Twisting to look around and down, he saw the other four alien limbs hanging loose, two on either side of his legs and hips. Exquisite alien body scent filled his nostrils. Enveloped by perfume, he resumed the descent.
"Just hang on," he snapped irritably at his motionless burden. "You'll feel better as soon as it's warmer."
"Yes." Sensing the four alien mandibles moving against the flesh of his shoulder, Cheelo tried not to shudder. "As soon as it is warmer. I do not know how to thank you." The exotic alien syllables echoed eerily against his ear.
"Try shutting up for a while," his human bearer suggested. The poet obediently lapsed into silence.
The more relaxed beneath the extra weight he became, the faster Cheelo found he could move. By afternoon the pace of their descent had increased markedly. True to his word, the thranx maintained a merciful muteness, not even requesting that they stop for a meal. The alien's silent acquiescence suited Cheelo just fine.
By the time the shrouded sun had commenced its swift plunge behind the Andes in search of the distant Pacific, Cheelo estimated that they had descended almost halfway to the rain forest below. Tomorrow noontime would see them enter the outskirts of the lowlands, where the temperature and the humidity would reach levels uncomfortable to Cheelo but complaisant for the thranx.
"Time to get off," he told his passenger. Reacting slowly and with deliberation, the thranx released its hold on the human's torso and dropped to the ground.
"I could not have come this far without your aid." Clutching tightly at the blankets with both tru- and foothands, the poet singled out a log on which to spend the coming night, painfully straddling it with all four trulegs. The dead wood was damp and chilly against his exposed abdomen.
"Ay, you have to be feeling better." Without knowing why he bothered, Cheelo tried to cheer his companion. "It's warmer here, so you ought to be more comfortable."
"It is warmer," the thranx admitted. "But not so warm that I am comfortable."
"Tomorrow," Cheelo promised him. Kneeling beside his own pack, he searched for one of the smokeless fire sticks he had appropriated from the poacher outpost. The stick was intended to help start a blaze, but in the absence of any dry fuel he would just have to burn one stick after another until they made their own tiny campfire. They were as likely to find dry wood lying on the floor of a cloud forest as orchids sprouting on tundra.
As he prepared his simple meal Cheelo noticed that the thranx was not moving. "Aren't you going to eat?"
"Not hungry. Too cold." Antennae uncurled halfway but no further.
Shaking his head, Cheelo rose and walked over to examine the contents of the alien's pack. "For a space-traversing species you're not very adaptable."
"We evolved and still prefer to live underground." Even the thranx's usually elegant, graceful gestures were subdued. "It is difficult to adjust to extremes of climate when you do not experience them."
Cheelo shrugged as he rehydrated an assortment of dried fruit. At least water for food rehydration was not a problem in the cloud forest. With the onset of evening it was already beginning to precipitate out on his skin and clothing. Blankets or not, they would be compelled to endure at least one chill, moist night on the steep mountainside. Hot food and drink would help to minimize its effects.
Despite its obvious disinterest in the food, the thranx ate, albeit slowly and with care. Scarfing down his own meal, Cheelo watched the alien closely.
"Feel better?" he asked when both had finished. As always, it was fascinating to watch the bug clean its mandibles with its truhands. It put Cheelo in mind of a praying mantis gleaning the last bits of prey from its razor-sharp jaws.
"Yes, I do." A foothand traced a discreet pattern in the air while the two truhands continued their hygiene, causing Cheelo to reflect on the usefulness of possessing two sets of hands. "This gesture I am making is one of more than moderate thanks."
"Like this?" Cheelo's arm and hand contorted in an ungainly try at mimicry.
The alien did not laugh at or criticize the clumsy attempt. "You have the upper portion of the movement correct, but the lower should go this way." He demonstrated. Once again, Cheelo did his best to imitate the comparatively simple gesture.
"Better," declared Desvendapur. "Try it again."
"I'm doing the best I can." Muttering, Cheelo adjusted his arm. "Between shoulder and wrist I've only got three joints to your four."
