“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 to risk it by killing you. Not right away, anyhow. Just stay out of my way and do your recording, or composing, or whatever the hell it is that you’re doing, quietly.”
“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 but a complex, ever-changing bouquet of fragrances. He was surprised it was not being swarmed by rain forest nectar eaters, from hummingbirds to bees. But while it exuded a strong natural perfume, it did not look very much like a cluster of blossoms. Also, birds and bees were more sensitive to odors than any human. It was likely that they could detect subtle alien overtones to the thranx’s body scent that his cruder sense of smell missed completely.
What other surprises did the bug have in store? “What about me?” he asked curiously. “How do I smell to you? You can smell, can’t you?”
Desvendapur dipped his antennae forward, but not before compacting their sensitive feathering to shutter his perception of the biped’s odor as much as possible. “I can. You are…pungent.”
“‘Pungent,’” Cheelo repeated. “Sure, okay.” Turning, he climbed back up into the tree to get his pack. Desvendapur observed the process with fascination, composing avidly as he watched. Not even the most gymnastic of thranx could match the flexibility of the human’s body and limbs. Nor would they want to, he reflected. His reaction was similar to what a human would feel watching an octopus unscrew the lid of a sealed jar to get at food left inside.
Cheelo started to toss his pack down, considered, and then called out, “Here, make yourself useful. Catch this.” He held the tough, lightweight material out over the branch.
It was not a significant drop, but Desvendapur knew nothing of the bag’s contents. Still, based on what he knew of human physiology he did not think it could be dangerously heavy. Obediently advancing until he was beneath the branch, he extended both foothands, taking care to ensure that his smaller, more delicate truhands were folded tight against his body and out of the way.
“Ready? Catch.” Cheelo let the pack fall.
The thranx caught it easily in both outstretched foothands, then used all four manipulative limbs to place it gently on the ground. Satisfied, Cheelo rolled up his blanket and tossed it over next, then climbed down to join his implausible companion. Desvendapur watched silently as the human bundled his equipment together, straightened, and slipped the pack-and-strap arrangement onto his back. It was difficult to understand how and why the additional weight did not cause the biped to fall over backward. Though smaller and lighter, with a minimum of four legs and a maximum of six to support its slim body, an adult thranx could carry more than even a very large human. This knowledge led him to make an offer that was in the nature of a painless gamble.
“Want me to carry that for you? It has to hurt your upper body, trying to support it that way.”
Cheelo eyed the shorter creature in su
rprise. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you packing enough gear of your own?”
“I can manage the extra mass easily. If we are going to travel together we should each make use of the other’s natural strengths. I could not climb into that tree without help, as you did, but I can carry a good deal of weight. Your pack would not inconvenience me.”
Cheelo found himself grinning. “That’s real nice of you.” He started to reach up and around to slide the pack off his back. Abruptly, his smile faded. “No, on second thought, I think I’ll hang onto my own stuff for a while longer. But thanks for the offer.”
Desvendapur automatically gestured an appropriate response. The rapid hand and finger movements meant nothing to the human. “As you wish.”
It might have been an honest offer, Cheelo thought as he turned and strode off into the trees. But what did he know of alien motivation? Suppose the thranx was operating from ulterior motives. At an opportune moment it might decide to take off with a nice, prepacked grab bag full of terrestrial souvenirs, graciously supplied by one trusting, half-witted Cheelo Montoya. He knew next to nothing about the big bugs, including how fast they could run. It had confessed to being a poor climber, but it didn’t look clumsy or lumbering. He was willing to bet that when it utilized all six legs it could move over the ground at a respectable clip.
The thought of allowing someone else to haul his gear through the hot, steamy rain forest was a tempting one. His back and legs were wholly in favor of the notion, but his brain vetoed it outright. Surviving alone in the vast rain forest was hard enough. Trying to do so without blanket, electronic insect repeller, food supplements, water purifier, and other gear might prove well nigh impossible. So he would suffer on. Time enough to figure out if he could trust something with eight limbs, twin antennae, and eyes like shattered mirrors.
It sure did smell good, though.
That night he had the opportunity to see how a thranx not only ate, but slept. As it sipped liquids from a narrow-spouted utensil and chewed compacted food with its four opposing mandibles, he wondered what it thought of his own dining habits. The fact that it kept its distance could be considered significant. Cheelo took some of the fish he had caught the previous day out of his pack. The thranx studied the process of consuming with obvious interest, chattering and whistling into its recording device without pause.
Finally Cheelo could stand it no longer. “I’m just having supper. No big deal. Where’s the poetry in that?”
“There is verse in everything you do, because it is all exotic to me. Presently I am much taken with the contrast between your exceedingly civilized behavior and your lingering barbarism.”
“Excuse me?” Breaking off a small fillet, Cheelo scaled it with his fingernails before shoving it into his mouth and biting off a piece. He chewed slowly.
“You utilize the tools and knowledge of a contemporary civilization to eat the flesh of another creature.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Are you guys all vegetarians?” He held out the pungent fistful. “This is just a fish.”
“A water-dwelling animal. It has a heart, lungs, nervous system. A brain.”
Cheelo squinted through the gathering darkness. “What are you trying to tell me? That a fish thinks?”
“If it has a brain, it thinks.”
“Not much it don’t.” He chuckled and bit off another chunk.
