Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [62]
It was a state of affairs that could not go on, he knew. Sooner or later his mounting frustration would overwhelm his good judgment and common sense. He would do something stupid and end up exposing himself. Then he would be removed from his duties, taken into custody, and shipped offworld for treatment and, inevitably, castigation. If his link to the death of the transport pilot Melnibicon was discovered, he would be subjected to worse than that. Any chance for a notable creative career, of course, would be permanently dashed.
How to inquire about matters outside his area of expertise without appearing too curious? After careful consideration of possible alternatives, he decided that a bold approach to one person offered fewer risks than dozens of furtive queries put to many different individuals.
He settled on a junior transport operator named Termilkulis who periodically delivered supplies to the kitchen facility. Cultivating friendship, slipping the active and efficient young male leftover delicacies from food storage, Des gradually drew him out until the operator felt completely comfortable in the assistant food preparator’s company.
It was early one morning, after preparations for the morning meal had been concluded and the results turned over to the division masters for final tinkering, that he encountered Termilkulis concluding a delivery. Remarking that he was about to take time for a rest, Desvendapur was gratified when the operator responded agreeably to the suggestion that they do so together. They retired to a back corner of the facility, near the narrow unloading dock, and assumed resting stances on all four trulegs and both foothands.
Following an indeterminate number of minutes spent in lazy contemplation of the morning that were interrupted only by inconsequential remarks, Des ventured casually, “It seems strange to me that, finding ourselves on the human homeworld, we do not see more of the natives.”
“Well, I don’t imagine that you would, working in the department that you do.” Wholly at ease, Termilkulis’s antennae drooped listlessly over his forehead.
Desvendapur indicated assent, careful to keep his gestures moderated and brief. “I suppose that’s true. What about you?” he asked with apparent indifference. “How many have you seen?”
The transport operator did not appear to find the question in any way out of the ordinary. “One or two.”
“But I would think that in the course of making deliveries throughout the colony you would surely have the opportunity to see many of the bipeds.”
“Not really. You know, for a while after I was first assigned here I wondered about the same thing myself.” The poet tensed, but it was evident from the operator’s attitude that the food preparator had not triggered any latent suspicion in the young driver. “So I inquired about the seeming discrepancy, and what I was told made perfect sense.”
“Did it?” responded Desvendapur casually. “Did it really?”
Termilkulis turned toward him. “This is a thranx colony, a thranx hive. Only a few humans, working for an enlightened but covert division of their government, know of its existence. It is designed to show that we can live among them, in sizable numbers, without adversely impacting their civilization. When the time comes, when the xenosociologists on both sides think it is all right, our existence will be revealed and will hopefully have a salutary