Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [88]
“I will become a veritable nonentity,” a pleased and much relieved Desvendapur assured him.
Too bad you couldn’t become a real one, Cheelo mused. Maybe the alien would drown in a river or break a couple of legs and fall behind. Then no one could be blamed for the consequences. Given the right place and time, he might even be able to hurry the process along. If not, well, hadn’t the bug said that he only had a month to do his work? Before then Cheelo would be ready to quit the forest himself in order to make the journey back to Golfito.
How fast was a thranx? How durable? After a day or two of trying to follow and keep up with the agile, hardened thief, the many-limbed poet might decide that it was a good idea to seek inspiration from less wearisome sources. Cheelo would lead him a chase, all right!
“Come on, then.” Turning, he gestured with a hand—and paused. Head back, expression reflecting uncertainty, he found himself sniffing the air. To Desvendapur, who sensed odors through his antennae, it was a fascinating display worthy of several original and elaborately bizarre stanzas.
“What is it? What are you doing?”
“Smelling. Can’t you see that?” Noting the absence on the alien’s face, or for that matter anywhere else on its body, of anything resembling nostrils, Cheelo added tersely, “No, I suppose you can’t. I’m sampling the air for odors. For one particular odor, actually.”
The feathers that lined Desvendapur’s antennae flexed to allow as much air as possible to pass between them. “What particular odor?”
Turning, Cheelo found himself inexorably drawn to the exotic exoskeletoned alien. There was no longer any doubt as to the source of the subtle, suggestive aroma. “Yours.”
The thranx regarded the tall biped warily. “And what does mine remind you of?”
As Cheelo sniffed, Desvendapur watched the pair of openings in the middle of the human’s face expand and contract obscenely. “Roses. Or maybe gardenia. I’m not sure. Could be frangipani. Or bougainvillea.”
“What are these things?” None of the names the human was reciting were familiar to Des from his studies.
“Flowers. You smell like flowers. It’s a strong fragrance, but not overpowering. It’s not…it’s not what I expected.”
Desvendapur remained on guard. “Is this a good thing?”
“Yes.” The human smiled, though his attitude suggested that the expression was dragged forth involuntarily. “It’s a good thing. If I seem surprised, it’s because I am. Bugs aren’t supposed to smell like flowers. They never smell like flowers. They stink.”
“I am not a ‘bug,’ which I believe is a generic colloquial human term for insects. Thranx and terrestrial insects are an example of convergent evolution. Yes, there are many similarities, but there are significant differences as well. Carbon-based life forms that have evolved on planets with similar gravity and within stable atmospheric and temperature parameters frequently display many recognizable characteristics of form. But do not mistake body shape for species relationship.”
Cheelo’s gaze narrowed slightly. “You know, for a cook’s helper, or whatever the hell it is exactly that you do, you seem awfully smart.”
Desvendapur could not give himself away with a startled expression, and the human was untutored in the subtle meanings of thranx hand movements. “The position I occupy requires more intelligence than you might suspect. All members of my expedition were chosen from the elite within their respective categories of expertise.”
“Yeah, right.” Cheelo was unconvinced. He had known the alien for only a short while, but unless the nature of thranx-kind differed greatly from that of humans (a possibility that could not be discounted), he almost felt as if the bug was hiding something.
He sniffed again. Orchids this time—or was it hibiscus? The distinctive scent seemed to change with each successive sampling, as if the alien’s shiny blue-green body was emitting not one