Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [85]
“So this special group of yours is here kind of secretly, so it can do its work without alerting the media or even the locals?”
For a second time Desvendapur “nodded,” finding the movement natural if overly simplistic, as were the majority of human gestures.
Cheelo was more than merely relieved. For a disquieting time he had been forced to deal with the prospect of dozens of reporters swarming the site of the first thranx expedition to pastoral Earth. Wandering media types might well have trailed an adventurer like this Desvenbapur, anyway. That was all Cheelo needed—half a dozen tridee pickups shoved in his face as their manipulators asked the rain forest hiker for comments. Following broadcast, one of the automated fugitive matchers that monitored the media would set off alarms in half the police centers in this part of the world, and that would be the end of his freedom and anonymity, not to mention any chance of delivering his fee to the waiting Ehrenhardt in time to secure the precious franchise.
But if he was reading the situation correctly, then this small group of thranx this Desvenbapur was talking about were as anxious to keep their presence hidden from the rest of the world as was he. He and this cook-poet were symbiotes in secrecy. Unless…
“Okay, I accept that you are what you claim to be. But what are you doing out here by yourself?” He gestured expansively without stopping to wonder if the sweeping movement of his arm would be interpreted correctly, or indeed if it would mean anything at all to the alien. “This is one of the most isolated, primitive places on the planet. There are dangerous animals here.”
“I know.” With its inflexible face the thranx could not smile, but its upper limbs moved expressively. “I have met several of them. As you can see, I am still unharmed.”
“Defended yourself, huh?” Cheelo squinted as he tried to identify the purpose of the visible bulges in the creature’s backpack. Amiably as they were conversing, he still did not trust the alien as far as he could throw it.
“Not really. Some I avoided, while others proved not as dangerous to me as I believe they are to your kind.” With the middle digits of his left truhand Desvendapur tapped the center of his thorax. “Unlike you, my people wear their supportive skeletons on the outside. We are more resistant to punctures and cuts. However, because of the nature of our respective circulatory systems, if epidermally compromised, we bleed more easily.”
“Then you’re not armed?” Cheelo tried to peer deep into the alien’s eyes but was unsure where to focus.
“I did not say that. Should it prove needful, I can protect myself.” The biped was being agreeable, but it would not do to let it know how helpless Desvendapur really was. Capabilities unrevealed are capabilities held in reserve.
“Glad to hear it.” Cheelo was mildly disappointed. Not that the alien had acted in any way hostile.
“Actually,” it continued in its soft, melodious rendering of Terranglo, “I am lying. I am actually part of a large complement of warriors scouting sites for the invasion.”
Cheelo’s expression dropped, and he started to bring up the hand holding the pistol. Then he hesitated. The bug was emitting a vibrant, high-pitched whistle, and the feathers of its antennae were quivering.
“Chinga—that was a joke, wasn’t it? A goddamn up-front right-out-there joke! Bugs with a sense of humor. Who woulda thought it?” Carefully, he holstered the pistol, though he kept the safety off.
“You see, despite your unavoidably hideous appearance we have many things in common.” The valentine-shaped head inclined slightly to one side, momentarily giving the alien the appearance of a querulous canine. “You will not reveal my presence here to the local authorities? To do so would be to put an end to my gathering of raw material for my artistry—and to the work of my fellow expedition members as well.”
“Naw, I won’t give you away. Tell you what—I won’t mention your presence here, and