimulation.” The real reason was that his chitin was still chilled from his sojourn on the surface, a phenomenon that would not be so easily explained away as his extended absence.
“Yes, I can see that.” His colleague gestured concern. “You should report to the infirmary immediately upon our return.”
“I intend to,” a relieved Des replied.
Little was said on the return journey down the access tunnel. Desvendapur kept, physically and verbally, largely to himself. Believing him ill, neither Ulu nor the still silently fuming Shemon intruded on his personal privacy.
Once back in the complex, the poet excused himself. He went not to the infirmary but to the preparation area. There he searched until he found a suitable bin of spoiled hime root and ripely decomposing coprul leaves. From this he fashioned a suitably noxious meal and forced himself to eat every last leaf and stem. Within half a time-part he was able to present himself outside the complex’s medical facilities with a genuine, full-blown case of severe gastrointestinal upset, for which he was tenderly treated.
By the next day he was feeling much better. He could hardly wait for his work shift to end, whereupon he retired to his cubicle, set a flagon of thin !eld by the side of his resting bench, lowered the lights, activated his scri!ber, and in the carefully crafted privacy of his quarters, prepared to compose. And then a strange thing