"Near enough." The foothand extended and pulled back at a particular angle. "This is the gesture for agreement."
"So now I'm supposed to learn how to nod with my arm?" Cheelo smiled thinly.
The lesson was an improvement over charades. In this manner they passed the time until total darkness. They had to keep the lesson simple. Not because Cheelo was insufficiently flexible to approximate the thranx's gestures, but because there was no getting around the fact that the more elaborate ones required the use of two pairs of upper appendages. Despite his desire to learn, the thief could not see himself lying down and writhing all four limbs in the air like a beetle trapped on its back.
Morning arrived on the underside of a cloud, crisp and moist. Yawning, Cheelo turned over in his bedroll. The night had been clammy and cold, but not intolerably so. The temperature had stayed well above that common to the plateau high above.
He stretched as he sat up, letting his blanket tumble from his shoulders to bunch up around his waist. Glancing to his right, he saw that his alien companion was still asleep, huddled beneath its makeshift cold-weather gear, all eight limbs contracted tightly beneath its thorax and abdomen.
"Time to move," he announced unsympathetically. Rising, he scratched at himself. "Come on. If we get a good start we'll be all the way down by evening. I'll rehydrate some broccoli or some other green shit for you." Among the litany of terrestrial fruits and vegetables it had sampled, the thranx had proven particularly fond of broccoli. As far as Cheelo was concerned, this only reinforced the differences between their respective species.
When no response was forthcoming, either verbally or in the form of the by-now-familiar elegant gestures, Cheelo walked over and nudged the blue-green torso with a foot. "Rise and shine, Des. Not that you don't shine all the time."
To look at the thranx was to see nothing wrong. The same brushed, metallic blue-green sheen gleamed from wing cases and limbs, head and neck. The multiple lenses of the eyes, each as big as a human fist, threw back the early morning light in cascades of gold. But something was missing. It took Cheelo a long moment before it struck him.
It was an absence of fragrance.
There was no smell. The delicate, flowery miasma that was the thranx's signature perfume had vanished entirely. Bending over, he inhaled deeply of nothing but fresh mountain air. Then he saw that along with the enthralling alien scent something else had departed. Leaning forward, he gave an uncertain shove with both hands.
Stiff as if frozen, the thranx fell over onto its side, scavenged blankets fluttering briefly like dark wings. They had become a funereal shroud. Rigid legs and arms remained fixed in the positions in which they had last been held, folded tight and close to the body.
"Des? C'mon, I got no time to coddle bugs. Get up." Kneeling, he tentatively grasped one upper limb and tugged gently. It did not flex, and there was no reaction. Using both hands, he pulled harder.
A sharp, splintery crack split the air, and the uppermost joint, together with the truhand, came away in his startled fingers. Blood, dark red tinged with green, began to seep from the maimed limb. A shocked Cheelo straightened and threw the amputated length of alien appendage aside, The dismemberment had provoked neither reaction nor response. Stunned, Cheelo realized that Desvendapur was beyond both.
Sitting down hard, indifferent to the damp vegetation and the cold clamminess of the ground, a disbelieving Cheelo could only stare. The bug was dead. No, he corrected himself. No. The poet was dead. Desmelper... Dreshenwn...
_Christ,_ he c
ursed silently. He still couldn't pronounce the alien's name. Now it was possible he never would, because the owner of that appellation could no longer lecture him on the fine points of thranx enunciation. He found himself wishing he'd paid more attention when the alien had talked about himself. He found himself wishing he'd paid more attention to a lot of things.
Well, it was too bad, but it wasn't his fault. Unpredictable destiny served as every sentient's copilot. Just because the thranx had met his here on a cold, wet mountainside in the central Andes didn't mean Cheelo Montoya had any obligation to follow its lead. _His_ fate still lay somewhere in the future, first in Golfito and then in the remunerative flesh pits of Monterrey. His conscience was clear.