“Thought is an absolute, not a matter of degree. It is a question of morality.”
The human gestured back the way they had come. “How’d you like to go find your creative inspiration elsewhere? So now I’m immoral?”
“Not by your own standards. I would not presume to judge a member of another species by standards that were developed to apply to my kind.”
“Smart boy.” Cheelo hesitated with the remaining fish halfway to his mouth. “What kind of poetic inspiration are you getting out of me eating a fish, anyhow?”
“Crude. Powerful. Alien.” The thranx continued chattering into its scri!ber.
“Shocking?” Cheelo inquired thoughtfully.
“I would hope so. I did not come all this way and go through a great deal of trouble to find inspiration of a cloying, puerile kind. I came in search of something radical and extreme, something dangerous and unsafe. Ugly, even.”
“All that from a guy eating a fish,” Cheelo murmured. “I’m not much on poetry myself, but I wouldn’t mind hearing some of what you’ve written. As your source of inspiration, I think I have that right.”
“I would be glad to perform it for you, but I am afraid much of the subtlety and nuance will be lost. You don’t have the necessary cultural references to understand, and there are concepts that simply cannot, given its innate restrictions, be rendered in your language.”
“Is that so?” Taking a long swig from his purifier, Cheelo leaned back against a tree, knees apart, and gestured commandingly at the oversized arthropod. “Try me.”
“Try you?” Confusion impregnated the thranx’s response.
“Let me hear what you’ve done,” Cheelo clarified impatiently.
“Very well. I dislike performing without proper rehearsal, but since you are not going to understand very much of it anyway, I suppose that doesn’t matter. I cannot translate into your language and properly follow through, but I hope that you will get some sense of what I am trying to accomplish.”
“Wait. Wait a minute.” Rummaging through his pack, Cheelo produced a compact flashlight. A glance at the canopy showed that they were reasonably well hidden from above. No low-flying scanner blocked out the few visible stars, and clouds would conceal their presence from anything higher. Flicking the light to life, he placed it on the ground so that its soft beam illuminated the thranx. In the darkness the alien’s stiff limbs, bobbing antennae, and reflective compound eyes were components of an atavistic nightmare shape—but it was hard to be afraid of something that exuded the aroma of a Paris perfume boutique.
“I am afraid that the title of my latest exposition is not translatable.”
“That’s okay.” Cheelo waved grandly. “I’ll think of it as ‘Human Eating Fish.’” Scarfing down the rest of his supper, he leaned back and began licking grease and bits of white flake from his fingers. Suppressing his distaste, Desvendapur began.
In the tropical night, surrounded by the sounds of the rain forest’s emerging nocturnal inhabitants, words mingled with whistles sharp and soft, with clicks that varied in volume and intensity from that of tiny tappings to a rhythmic booming that might have been generated by muffled drums. Accompanying this stately carillon were intricate dancelike gestures, weavings in the air executed by four limbs and sixteen digits. Antennae twisted and curled, dipped and bobbed, as the insectile alien body swayed and contorted.
At first the sight was somewhat frightening, but as Cheelo grew more comfortable with the thranx’s appearance he found himself starting to think of it not as a giant bug but as a sensitive visitor from a distant star system. The scent of fresh flowers that emanated from the hard-shelled body certainly played a large part in effecting his change in perception—not to mention attitude. As for the performance, even though Desvendapur was right and Cheelo understood little of what was being imparted, it was undeniably art of a complex, sophisticated order. Poetic, even. While he understood nothing of what the creature was saying, the confluence of sound and movement conveyed a grace and elegance the likes of which he had never encountered before.
Growing up poor and forever on the fringe of society, Cheelo Montoya had never had much of an opportunity to sample anything other than the crudest kinds of art: violent tridee recordings, raucous popular music, unsophisticated pornography, cheap stims, and low-level hallucinogens. He was aware that what he was hearing and witnessing now, alien though its origins might be, comprised creation of a much higher order. At first amusedly contemptuous, the longer and more intricate the thranx’s interweavings of movement and sound became, the quieter and more solemn Cheelo’s expression grew. When a
quietly triumphant Desvendapur finally concluded the performance, the sun had set completely.
“Well,” he prompted when no response was forthcoming from the silent, seated human, “what did you think? Did you get anything out of it, or was it all nothing more than alien mumblings and twitches?”
Cheelo swallowed—hard. Something crawled over his left hand without biting, and he ignored it. In the nearly complete darkness the light from the flashlight was stark on the thranx’s blue-green exterior.
“I…I didn’t understand a goddamn word of it, and I think it was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
Desvendapur was taken aback. It was not the reaction he had anticipated. A polite gesture of courtesy, perhaps, or a mumbled word of mild appreciation—but not praise. Not from a human.
“But you say you didn’t understand.” Taking a chance, presuming on an acquaintance that was still untested, he moved forward, out of the throw of the flashlight and into proximate darkness.
The human did not shy away. The scent of fresh-picked posies was very close now. In the shadow of night his absurdly tiny but nevertheless sharp eyes searched those of the thranx. “Not your speech, no. Not a word of it. But the sounds you made, like music, and the way all four of your hands and the rest of your body moved together with it—that was wonderful.” He shook his head from side to side, and Desvendapur struggled to interpret the meaning of it.
“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?”
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