Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [82]
“No,” he responded cautiously. “I’m not a ranger. I’m not an official of any kind. I’m…a tourist. An amateur naturalist, studying the forest.”
Sure enough, the two withdrawn forelimbs resumed their previous relaxed position and the searching, rotating, head twisting ceased as the creature focused once more solely on the man in the tree. “You must be a confident one. This is supposed to be an exceptionally remote, uninhabited area.”
“That’s right.” Cheelo nodded agreeably, then found himself frowning. He had drawn the pistol aside, but he did not put it down. “How do you know that? And what are you doing here, anyway?”
Desvendapur hesitated. Unable to interpret human gesture or the extraordinary range of expression their flexible faces were capable of producing, he had no way of determining the biped’s true intent. As such, he had to rely entirely on his knowledge of their language. For a thranx, used to employing and translating gesture as organically as sound, the absence of interpretable gesticulation was akin to hearing only every other word of a conversation. He would have to fill in the gaps by inference, as best he could.
As near as he could tell based on what he thought he knew, the human struck him as curious rather than hostile, though the poet could not help but wonder about the function of the small device it had previously been pointing at him. That it was no longer doing so was a relief. But how to respond to the coarse, guttural inquiry? Of course, if he had simply stumbled into the lair of a wandering naturalist, then there was nothing to fear. He doubted that the human counterpart to a thranx researcher would be much of a threat. Students of science, regardless of species, tended to be reflective rather than violent.
That did not mean it would hesitate, if provoked, to give him away. He could do nothing, could not determine on a course of further action, until he knew what means of communication the human maintained with the outside world. At least, he decided, it had not immediately drawn forth a communicator of some kind to announce the encounter. As a naturalist, it might well be as curious about Desvendapur as the poet was about him.
In any event, benefits from the confrontation were already manifesting themselves. A rush of suggestive stanzas raced through Desvendapur’s freshly stimulated brain. Reaching back with a foothand, he searched for his scri!ber.
The sudden movement alarmed the suspicious biped. “Hey, what are you doing there?” Again, the small pointed device the mammal was holding made an appearance on the rim of the bough.
Maybe it’s got a gun, Cheelo found himself thinking nervously. And if it did, would he be able to recognize an alien weapon if it was pointed in his direction? Maybe he should just shoot it, right now. But what if it was not alone? What if it was a member of some larger exploration party? What if it was working in concert with people, with human scientists? Painfully aware of his ignorance, he realized that until he knew more it would be prudent to react cautiously. He had not survived worse than the rain forest and come as close to realizing his lifelong dream as he had by acting impetuously. Observe, analyze, think, plan, then act: the ancient lessons of the street.
Besides, the stiff-legged alien didn’t look particularly fast, and it gave no indication of wanting to run away. He could always shoot it later.
Not wanting to upset the biped further, Desvendapur brought the scri!ber out very slowly. “This is a harmless recording device.”
“I don’t give a shit what it is.” Cheelo gestured with the pistol. “Don’t point it at me.” He did not want his picture taken, either.
“As you wish.” Exhilarated by the tension and the unexpectedness of the contact, Desvendapur proceeded to deliver a stream of