As for the bug, he owed it nothing. Hell, it didn't even belong on his _world_ ! The consequences it had suffered were the consummation of its own unforced, willful actions. No guilt concerning the final outcome attached to Cheelo or, for that matter, to anyone else. It was dead; things hadn't worked out; and Cheelo had seen it all before, albeit only among his own kind. No big deal. No big deal at all.
Then why did he feel so goddamn lousy?
This is ridiculous, he told himself. He'd done his best by the alien, just as it had by him. Neither of them had anything to be sorry for. If called before a court of judgment, both could have honestly proclaimed the verity of their conduct while traveling in each other's company. Besides, if the situation were reversed, if he, Cheelo Montoya, had been the one lying dead and motionless among the undergrowth, what would the thranx have done? Returned to its own people, for sure, and left him to rot forlorn and forgotten on the surface of the sodden earth.
Of course, Cheelo Montoya had nothing to leave behind.
He wavered. There was no one to coerce him, no accusatory visages staring at him from the depths of the cloud forest. Whatever urgency he felt came entirely from within, though from where within he could not have said. It made no sense, and he was nothing if not a sensible man. Everything he had ever learned, every ounce of self, all that there was that went to make him what was known as "him," shouted at him to pick up his gear and be on his way. Head down, get going, abandon the no-longer-needed campsite by the little waterfall. Seek out a comfortable room in beckoning Sintuya, arrange his flight, and claim the franchise that had been promised to him. His life had been one long litany of misery and failure. Until now.
Tightening his jaw, he rolled the body, blankets and all, into a dense mass of dark green brush. There, it would lie hidden from above until the cloud forest claimed it. Not that the perpetual clouds needed any help in concealing objects on the ground from above.
Snatching up his backpack with a violent grab, he swung it onto his shoulders, checked the seals, and started resolutely down the trail. As he did so, he stumbled over something unyielding. Snapping off a muttered curse, he started to kick aside the piece of broken branch, only to see that the obstacle that had momentarily interrupted the resumption of his determined descent was not made of wood. It was the upper joint and hand he had unexpectedly wrenched from the thranx's body.
Divorced from the rest of the arm, it had assumed an air of artificiality. Surely those stiff, delicate digits were detached from some calcareous sculpture and not a living being. Sublime in its design, sleek and functional, it was of no use to its former owner anymore, and certainly not to him. Bending to pick it up, he examined it closely for a moment before tossing it indifferently over his shoulder and resuming his descent.
Down among the next line of vegetation he halted. Cloud forest trees bloomed intermittently year-round. Ahead rose one that was like a roaring blaze among green stone, an umbrella of brilliant crimson blossoms. Sunbirds sipped drunkenly at the bounteous nectar while giant electric blue morpho butterflies flitted among the branches like the scoured scales of some fantastic cerulean fish. Cheelo stood gazing at the breathtakingly beautiful sight for a long time. Then, without really knowing why, he turned around and began to retrace his steps.
Chapter Twenty two
Shannon didn't much care for her new posting, but it was a step up from covering tourism and reforestation projects. At least Iquitos had facilities, something to do at night, and climate-controlled shopping where city dwellers could escape from the oppressive heat and humidity. It could have been worse, she knew. The company might have assigned her to report on tropical research. That would have meant weeks at a time living out in the jungle with scientists who would condescend to her questions while resenting the imposition on their time, the access her presence provided to general media notwithstanding. Being assigned to the district office in Iquitos was better, much better.
It also offered the opportunity to do more than just report news. Hard to descry in the rain forest, traditional human-interest stories were plentiful in the city and its enjungled suburbs. Like the one that had presented itself this morning, for example. Plenty of reprobates and lowlifes tried to lose themselves in the vast reaches of the Reserva, but sooner or later their presence was detected by automatic monitoring devices and they found themselves a guest of the rangers.
