Phylogenesis - Alan Dean Foster [95]
Cheelo frowned. “What are you jabbering about now?”
“I am just trying to capture the moment. Outright anger is rare among my kind. Please, sustain that tone of voice and those urgent syllables.”
“Sustain…? What the hell do you think I am, some kind of archetype for you to capture in verse?” His voice rose. “D’you think I was put here just for your stinking benefit, to give you something to compose about?”
“Wonderful, marvelous!” the thranx breathed in his whispery Terranglo. “Don’t stop!”
Cheelo folded his arms over his chest and set his jaw. Seeing that the human had finished, or at least terminated his current rant, a disappointed Desvendapur paused the scri!ber. Might there be some way he could induce the biped to resume? Proceeding against nature, in direct contravention of everything he had been brought up to believe in and act upon, he unhesitatingly hostiled back. The larval adolescent within him rebelled violently at his tone, but there was no one else around to overhear or to be shocked.
“I am not your tiny, primitive insect pest. Try stepping on me, and you’ll slide off. Or I will throw you into the nearest river.”
Cheelo’s gaze narrowed. “You and what bug army? If there’s any throwing to be done, I’ll do it.”
“Come on, then.” Astonished at his audacity, his mind storming with inspired verse that burned and crackled, Desvendapur turned to face the taller, heavier human head-on. He adopted a defensive posture; truhands folded back, stronger foothands extended, eight digits splayed in grasping position, antennae erect and alert. The thranx might be excessively polite, but they were not helpless. “Let’s see you try.”
The pistol weighed heavily as Cheelo Montoya mulled the challenge. He was bigger and heavier than the bug, but outlimbed eight to four. Since all its musculature was internal, hidden beneath the chitinous exoskeleton, he could not get an idea of its strength from looking at it. He knew that small insects like ants and fleas could lift many times their own weight, but that did not mean such physical ability would scale up proportionately to something the size of a thranx. In their brief time together he had not seen it throw any logs around or push trees out of its way.
Slowly, he slid the pack off his back. A small stream flowed through the woods nearby. It was no river, but it did spread out to form a sizable pool. For purposes of demonstration it would have to do.
As Cheelo approached, the thranx began weaving slowly from side to side, up and down, forcing the human to deal with a moving target. When he tried to circle around and get behind it, it pivoted on its four legs to keep facing him. Experimentally, he struck out with his right hand, grabbing for one of the extended foothands. It drew back, and the other foothand came down sharply on his wrist. The blow stung more sharply than he expected, and he reflexively jerked his arm back.
“Come on.” Desvendapur chided the human even as he tried to store as many new stanzas in his head as possible. This was extraordinary! The possibility that the confrontation might end in injury did not enter his mind. “I thought you were going to throw me in the river.”
Cheelo continued to circle the alien, searching for an opening. With eight limbs blocking his reach, he saw that it wasn’t going to be easy. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that. You can block a grab, and probably a punch—but what can you do about this?”
Arms outstretched, he rushed forward. When the thranx tried to feint, Cheelo swerved in response. He’d survived too many breathless fights in too many dark alleys and deserted buildings to be easily fooled. As his arms wrapped around the alien’s lower thorax, he tucked his head low and out of reach.
Perfume exploded in his face. His upper body blocked