Read Online Phylogenesis by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online Page B

with her and try to do this?”
    Gathering all four trulegs beneath him, he slid off the bench. “I don’t know,” he lied. “I’ll have to think about it. If I am found out, it could mean trouble for me.”
    “I won’t tell.” The logistics officer flexed her ovipositors coquettishly. “You will get there, have your little look around and visit, and be back before anyone in a position to object realizes that you’ve gone. Where is the harm in that?”
    No harm indeed. Eventualities cascaded through his mind like logs swept before a spring monsoon. “I will be back tonight,” he declared flatly.
    “Of course you will.” She abandoned her own bench to stand alongside him. “And I will be waiting to greet you, to hear all about your furtive visit to exotic Geswixt.” She gestured amusement.
    He started to leave, composing the necessary preparations in his mind. Then he hesitated and looked over at her. “Heul, why this interest in me? Why the persistence on my behalf?”
    “You’re a poet, Des. You conform so differently.” With that she was gone, scampering off in the direction of one of the south tunnels. He watched her depart, then headed for his modest quarters. There were several small items he wanted to be sure and take along with him—just in case.
    If he was lucky, the opportunity might arise not to come back.
             
    Melnibicon was an older, taciturn thranx whose ovipositors had long since lost their resilience and collapsed against her wing cases. After assuring herself that Desvendapur had come alone and had not been followed, she directed him into the back of the cargo lifter’s cramped cockpit. No one saw him board, the rest of the warehouse facility’s crew being fully occupied with tasks of their own.
    Granted clearance, the lifter trundled out through the weather-tight double doors onto a small, spotless landing area. Des was jolted when the craft took off straight up, rising to a height of several hundred feet before leveling off and accelerating eastward.
    “Sorry about that.” Melnibicon grunted a terse apology as she kept a careful watch on her instrumentation, occasionally glancing up to take in the daunting view forward. “I’m used to hauling cargo and produce, not sightseers.”
    “It’s all right.” Settling himself onto the narrow, empty bench alongside her, he studied the view outside. Rugged peaks and jagged ridges saddled with rilth separated the fertile but cold valley beneath which Honydrop lay from the higher vale that was home to Geswixt. Once again, he saw that attempting to cross between the two on foot in anything less than full environmental gear would have brought a quick death to the hardiest thranx. In contrast, the lifter would make the trip in less than an hour.
    He felt some sort of thanks was in order. “This is very good of you.”
    A reply that was more grunt than whistle assailed his ears. “This job is boring enough. A little risk is worth it for a little company. Talk to me, poet. Tell me about yourself, and the world beyond this cold hell. How goes life in Ciccikalk?”
    “Why ask me? You have pictures, images.”
    “That’s not the same as hearing it from someone who’s recently been places. Use flowery language, poet. I like being soothed in High Thranx.”
    He complied as best he was able, resorting to improvisation when knowledge and experience failed, and all the while doing his best not to look outside. Doing so reminded him of the cold death that awaited below.
    In spite of his nervousness he found that the time passed quickly. When Melnibicon indicated that they had crossed the ridge and were descending into Geswixt, he forced aside his unease and pressed his face and antennae to the port.
    The view was less than instructive. Not having any idea what to expect, he was still disappointed. The panorama was less than inspiring. Certainly it dispensed no revelations.
    Below them, a long, narrow valley stretched from the