With no one to practice on, he learned by means of repeating human phrases in the solitude of his cubicle. As he studied, he composed, waiting for the time when blinding inspiration would strike. What would help, what he wished for more than anything else, was to meet an actual alien. He knew their food, or at least the thranx food they could digest. Now he wanted to know them.
He had been at the complex for more than a year, long enough to experience the first feelings of despair, when the opportunity finally came.
Chapter Six
Golfito wasn't much of a city. Located in a fine natural harbor, it existed only to service the cruise ships and other tourist vessels that stopped to give their passengers a quick taste of the Corcovado rain forest. After making a wild flurry of purchases and embedding tridee cues into their home units like crazy, they reboarded the giant, luxurious hydrofoils and zeps and floated or flew onward, heading for more glamorous destinations to the north, the south, or across the isthmus. In their wake they left memories of foolish behavior, hasty sexual assignations with Golfito's enterprising exotics, and much-appreciated credits.
Montoya had tried his best to attach himself to some of the thousands of credits that spilled from the bulging cred-cards of the laughing, wide-eyed visitors, but despite his most strenuous efforts he never seemed quite able to cement any valuable contacts. He was always a little too slow, a step behind, left fumbling for the right word or phrase, like the fisherman who never manages to pick the right lure to attract the fish that surround him on all sides.
But if he had failed to cash in on the bounty offered up by the regular loads of visitors, he had succeeded in making a few potentially useful contacts among the less reputable denizens of Golfito's waterfront and rain forest suburbs. Among these sometimes agreeable, sometimes surly specimens was one who dangled promises in front of the struggling immigrant like sugarcease before a diabetic.
Surprisingly, the ever-hopeful but always realistic Montoya had received word that one of those promises might actually be on the verge of being fulfilled.
Ehrenhardt's place hugged one of the steep rain forest covered hillsides that rose above the town. As he rode the silent electric lift up to the gated enclosure, Montoya gazed down at the exquisite blue of the bay and the dark Pacific beyond. Monkeys, jaguars, quetzals, and all manner of exotic creatures inhabited the carefully preserved lands on both sides of the city. They interested him only to the extent of their cash value. Not that he would dare to compete with one of the known poacher consortiums. He knew better. Try, and he'd end up a skin at the bottom of somebody else's trophy case.
A lanky Indian with a prominent sidearm and expressionless eyes met him at the top. Beckoning for the intimidated guest to follow, he escorted Cheelo out onto the porch that overlooked the sultry panorama below. Rudolf Ehrenhardt did not rise, but he did offer Montoya a drink from the iced pitcher sitting on the lovingly polished purpleheart table before him. He did not, however, gesture for his visitor to take a seat, and so Montoya remained standing, drink awkwardly in hand.
"Cheelo, my friend." The fixer squinted behind his polarizing glasses, eyes completely hidden. It was like conversing with a machine, Montoya thought. "You really should invest in some nose work."
Montoya flinched inwardly. It was not his fault that over the course of a difficult life that distinctive protuberance had been broken and reset more times than he cared to remember. "If I could afford it, Mr. Ehrenhardt, sir, I'd certainly consider it."
The older man nodded approvingly. It was a good reply. "What if I were to tell you that the opportunity to afford that, and many other good things, has finally arrived for you?"
His guest put the already empty glass back down on the table. He had been unable to identify any of the contents beyond wonderful. "Ay, you know me, sir. I'll do whatever is necessary."
Ehrenhardt chuckled, enjoying himself, drawing out the suspense even though he was quite aware that his guest was in an agony of expectation. A harpy eagle soared past below, skimming the treetops in search of somnolent monkeys. Somewhere an indolent pet macaw screamed.
"You've always told me that you wanted to do something big."
"Just the opportunity, Mr. Ehrenhardt, sir. All I want is for someone to give me a chance. That's all I've ever wanted."
The fixer smiled condescendingly. "There is an opening in Monterrey that has come about through ... let us say _attrition"_ Ehrenhardt did not add the word _natural_ before attrition, and Montoya did not question him as to the reason for the omission. "I have been asked to recommend someone suitable to take over the franchise. It is exceptionally lucrative, but it requires the attention of someone with drive, intelligence, and desire. Also someone who knows the meaning of loyalty, of when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut."
"You know me, Mr. Ehrenhardt, sir." Cheelo drew himself up to his full, if unprepossessing, height.
"No, I do not know you." The older man was staring hard, hard into Montoya's eyes. "But I am learning more each time we meet. I placed your name before the involved parties, and I am happy to say it has been accepted. Conditionally, of course."
"Thank you, sir! Thank you!" At last, Montoya thought. The chance to fulfill all his dreams! He would show them all. Everyone who had ever mocked him, looked down on him, spit on his intentions. Here at last was the opportunity to prove himself to all of them, to each and every one of the sarcastic, heartless bastards. In particular, there was a worthless little town up in the Amistad...
Something Ehrenhardt had said made him hesitate. "Conditionally, sir? Conditional on what?"
