Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [81]
But it did look up—directly at him. Though it had no pupils on which he could focus, he could not escape the feeling that it was staring directly at him. It was an unnerving sensation, an unsettling feeling, as if all the bugs he had ever stomped, sprayed, squashed, or swatted had been rolled up together into one measureless, accusatory, all-encompassing insectoid stare. Even though he knew it was his own memories and guilt that were gazing back up at him, the realization did nothing to alleviate the unease in his mind or the pounding of his heart. Bringing up the hand that held the pistol, he started to point it at the silent specter standing beneath the branch. While he knew nothing about alien physiology or vulnerability, he was willing to chance that it could not take a burst to the skull at close range. He lowered the muzzle so that it was pointed right between the two bulging, reflective eyes. His finger started to tighten on the trigger.
The accent was soft to the point of being incomprehensible, but slight and wispy as it was, there was no mistaking the conjoined syllables of Universal Terranglo.
“Hello,” the big bug said. “I hope you will not expose me.”
Expose me? Had he expected the outrageous apparition to say anything at all, that was not what Cheelo would have predicted. “Greetings, man,” perhaps, or maybe “Can you tell me how to contact the nearest authorities?” not “I hope you will not expose me.” It had also, he noted, not reacted either visibly or verbally to the presence of the lethal weapon that the nervous human was pointing directly at its head. Cheelo hesitated.
Could the soft voice and gentle words be a ploy to relax him and put him off his guard before it attacked and sucked out his innards? Simply by looking at it he could not tell if it could climb. Was it trying to lure him down to the ground where it could set upon him with all eight limbs? It was shorter and looked like it weighed less, but knowing as he did nothing about the species he had no idea how strong it might be. Crabs were smaller than humans, too, but they had jointed chitinous limbs that could effortlessly amputate a man’s fingers.
“Can you talk?” it inquired in a manner that could only be described as curiously polite. “I spent a great deal of time studying recordings of your language until I thought myself fluent. Of course, mimicry is not the same as competency.”
“Yeah.” Cheelo found himself responding reflexively. “Yeah, I can talk.” As for competency, the thranx’s Terranglo was more cultivated than his own. Montoya’s speech reflected its origin in small villages and mean streets, not fancy recordings or educational programming. “You’re a thranx, aren’t you?”
“I am thranx.” The creature gestured elaborately with its set of small upper limbs and their eight digits. “I am individually, in the sounding of your speech, called Desvenbapur.”
Cheelo nodded absently. Was there any harm in telling this alien his name? Was there anything to be lost or gained by it? If they were going to continue this conversation—and the bug showed no signs of being in a hurry to move on—it would need to call him something. He gave a mental shrug. Whatever else the thranx might represent, he doubted it worked for the local police.
“Cheelo Montoya.”
He smiled at the thranx’s initial attempts to pronounce his name. Maybe its speech wasn’t all that cultivated after all. It was, however, sufficiently inquisitive to cause Cheelo to tense all over again.
“What are you doing out here in this empty place?” Desvendapur inquired innocently. It took a step backward, away from the branch and the tree. “Are you a ranger on patrol?”
At the mention of the word ranger Cheelo started to bring the pistol up again—only to relax, not a little confused, when he saw that the alien suddenly appeared to be more nervous than he was himself. It was looking around with rapid, twitchy movements