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:?: Look, we well hunt hunt
— hunted -well
:?: Careful, Careful,
Opportunistic
:?: Eat, EAT well, will eat-
— not eaten No!
:?: Die above water, not in…
Based on semantic ability alone, these creatures seemed less ripe for uplift than fallow Earth-dolphins had been. Others, biased toward tool-using ability, might disagree.
Of course, the fact that they had hands probably meant the Kiqui would never be particularly good poets. Still, some of their current braggadocio had a certain charm.
The straps of Sah'ot's harness chafed as he rose for breath. In spite of its lightweight, streamlined design, he wished he could get rid of the damned thing.
Of course, these waters were dangerous, and he might need its protection. Also, Keepiru was out there somewhere, staying out of the way as requested, but listening, nonetheless. Keepiru would chew Sah'ot s dorsal fin down to the backbone if he caught him without his harness.
Unlike the ultra-technical fen of Streaker's crew, Sah'ot was uncomfortable with devices. He didn't mind computers, some of which could talk, and which helped him speak to other races. But implements for the moving, shaping, or killing of objects, these were unnatural things which he wished he could do without.
He hated the two nubby little "fin-gers" at the tips of each of his pectoral fins — which they said would someday lead to full hands for his species. They were unaesthetic. He also resented the changes made to the dolphin lungs, making them more resistant to land-based diseases, and adapting parts to breathing oxywater. Natural cetaceans needed no such mutations. Fallow Stenos bredanensis and Tursiops truncatus dolphins, left untouched by the gene-crafters, could out swim any of the "amicus" breed almost any time.
He was ambivalent to the expanded visual sense, bought at the cost of gray matter once dedicated to sound alone.
Sah'ot rose again to breathe, then submerged, keeping pace with the aboriginals.
His own line represented a drive to emphasize language ability, rather than tool use. It seemed to him a more natural extension of dolphin nature than all this crashing about in starships, pretending to be spacemen and engineers.
That was one reason he had refused to go along in the spaceboat, to help scout the derelict fleet back at the Shallow Cluster. Even had there been anything or anyone left to talk to — for which there'd been no evidence — he wasn't about to poke around supported only by a gang of inept clients! For Streaker to try to deal alone with the derelict fleet was like a group of children playing with a live bomb.
His actions had won contempt from the crew, even though he had been vindicated by the disastrous loss of the captain's gig.
Their contempt didn't matter. Sah'ot reminded himself. He was a civilian. As long as he did his job he didn't have to explain himself.
Nor did disapproving clicks over his pursuit of Dennie Sudman bother him. Long before uplift, male dolphins had been fresh with woman researchers. It's a long-standing tradition, he rationalized. Whatever was good enough for horny old Flipper is good enough for his brainy descendant.
One of the things he hated about Anglic patterns of thought was this need to self-justify. Men were always asking "Why?" What did it matter why? There were other ways than the human way of looking at things. Any whale would tell you.
The Kiqui chittered excitedly as they swam toward the eastern end of their own island, preparing to hoist their catch up a crevice in the leeward seawall.
Sah'ot felt a sweep of sonar, like a passing searchlight. Keepiru approached from the north, to escort him back to the Earthling encampment.
Sah'ot flicked up to the surface. He tilted his head to look out on the new day. The sun rose behind a bank of haze in the east, and the wind carried a whisper of rain on the way.
A metal taint seemed to stain the air, reminding him of their deadly predicament on Kithrup.
No doubt Creideiki and his "engineers" were trying to jury-rig a scheme to get them out of this mess. Their plan would, no doubt, be frightfully bold and clever… and get them all killed.
Wasn't it obvious that neophytes at the game of making and conquering couldn't thwart the Galactics, who had been at it for aeons?
The humans had his loyalty, of course. But he knew them for what they were--clumsy wolflings, struggling to survive in a dangerously reactionary galaxy.
There was an old dolphin saying. "All humans are engineers, and all engineers are humans." It was cute, but patently a lie.
Keepiru broke the surface beside him. Sah'ot blew quietly, his breath condensing into spray. He lay watching the sunrise until Keepiru's patience wore thin.
"It'sss daylight, Sah'ot. We shouldn't be out here. We've got to report, and I want some food and rest!"
Sah'ot affected the role of an absent-minded scientist. He started, as if pulled from thoughts deeper than Keepiru might ever understand.
"What? Oh, yes. Of course, Pilot. By all means. I've very interesting data to report. You know, I think I've cracked their language?"
"How nice." Keepiru's reply was semantically Anglic, and phonemically a squawk. He dove and headed for the cave entrance.
Sah'ot winced at the pilot's sarcasm. But he was unrepentant.
Maybe I've time to finish a few suggestive limericks, to intersperse in my report to Dennie, he thought. It's too bad she stays up on the bank of the pool and won't join me in the water. Maybe today she'll relent, though.
He composed dirty poetry as he banked to follow Keepiru down into the night-like darkness below.
When they got to the bottom of the former drill-tree shaft, now lit by a small phosphor bulb, Sah'ot noticed that someone had taken both sleds out of the passage and moored them in the cavern below. But at least one sled was always supposed to be in the pool in case Dennie and Toshio had to escape quickly! He hurried after Keepiru, up the narrow vertical tunnel.
There were two more sleds in the pool at the top. Someone must have arrived from the ship during the night, he realized.
Toshio and Dennie were already down by the water, talking to Keepiru. Sah'ot eyed Dennie speculatively, but decided not to start in.
This evening I'll try to get her to join me in the water, he thought. I'll think up a pretext, maybe something to do with the mechanics of the drill-tree root. It probably won't work, but the attempt should be fun.
Sah'ot spy-hopped, churning his tail to rise up and look about the poolside clearing. He wondered who had come out from Streaker.
The thick brush parted to the south and two men, one female and one male, approached.
Gillian Baskin knelt by the poolside and whistled a Trinary welcome.
* Constant Keepiru
Solid as surf rock
* Orca-defier
* Chameleon Sah'ot
Ever adaptable
* Ever so man-like
* Under dark squalls I'd
Recognize you two…
* Study in opposites!
Keepiru answered in Anglic, a pathetically unoriginal
"Good to see you, Gillian. You too, T -Tom."
Sah'ot settled down, uncomfortably aware that he had a reputation to live up to. Unlike Keepiru, he would have to come up with a greeting that matched Gillian's.
He would rather have gone someplace to think about Gillian's remark, especially that part about being "ever so man-like…" Was that a compliment, or was there a touch of pity in Gillian's upper register when she had whistled it?
Thomas Orley stood quietly next to Gillian. Sah'ot felt as if the man were seeing through him.