Read Online Lost and Found by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Dean Foster
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as he drained the last of the ginger drink from its container.
“That’s not stupid: that’s expected,” George countered unhesitatingly.
“I was going to collect rocks and throw them at the Vilenjji.”
The dog’s mouth opened and his tongue emerged. He was laughing, Walker saw. “You think any entities smart enough to build something like this ship and travel between the stars a-hunting specimens like me and you aren’t bright enough to take steps to protect themselves from the disgruntled? The electrical barriers that restrain us? The deeper you try to penetrate one, the stronger the shock becomes.”
“I know that,” Walker informed him. “I’ve tried it.”
George nodded. “Everybody does. So did I. We’ve got one fellow prisoner, doesn’t look like much, but she can spit acid. In my book, that trumps throwing rocks as a potential threat. If you could push deep enough into the restraint field, without it first killing you, it would strengthen enough to fry your bones. Same thing would happen to any rocks you threw. Or acid someone spit. The Vilenjji may be big, and ugly, and gruff, but they’re not stupid.
“In addition to failing, the attempt would cost you a day’s rations, at least. I get the impression that they like their specimens to stay healthy and in one piece. But that doesn’t mean they won’t mete out punishment if they feel it’s deserved. Through withholding food or, in the case of the disappeared Tripodan, something worse.”
Seated by the shore of the lake, dangling his bare feet in the cold water, Walker nibbled on the last of the standard food bricks. “So we get rewarded for good behavior, punished for bad. There are no variables?” A twinge of anxious anticipation tickled his mind. “They don’t, for example, try to train you? To perform tricks or something?”
George shook his head, rubbed at one eye. “Not so far. Not that I couldn’t handle it if they did.”
“Of course you could,” Walker assured him. “You’re a dog.”
Eye cleared, George looked up. “And you’re a human. Don’t try to tell me humans aren’t trainable. You have jobs, don’t you? Mange, I could train you myself.”
“Don’t get cocky just because you can talk and reason,” Walker advised him. “Humans train dogs. Dogs don’t train humans.”
“Oh no? What about last night? You were going to kick me out of the sleeping bag, weren’t you?”
“I wasn’t—I mean, that was my
decision
to let you stay.”
With a woolly shrug, George slid his front legs out in front of him. “Okay. Have it your way.”
Nothing else Walker could say or do could induce the mutt to resume the discussion.
4
Time passed. Time that Walker was able to track thanks to his watch. Ticking off Central Standard Time, it had no real relevance to his present circumstances. But the mere sight of the digits changing according to what the time was back home helped, in its small chronological way, to mitigate the stress of his captivity.
Then it happened. Without warning, or announcement.
One minute he and George were sitting and watching fake fingerlings swim through the shallows of the transmigrated portion of Cawley Lake. The next, everything beyond the body of water had disappeared. Or rather, had given way.
In place of “distant” mountains and forest there stood an open, rolling meadow. Green sedges fought for space with clusters of what appeared to be rooted macaroni, all dull yellow twists and coils. There were also patches of red weed that was neither true red nor familiar weed, its actual hue shading over significantly into the ultraviolet. Ghost grass. There were trees, some of which entwined to create larger, perfectly geometric forms, while others formed whimsical arches and shelters as they grew.
Roaming over, around, and through the fusion of alien verdure was a Boschian concatenation of beings who looked as if they had stepped whole and entire from the pages of a lost tome by Lewis
“That’s not stupid: that’s expected,” George countered unhesitatingly.
“I was going to collect rocks and throw them at the Vilenjji.”
The dog’s mouth opened and his tongue emerged. He was laughing, Walker saw. “You think any entities smart enough to build something like this ship and travel between the stars a-hunting specimens like me and you aren’t bright enough to take steps to protect themselves from the disgruntled? The electrical barriers that restrain us? The deeper you try to penetrate one, the stronger the shock becomes.”
“I know that,” Walker informed him. “I’ve tried it.”
George nodded. “Everybody does. So did I. We’ve got one fellow prisoner, doesn’t look like much, but she can spit acid. In my book, that trumps throwing rocks as a potential threat. If you could push deep enough into the restraint field, without it first killing you, it would strengthen enough to fry your bones. Same thing would happen to any rocks you threw. Or acid someone spit. The Vilenjji may be big, and ugly, and gruff, but they’re not stupid.
“In addition to failing, the attempt would cost you a day’s rations, at least. I get the impression that they like their specimens to stay healthy and in one piece. But that doesn’t mean they won’t mete out punishment if they feel it’s deserved. Through withholding food or, in the case of the disappeared Tripodan, something worse.”
Seated by the shore of the lake, dangling his bare feet in the cold water, Walker nibbled on the last of the standard food bricks. “So we get rewarded for good behavior, punished for bad. There are no variables?” A twinge of anxious anticipation tickled his mind. “They don’t, for example, try to train you? To perform tricks or something?”
George shook his head, rubbed at one eye. “Not so far. Not that I couldn’t handle it if they did.”
“Of course you could,” Walker assured him. “You’re a dog.”
Eye cleared, George looked up. “And you’re a human. Don’t try to tell me humans aren’t trainable. You have jobs, don’t you? Mange, I could train you myself.”
“Don’t get cocky just because you can talk and reason,” Walker advised him. “Humans train dogs. Dogs don’t train humans.”
“Oh no? What about last night? You were going to kick me out of the sleeping bag, weren’t you?”
“I wasn’t—I mean, that was my
decision
to let you stay.”
With a woolly shrug, George slid his front legs out in front of him. “Okay. Have it your way.”
Nothing else Walker could say or do could induce the mutt to resume the discussion.
4
Time passed. Time that Walker was able to track thanks to his watch. Ticking off Central Standard Time, it had no real relevance to his present circumstances. But the mere sight of the digits changing according to what the time was back home helped, in its small chronological way, to mitigate the stress of his captivity.
Then it happened. Without warning, or announcement.
One minute he and George were sitting and watching fake fingerlings swim through the shallows of the transmigrated portion of Cawley Lake. The next, everything beyond the body of water had disappeared. Or rather, had given way.
In place of “distant” mountains and forest there stood an open, rolling meadow. Green sedges fought for space with clusters of what appeared to be rooted macaroni, all dull yellow twists and coils. There were also patches of red weed that was neither true red nor familiar weed, its actual hue shading over significantly into the ultraviolet. Ghost grass. There were trees, some of which entwined to create larger, perfectly geometric forms, while others formed whimsical arches and shelters as they grew.
Roaming over, around, and through the fusion of alien verdure was a Boschian concatenation of beings who looked as if they had stepped whole and entire from the pages of a lost tome by Lewis
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