Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [41]
“As you say, I like to work hard,” he replied evasively, refusing to bite on the bait of the compliment. “At first light, you said?”
“Yes.” She turned away. “Report to the transition chamber, dock six. I am told there are three others who are going at the same time, so your first encounter with the humans will not be a solitary one.”
He had already had a first encounter, but that was and would always remain a private matter. “It will not take me long to gather my things.”
“No, from all that I’ve been told you are not an accumulator. I suppose that under the circumstances that’s all for the best. Farewell, Desvenbapur. I hope you find your stay among these creatures enlightening, or at least not too frightening.”
She would not have understood if he had told her that he hoped to be frightened—also amazed, overwhelmed, terrified, awed, and subject to every other strong emotion possible. It was only from such extremes of feeling that true art arose. But he could not tell her that. He could not tell anyone. What emotions he experienced, as first assistant food preparator Desvenbapur, were only supposed to arise from intimate contact with vegetables.
8
He was the first of the four adventurous ones to present himself at the designated assembly point. The others arrived soon after. The meteorologist was there, as was a senior structural engineer. The third member of the group was a young female sanitation worker who went by the dulcet patronymic of Jhywinhuran. Forcing himself to ignore the more interesting conversation of the two high-level researchers, he gravitated toward the only one of the group with whom he might naturally be expected to bond.
He would much rather have discussed their situation and prospects with the two scientists, but joining in an ongoing discussion with two such cerebral heavyweights was just the sort of misstep that could call his carefully constructed false identity into question. As it turned out, he was only mildly disappointed. Jhywinhuran was lively, personable, far more attractive than either of the two senior techs, and did not rank his job classification. It did not take much of an effort on his part to settle readily onto the bench alongside hers.
“This is so exciting!” Light from overhead sparkled in her eyes. He observed that the red bands that streaked the predominant gold of her multiple lenses shaded delicately to pink. “Ever since the existence of the bipeds was acknowledged by the government I’ve dreamed of working closely with them. That’s why I applied for a position here. But I never imagined I would ever have the opportunity of actually living among them as well.”
“Why?”
She gestured uncertainty. “Why what?”
“Why do you want to work and live among them?” Beneath them, the transport shifted slightly as it backed out of the loading bay and moved toward a tunnel whose terminus he knew from a previous visit.
“I’ve always liked new things,” she replied. “Anything new. When I heard about this, it seemed like the newest thing there could be.”
He looked away from her, scrutinizing the tunnel ahead. “You sound like you should be an artist.”
“Oh, no!” She seemed shocked at the notion. “For that you need a constructive imagination. Mine is purely deductive. I have no aesthetic discipline at all. But I’m very good at what I do.”
“You must be,” he told her, “or you would not have been chosen for this transfer.”
“I know.” She stridulated personal pride. “I’m proud of my skills, even if my position is a lowly one.”
“Not at all,” he chided her. “Mine is lower still. In essence we are both laborers in the same discipline: biology. I work one end, and you the other.”
To make the mild witticism work he was forced to employ a couple of whistles in High Thranx. It took her several moments for comprehension to dawn, but when it did her gesture of amusement was highly appreciative. As always, he