Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [87]
This time Cheelo grinned wolfishly. “No you won’t. Because you’re not supposed to be here, either. Your little research expedition is poking its antennae way, way outside established perimeters for alien visitors. Even I know that much. You don’t belong here. In fact, I ought to be the one threatening to expose you!”
Desvendapur deliberated. “Then why don’t you?”
“You already know. Because to do so would mean revealing my own unauthorized presence here. I don’t belong, and neither do you. So neither guy can risk exposing the other. But that doesn’t mean I have to let you follow me around.”
“I would rather have your cooperation.” The thranx’s antennae were never entirely still, Cheelo noticed. “But if necessary, I will follow and observe you and your interactions with the environment at a distance.”
“No you won’t.” The lanky human patted his holster. “Because if you do, I’ll splatter your bug guts all over the forest.”
The valentine-shaped head dipped slightly to allow compound eyes to focus on the weapon. “That is a very belligerent attitude for a professed naturalist to take.”
“We all have our little character flaws.” Cheelo’s lips were set in a thin, tight line.
The human’s expression had no effect on the contemplative Desvendapur, but his words did. Did he realize how deep the truth of his observation ran? The poet suspected the biped did not.
“You won’t shoot me. If I do not report in according to a prearranged schedule, my hive companions will come looking for me. When they see how I died, they will come looking for you.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Cheelo’s fingers twitched in the vicinity of the holster. “If your compadres can identify your remains after the caimans and the piranhas have finished with them, then they’re better forensic pathologists than any I’ve ever heard about.”
Desvendapur did not have to ask for elucidation. From his studies he was familiar with both varieties of local predators. “What makes you think your native carnivores will find my body palatable? They will ignore me. My corpse will drift until it is found. Then those who will come looking for me will react in a relentless and savage fashion.”
They would do no such thing, he knew. Their only concern would be to remove the body lest it be found by other humans, thereby giving rise to awkward inquiries. But the biped did not know that. All he knew of the thranx, Desvendapur suspected, was what the poet chose to tell him.
Man and thranx regarded one another speculatively, each as ignorant as to the true motives of the other as they were to those of their respective kind. Neither had any training in interspecies contact. Operating from mutual nescience, they were making it up as they went along.
“All right.” Cheelo’s fingers reluctantly drifted away from the gun. “So maybe I won’t shoot you. But that still doesn’t mean I want you following me.”
“Why not? If you choose, I will not intrude on your solitude. You may continue to conduct your research as if I was not there. I only wish to observe, and record, and compose.”
My research, Cheelo thought. All he was doing was researching a way to keep one step ahead of the police. He did not see how an eight-limbed insectile alien could assist in that end.
Yet despite his otherwordly origins, the hard-shelled poet seemed to know a great deal about their surroundings. It had spoken of studying the area. If not an advantage, maybe it at least wouldn’t be a burden. Come to think of it, if the police did manage to track him down, Cheelo could always claim—after first blowing the bug’s head off, of course, so it couldn’t contradict his story—that he had uncovered an illicit alien outpost. If he could not get rid of it, either by threat or inducement, he would have to find a way to turn the creature’s persistence into an advantage. That was something Cheelo Montoya had always been good at.
“You’re right, as far as it goes,” he snapped. “I can’t keep you from following me, and even though I’m not sure I believe all your chatter about your buggy friends coming looking for revenge, I’m not going