"Well, my ambitious friend, surely you know that such opportunities do not come along every day, and those special things that do not come along every day are not for free. A franchise is what it is because it must be paid for. A minimal sum, provided as a guarantor of the prospective franchisee's good faith."
Montoya swallowed and maintained his self-control. "How much?" So nervous was he that he forgot to say _sir._
Either Ehrenhardt did not notice or chose magnanimously to ignore the oversight. Smiling, he pushed a piece of embossed plastic across the table in the direction of his apprehensive guest. Montoya picked it up.
He breathed a little easier. The amount was daunting, but not impossible. The date...
"I have until this day of the indicated month to raise the required fee?"
Ehrenhardt nodded paternally. "If it is not forthcoming by then, the franchise must by mutual agreement of the parties involved be awarded to another. That is the way of things. Tell me: Can you be in compliance?"
"Yes, sir! I know that I can do it." The time allowed was generous. But he had none to waste, to linger on the beaches and ogle the ladies in the bars and restaurants.
"That is what I told the others." The smile faded. "I know the extent of your financial condition, Cheelo. It is not one to inspire confidence."
He did his best to shrug off the criticism. "That's because I enjoy myself, sir. I spend credit as I acquire it. But if you know my status, then you know that it is not always so insignificant."
To Montoya's relief, the fixer's smile returned. "Another good answer. Keep giving the right answers, Cheelo, and come up with the necessary fee by the indicated date, and you will have your chance to do something big. Take advantage of this opportunity, work hard, and you can become a wealthy and important person, just like myself. I need not tell you that such a chance comes along but rarely in a man's lifetime. For most, it never comes at all."
"I won't fail it, sir-or you."
Ehrenhardt waved diffidently. "This has nothing to do with me, Cheelo. It has everything to do with you. Remember that." He sipped contemplatively at the pale liquid maintained at just above the freezing point by the thermotic tumbler. Somewhere within the rambling white stucco building that idiot macaw refused to shut up. It was making Montoya nervous. "Tell me, Cheelo-what do you think of these aliens that are so much in the news t
hese days?"
"Aliens, Mr. Ehrenhardt?"
"These insectile creatures who persist in trying to further relations with us. What do you think is their real purpose?"
"I really don't know, sir. I don't think much about such things."
"You should." Adjusting his dark glasses, the fixer gazed out across the bay to the open ocean beyond. "This is a surprisingly crowded corner of the galaxy, Cheelo. It behooves every one of us to consider what is taking place here. We can no longer go about our business here on Earth indifferent to what happens on other worlds, as we could in the days before the invention of the drive. Take these reptilian AAnn, for example. The thranx insist they are incorrigible, aggressive expansionists. The AAnn deny it. Whom are we humans to believe?"
"Ay-I really couldn't say, sir."
"No, of course you couldn't." Ehrenhardt sighed deeply. "And it's wrong of me to expect it of someone like yourself. But living here, I am inescapably surrounded by those of limited vision." Rising abruptly, he took the startled Montoya's hand and grasped it with a firmness that belied his age.
"Deliver the fee by the indicated date and the franchise is yours, Cheelo. The franchise, and the prestige and everything else that goes with it. One thing more: The credit transfer must be made in front of me. I am required by those others involved in the business to witness it in person. There are many traditionalists among us who do not trust long-distance electronics. So I _will_ see you before the indicated date?" Montoya nodded, and the hand moved to the jittery younger man's shoulder. "Then you can do your 'big things.' " He sat back down. The interview was at an end.
Cheelo rode the lift back down to the city in a haze of euphoria. His chance at last! By all the gods of his forefathers and all the gonads of those who had ever kicked, beaten, or insulted him, he would raise the necessary money somehow. It shouldn't be too hard. He had ample experience in such matters.
But he could not do it in Golfito. Because of the prevalence of the tourist ships and zeps there were simply too many police about. They were alert to the activities of denizens such as himself. He was too well known to them. He would have to go to work elsewhere.
He knew just the place.
Chapter Seven
Ulunegjeprok's voice was flat, betraying no hint of the excitement he felt. "Instead of preparing foodstuff basics for humans," he asked his friend and fellow worker, "how would you like to deliver some?"
Desvendapur did not look up from where he was cleaning a large quantity of pale pink _vekind_ root. "Do not joke with me, Ulu. What are you talking about?"
"Hamet and Quovin, the senior biochemists in charge of final checkout and delivery, are both down sick. It has fallen to Shemon to carry out the transfer of this week's produce. I spoke to her earlier. She has never done this before and is apprehensive about doing it alone."
"Why?" Des wondered. "You know the procedure as well as I. It is not complicated."
"It isn't procedure that concerns her. She has never dealt with the humans in person, only via communicator, and she is not sure how she will react. So she asked for subsidiary personnel to accompany her." His antennae straightened. "I volunteered. Knowing of your interest in the aliens, I also volunteered you." He extended a foothand. "I hope you are not disappointed in me. If you want to withdraw your services for this afternoon..."
"Withdraw?" Desvendapur could hardly believe his good fortune. At last, after all he had suffered-physically, mentally, and emotionally-he was going to encounter the bipeds in person instead of via research team projections and odorless images. Already mellifluous phrases and biting stanzas were bubbling in his brain. "This afternoon? How soon?"
