Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [92]
“I don’t know anything about it, of course,” Cheelo continued, “but it seems to me that you’re very good at your hobby. People—humans—would pay to watch it.”
“You really think so? As I said earlier, I am only an amateur.”
“I know they would. I may not know much, but I know that. I…would pay. And if you could figure out a way to translate your speech into Terranglo without sacrificing anything of the performance…Well, it would have to contribute to understanding and good relations between our species. Doesn’t anyone do performances like that at the project on your world—what’s it called?”
“Willow-Wane,” Desvendapur murmured softly. “I suppose they must, but I do not really know. I don’t know any more about what goes on within the project than what the Grand Council chooses to disseminate. They might have soothers there, or they might not.”
“Is that what it’s called? Soothing?” In the poor light, Cheelo nodded thoughtfully. “Listen, I know I’m not much of an audience—not knowledgeable or anything like that—and I can’t exactly return the favor with constructive criticism, but anytime you want to practice a new piece or a part of one, I’d be real pleased to look at and listen to it.”
“You did actually enjoy it, didn’t you?” Desvendapur stared at the biped.
“Damn right I did. Tell you what. Tomorrow night I’ll eat something different, just to give you fresh inspiration. Maybe I’ll try and kill an agouti or something.”
Desvendapur gagged, and his antennae flinched reflexively. “Please do not cannibalize a living creature on my behalf.”
“I thought you wanted radical, extreme stimulation.”
“My mind does. My digestive system is a different matter.”
Cheelo crossed his legs and grinned. “Okay. We’ll build up the inspiration gradually.” Leaning over and reaching into his pack, he extracted a stimstick and unwrapped the vacuum tip. On contact with the air, it flashed alight.
Desvendapur watched the human place one end of the burning shaft between its lips and inhale. This was more than he could have hoped for. Every moment spent in the biped’s company was a source of unprecedented enlightenment. What whimsical pleasure the creature gained from placing combusting organic matter in its mouth the thranx could not imagine, but the inscrutable activity proved to be the source of not one but two complete, condensed compositions before the evening bored its way into night and they were compelled to retire.
15
It was not the howlers that woke Cheelo the following morning. A sharp, cawing call caused him to roll over and sit up, the lightweight blanket falling away from his neck and chest and down to his hips. The bird that was pecking at some fallen, rotting fruit nearby was grotesque in the extreme. Outsized red eyes peered from a narrow, blue-skinned face that was lined and surmounted by a crest of stiff, yellow-black feathers. His rising startled the creature and it flew, awkwardly and with undisguised effort, into a nearby tree. The size of a small turkey, it rocked on a branch while contemplating the odd duo resting on the ground below.
As he rubbed at his eyes and climbed to his feet, Cheelo tried to remember names from the guideware he had bought in Cuzco and installed in his card. The bird was big enough to be a raptor, but its short beak and small claws, not to mention its awkwardness in the air, marked it as belonging to some other family. Still blinking away sleep, he opened his pack and took out the card. A few adjustments called forth the guidebook and the section on birds.
The clumsy flier with the prehistoric mien was a hoatzin. If there ever was a bird that looked like a dinosaur, he thought, here it was. His attention shifted from the red-eyed forest dweller to the far more alien figure slumbering nearby.
Having found a suitable fallen log, the thranx had straddled it. Three legs hung on one side, three on the other, with the first set of arms tucked neatly up against the insectoid’s chest, if that’s what the forward-facing portion of its anatomy could be called.