Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [57]
“But I am bound by my instructions. I admit that they are undeniably clever and intelligent. It is claimed that in spite of individual dislikes we must work to make them our friends, and us theirs, lest the AAnn or some other equally unpleasant species gain the low ground with them. That will be part and parcel of your work. You are all specialists, some in advanced fields of research, others in support, but each of you is an ambassador. Never, never, forget that.”
They were dismissed to return to their quarters to collect their belongings and their thoughts. Des did not know what was racing through the minds of his three companions, but as for himself he could hardly contain his excitement. This was what he had worked for for so long. This was what he had lied and deceived and falsified to attain: inspiration wild and fresh, of a kind that was denied to every other poet on all the thranx worlds.
A sudden thought clouded the dream. What if there was already a poet within the secret colony? Surely it would boast among its complement an official soother or two. He decided he could not worry about that. If they existed they would be occupied with official duties, with performing for their fellow colonists. He labored under no such obligation. When not carrying out his rote, lowly duties in the kitchen he would be free to compose, locking his inventions away from prying eyes in the secure section of his scri!ber. They would be revealed only when he was back on Willow-Wane, only when it was time to retire Desvenbapur the assistant food preparator and resurrect Desvendapur the poet.
In time, he cautioned himself. In good time. Stimulation and enlightenment first, then revelation.
To all outward appearances there was nothing to distinguish the thranx shuttle from the dozens that had preceded it. A sleek multiwinged shape designed for atmospheric as well as orbital travel, it emerged from the side of the Zenruloim like a vlereq voiding its egg. There was nothing in its external configuration to suggest to observant eyes either in orbit or on the planet below that there was more to it than what was immediately visible.
Receiving final clearance from planetary authorities, it drifted away from the starship on secondary thrusters before engaging its main engine at a safe distance. Braking against orbit, it began to fall not only behind but below its parent craft.
Along with that of his companions, Desvendapur’s attention was fixed on the screen before him as they drifted clear of the queen vessel’s gravity field. It showed a portion of the cloud-bedecked globe filling the field of view. They fell past a human orbiting station, a massive assemblage of rotating interlocking discs that swarmed with smaller craft. A pair of starships were docked at one end. To the poet’s untrained eye they appeared to be about equal in size and mass to the Zenruloim. It was an impressive sight, but hardly an overawing one. Certain aspects of human design were quite similar to those of the thranx while others were radically, even incomprehensibly, different. It seemed impossible that the laws of physics could be bent to identical ends by engineering that differed so startlingly.
Then the shuttle was below and beyond the busy station. An intensely blue ocean loomed below. From his studies Des knew there were three such primary bodies of water on the human homeworld, the least of which was larger than the most extensive sea on either Willow-Wane or Hivehom. Though he knew there was no reason to worry, the sight chilled him more than he would have cared