Ulunegjeprok whistled amusedly. "Clean your eyes. We have several time-parts yet."
Des did his best to concentrate on his work, but everything he managed to accomplish subsequent to his friend's revelation he did by rote. His mind was spinning. He would take a scri!ber with him so that he could compose on the spot, to ensure that nothing was lost and every advantage taken from the forthcoming confrontation. There was no telling how long his superiors' illnesses or Shemon's aversion would last. It might be some time before the opportunity arose again.
"What are you doing?" As he labored at his own station, Ulu eyed his weaving, bobbing coworker curiously.
"Composing poetry."
"You? Poetry?" Ulunegjeprok whistled long and hard. "You're an assistant food service preparator. What makes you think you can compose poetry?"
"It is just a hobby. Something to occupy my recreational time."
"Good thing Hamet and Quovin are both out sick and Shemon is busy inventorying the week's consignment. They wouldn't look upon this as recreational time. Well, as long as you're making the effort, I'll give it a try. For friendship's sake, even though it will be painful. Go on, I'm braced- recite something."
"No, never mind." Aware that in his excitement he was skirting potentially dangerous territory, Desvendapur turned back to his work, stripping the thorny casing from oblong _cazzi!!s_ fruit. "I'm not very good at it."
"That goes without saying, but I would still like to hear something." Ulu would not be put off.
Cornered, Des complied, trilling and clicking as inconsequential and unsophisticated a brace of stanzas as he could manage, a feeble collage of words and sounds guaranteed to get him whistled down at any semiprofessional gathering of qualified soothers.
Ulu's reaction was wonderfully predictable. "That was awful. You had better stick to making _hequenl_ buns. You're good at that."
"Thank you," Des told him. and he meant it.
Systems idling, the small transport truck in the warehousing chamber hovered an arm's length off the floor. Des and Ulu saw to the transfer of assorted crates and containers while the venerable Shemon accounted for each one as it was loaded. It was evident from her attitude as well as her words that she did not want to be doing this, that she dearly wished the absent Hamet or Quovin were present instead, and that the sooner they had concluded the delivery and returned, the better she would like it.
There was barely enough room in the vehicle's enclosed cab for three. As she adjusted the guide controls and the truck started silently forward down a well-lit corridor, Desvendapur checked to make certain his scri!bers were nestled snugly in the abdominal pouch slung over his left side. He had brought two, in case one should fail.
"Why do you need us to come along anyway?" Ulu was asking her. At these words, Des wanted to reach out and smother him. "Are these creatures so physically feeble that they cannot unload their own supplies?"
"The ones that are present are engaged in more important tasks. They are scientists and researchers, not manual laborers. Easier for us to do such work." She looked over at him. "Why? Do you want to go back?"
Desvendapur hardly dared to breathe.
"No. I was just wondering," the unimaginative Ulu concluded.
The corridor was blocked by another guard station. Here they were waved through without an identification check, the contents of the transport being sufficient to establish their legitimacy and purpose. As the vehicle accelerated, Des looked for any sign of a change, for anything exotic or alien, and saw nothing. They might as well still be traveling through the thranx portion of the complex.
Eventually they pulled into a storage chamber scarcely different from the one they had left. Easing the truck into a receiving dock, Shemon shut off the power to the engine and slipped off the driver's bench. Ulu and Des followed her around to the back of the conveyance.
Under her direction, they began unloading the foodstuffs they had brought. Save for small robot handlers and cleaners, the chamber remained empty. He tried not to panic. Where were the humans? Where were the aliens he had sacrificed his career, more than a year of his life, and the life of another to see? Unable to stand it any longer, he asked as much.
Shemon gestured indifferently. It was evident that she was well pleased with the turn of events. "Who
knows? It is not necessary for them to be here for the unloading."
"But don't they have to acknowledge receipt? Don't they need to check the delivery to make sure everything's here?" Desvendapur was moving as slowly as he possibly could without appearing to be deliberately inhibiting the unloading process.
"What for? They have been notified that the weekly delivery was on its way. If anything is missing, or out of the ordinary, our department will be notified and the omission corrected." Her relief was palpable. "At least _we_ won't have to deal with it personally."
But that was precisely what Des wanted, needed to do: to deal with things personally. Despite his best efforts to bring about an inconspicuous slowdown, the quantity of cargo in the back of the transport was diminishing at an alarming rate. At this pace they would be done and gone within half a time-part. He invented and discarded dozens of scenarios. He could fake an injury, but Shemon and Ulu would only load him into the rear of the transport and hurry him back to the infirmary in the thranx sector. He could try overpowering the two of them, but while Shemon might prove a less than challenging adversary, Ulunegjeprok was young and fit and might be difficult to surprise. Besides, Des was a poet, not a soldier. And while such a hostile action might gain him a few time-parts of independence, the reverberations of such a gesture would undoubtedly result in his expulsion from the Geswixt hive and the loss of any further opportunity to encounter the aliens.