Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [93]
What kind of dreams did aliens dream? he wondered. For the first time, he found himself within touching distance of the creature. Up close, the ambrosial fragrance of its body odor was even stronger. Bending over, he was able to see himself reflected dozens of times in the multiple lenses of one golden eye. A line of small openings in the blue-green chitin of the thorax pulsed rhythmically, showing where the creature siphoned air. The sensitive, feathery antennae described twin limp, forward-facing arcs on the otherwise smooth curve of the skull.
Reaching out, he ran fingertips along the glistening exoskeleton of one wing case. It was hard, smooth, and slightly cool to the touch, like plastic or some highly polished building material. Letting his hand drift downward he felt of a leg, unable to escape the feeling that he was exploring a machine and not a living creature. That perception vanished the instant the thranx woke up.
Startled by the unexpected human touch, Desvendapur let out a shrill stridulation and kicked out reflexively with all six legs. One caught Cheelo in the thigh and sent him stumbling backward. Scrambling frantically, shocked into wakefulness, the poet slid off the makeshift bed and promptly fell over on his side onto the moist, leaf-strewn earth. He recovered quickly to stand facing the human across the log.
“What are you doing?”
“Take it easy,” Cheelo admonished his otherworldly companion. “Nothing weird.”
“How can I be sure of that? Humans are noted for their peculiar habits.” As he spoke, Desvendapur was checking the length of his body. Everything appeared to be undamaged and where it belonged.
The human snorted derisively. “Look, it was hard enough for me just to touch you.”
“Then why did you?” Desvendapur shot back accusingly.
“To make sure that I could. Don’t worry—I won’t be doing it again.” Cheelo rubbed his fingers together, as if trying to remove dirt or grease from beneath the nails. “It was like rubbing a piece of old furniture.”
The poet walked over to his pack and checked the seal. It was undisturbed, but he could not be absolutely sure until he checked the contents. “Better than making contact with flesh that flexes beneath one’s fingers.” His antennae quivered. “All that soft, pulpy meat held in check only by a thin layer of flexible epidermis, full of blood and muscle, just waiting to be exposed to the air. It’s indecent. I cannot imagine what nature was thinking when she designed such animal forms and then built them from the inside out.”
“You’re the one who’s inside out.” Walking back to where he had laid his own gear, Cheelo crouched and pondered breakfast. “Walking around with your skeleton on the outside.”
“And it is not bad enough that all your support is internal,” Desvendapur continued, “you come in a bewildering variety of colors. There is no harmony, no consistency at all. Our color deepens naturally as we age, a reflection of the natural progression of time. Yours only changes when diseased, some of which you induce voluntarily. And it shrivels.” Truhands were in continual motion as the thranx spoke. Cheelo had no idea what the bug was saying with its eloquent limbs, but he could make inferences from the tenor of its comments.
“Because of these flaws, which are the unavoidable consequence of defective genetics, I feel an instinctive sympathy for you.”
“Gee, thanks.” As he prepared his simple morning meal Cheelo wondered if the bug could detect sarcasm and decided it probably could not. “Not that it means anything, or matters, but why?”
This time a truhand and a foothand on