The only thing different about this one was that instead of petty misappropriation of credit or common vandalism or illegal entry or poaching, the subject had been booked on a charge of murder. Iquitos could be a rough town, but homicide was uncommon. Advanced law-enforcement technology coupled with the threat of general instead of selective mindwipe was usually enough to forestall most killings.
That was not what made this particular case intriguing, however. What made it interesting from a general media standpoint was that its progenitor had "a story." She was mildly curious to see if the teller was as crazy as his tale.
A guard was stationed outside the interview room; not surprising considering that the one incarcerated within stood accused of a capital crime. Having already been scanned for possession of weapons and other forbidden items, she identified herself to the sentry's satisfaction and was granted admittance. As the door slid into the wall he stood aside to let her enter.
The aspect of the solitary figure seated on the other side of the interview table was not promising, and she found herself worrying that she might well be wasting her time. Not that there was any especial demand on it at the moment. Pulling out and activating her recorder, she checked to make sure that the protective cover had retracted and that the lens was clean. Treated to repel dirt and grime, it flickered briefly in the subdued overhead light.
The brief flash caught the attention of the prisoner. When he lifted his head, she was able to get a better look at him. It did not improve her opinion. Neither did the way he looked at her, used to it as she was.
"I was expecting a reporter, not a treat." He leered unpleasantly. "How about we get the monkey cop to opaque the window?" He nodded toward the doorway.
"How about you keep your mouth and your eyes to yourself and you answer my questions?" she retorted flatly. "Otherwise, I'll waft and you can play with yourself until the official interrogators land on you again. They won't listen to your lunatic stories, either."
His macho bravado instantly deflated, the prisoner looked away. Fingers working uneasily against one another as if he didn't know what to do with them, he muttered a reply. "First you got to get me my personal belongings."
Her dyed and striped brows drew together. "What personal belongings? The report on you said you were picked up out in the forest with only the clothes on your back."
Leaning forward, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "When I saw that the rangers had me referenced, I buried my pack. Without what's in it you won't believe a word I say."
"I doubt I'll believe a word you say anyway, so what's the big deal? What's in your miserable pack that you had to hide from the rangers? Illegal narcotics? Gemstones?"
He grinned, this time knowingly. "Proof. Of my story."
Shaking her head sadly, she turned off the recorder. No point in wasting the cell. "There _is_ no proof
of your 'story.' Not in some mysterious buried backpack or anywhere else. Because your story's crazy. It makes no sense."
The smile tightened but did not disappear entirely. "Then why are _ you_ here?"
She shrugged diffidently. "Because it sounded different from the usual run-of-the mill rubbish we use for backscreen fillers. Because I thought you might be good for a new angle or two on how some miscreants try to mask themselves from the attentions of the legal process. So far I'm just annoyed, not enlightened."
"Go dig up my pack and I'll enlighten the hell out of you. The contents will enlighten you."
She sighed heavily. "I skimmed the report. There are _no_ thranx in the Reserva. There are no thranx in this hemisphere. Their presence on Earth, like that of all representatives of newly contacted sentient species, is restricted to the one orbital station that's been equipped with proper diplomatic facilities. We have occasional closely supervised visits by especially important individuals holding the rank of eint or higher, but they are not allowed outside the official boundaries of Lombok or Geneva. Even if one somehow managed to end up here, it couldn't survive."
Inclining toward her again, he dropped his voice so low that she had to lean forward to make out the words. She did not relish the proximity. Despite the treatment accorded any incoming prisoner, he still stank strongly of his time spent in the Reserva and of his own disagreeable self.
"You're right. 'One' couldn't survive. But a properly prepared and equipped landing party could."
She rolled her eyes and looked away. She'd had just about enough of this homicidal _ninloco_ and his pathetic fantasies. "Now you're trying to tell me that there's not one, but a whole landing party of thranx bashing around undetected inside the Reserva? What kind of moron do you take me for, Montoya? If the rangers can run down one human like yourself who's trying his damnedest to avoid them, don't you think they'd find something as alien as a thranx? Much less a whole landing party?"