Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [44]
“Eighth-level assistant,” Desvendapur supplied quickly.
The processor clicked sharply, his mandibles grinding together just so. “The file lists you as a food synthesizer. That is a much more illustrious designation.”
“I completely agree,” Des told him, “but it is not one that applies to me. I am only an assistant preparator.” Leaning forward, he tried to steal a glimpse of the readout, and failed. It was attuned only to the eyes of the processor.
Digits moved and the readout changed. Desvendapur reminded himself to breathe.
“Aht, here it is.” The drone’s tone did not change. “Desvenbapur. Assistant food preparator, level eight. You may proceed to the next checkpoint.”
“That’s it?” The challenge emerged of its own accord. “After all that?”
“After all what?” The processor eyed him curiously. “It was a simple filing error. I was doing my job.”
He would have to learn to accept such things in stride, a relieved Desvendapur told himself. His identity had not been compromised—only momentarily misplaced. With Jhy leading the way, he advanced to the next station, ready now for whatever challenge it might present.
He need not have concerned himself. At each successive checkpoint his presence was acknowledged and his legitimacy confirmed. If he had been at all worried about the integrity of his newly wrought identity, two days of processing did much to lay his concerns to rest.
They were housed together until the following morning, when they were due to lift off via atmospheric shuttle. Waiting in high orbit was the space-plus transport Zenruloim. No one had officially told them they were going to Hivehom, and no one had to: That was where the project was located.
He tried to prepare himself mentally for the voyage ahead. His first journey offworld should be good for a folio at least. Then would come the descent to an entirely new planet, the ancestral homeworld of the thranx. Finally there would be, at long last, extended and intimate contact with the extraordinary bipedal mammals called humans. His sleeping chamber was comfortable enough, but he hardly slept at all.
Morning brought with it an excitement that was as difficult to contain as it was to quantify. He was pleased to note that the two scientists, far from being intellectually or emotionally above such simple emotions, were as visibly excited as food preparator and sanitation worker.
They boarded the shuttle via a long access ramp. At no time were they exposed to the outside, but that was perfectly natural. Very little of a hive beyond parks and recreational sites was located on the surface. The atmospheric shuttle itself was of modest dimensions, long and low. Brief prelift instruction was given; no one materialized to offer good-byes or farewells; and before he really had time to inspect his surroundings, Desvendapur found himself airborne and thundering toward orbit.
Offworld. There were no ports on the government transport, but by utilizing the seat controls he was able to call up a three-dimensional projection of the external view in any direction. He saw Willow-Wane receding below him and the firmament of stars and worlds and other species—primitive and intelligent, familiar and alien—drawing infinitesimally closer. Within him fresh inspiration simmered but did not boil. That would come with consistent contact, he felt. When he was surrounded by alien bipeds, by humans dwelling in their own facilities, that was when the river of enlightenment would wash over him to cleanse him of the puerile, classical heritage of traditional thranx rhythmic narrative.
He had studied hard, had prepared for this his whole life. What it was permitted to know, he had absorbed, from available records and reports. He knew how humans lived, but that was not the same as living with and among them. He knew how they were supposed to smell, but that was not the same as smelling them. He knew how they moved, how their peculiarly restricted speech patterns sounded, how they viewed