It was intimidating to have the fate of the race riding in one’s slipstream.
And for all of its obvious finesse and fine preening, one thing was readily apparent about the new chief bureaucrat. The new Suzerain of Cost and Caution lacked the depth, the clarity of vision of its dead predecessor. The Suzerain of Propriety knew that no grand policy was going to come out of picayune, short sighted credit-pinching.
Something had to be done, and done now! The priest took up a posture of presentiment, spreading its brightly feathered arms in display. Politely, perhaps even indulgently, the bureaucrat cut short its own dance and lowered its beak, yielding time.
The Suzerain of Propriety started slowly, shuffling in small steps upon its perch. Purposely, the priest adopted a cadence used earlier by its adversary.
“Although there may be no Garthlings, there remains achance, opportunity, opening, for us to use the ceremonialsite we have
planned,
built,
dedicated
at such cost.
“There is a plan, scheme, concept, which may still yet
win
glory,
honor,
propriety
for our clan.
“At the center, focus, essence of this plan, we shall
examine,
inspect,
investigate
the clients of wolflings.”
Across the chamber the Suzerain of Beam and Talon looked up. A hopeful light appeared in the dejected admiral’s eye, and the priest knew that it could win a temporary victory, or at least a delay.
Much, much would depend in the days ahead upon finding out whether this bold new idea would work.
57
Athaclena
“You see?” he called down to her. “It moved during the night!”
Athaclena had to shade her eyes as she looked up at her human friend — perched on a tree branch more than thirty feet above the forest floor. He pulled on a leafy green cable that stretched down to him at a forty-five-degree angle from its even higher anchor.
“Are you certain that is the same vine you snipped last night?” she called.
“It sure is! I climbed up and poured a liter of chromium-rich water — the very stuff this particular vine specializes in — into the crotch of that branch, way up there above me. Now you can see this vine has reanchored itself to that exact spot!”
Athaclena nodded. She felt a fringe of truth around his words. “I see it, Robert. And now I believe it.”
She had to smile. Sometimes Robert acted so much like a young Tymbrimi male — so quick, impulsive, puckish. It was a little disconcerting, in a way. Aliens were supposed to behave in strange and inscrutable ways, not just like… well, boys.
But Robert is not an alien, she reminded herself. He is my consort. And anyway, she had been living among Terrans for so long, she wondered if she had started to think like one.
When — if — I ever get home, will I disconcert all around me, frightening and amazing them with metaphors? With bizarre wolfling attitudes? Does that prospect attract me?
A lull had settled over the war. The Gubru had stopped sending vulnerable expeditions into the mountains. Their outposts were quiescent. Even the ceaseless droning of gasbots had been absent from the high valleys for more than a week, te the great relief of the chim farmers and villagers.
With some time on their hands, she and Robert had decided to have themselves just one day off while they had a chance, to try to get to know each other better. After all, who knew when the fighting would resume? Would there ever be another opportunity?
They both needed distraction anyway. There had still been no reply from Robert’s mother, and the fate of Ambassador Uthacalthing remained unclear, in spite of the glimpse she had been given of her father’s design. All she could do was try to perform her part as well as possible, and hope he was still alive and able to do his.
“All right,” she called up to Robert. “I accept it. The vines can be trained, after a fashion. Now come down! Your perch looks precarious.”
But Robert only smiled. “I’ll come down, in my own way. You know me, Clennie. I can’t resist an opportunity like this.”
Athaclena tensed. There it was again, that whimsy at the edges of his emotional aura. It wasn’t unlike syulff-kuonn, the coronal kenning surrounding a young Tymbrimi who was savoring an anticipated jest.
Robert gave the vine a hearty tug. He inhaled, expanding his ribcage to a degree no Tymbrimi could have equaled, then thumped his chest hollowly, rapidly, and gave out a long, ululating yodel. It echoed down the forest corridors.
Athaclena sighed. Oh, yes. He must pay respects to their wolfling deity, Tarzan With the vine clutched in both hands, Robert vaulted from the branch. He sailed, legs outstretched together, in a smooth arc down and across the forest meadow, barely clearing the low shrubs. He whooped aloud.
Of course it was just the sort of thing humans would have invented during those dark centuries between the advent of intelligence and their discovery of science. None of the Library-raised Galactic races, not even the Tymbrimi, would ever have thought up such a mode of transportation.
The pendulum swing carried Robert upward again, toward a thick mass of leaves and branchlets halfway up the side of a forest giant. Robert’s warbling cry cut off suddenly as he crashed through the foliage with a splintering sound and disappeared.
The silence was punctuated only by a faint, steady rain of minor debris. Athaclena hesitated, then called out. “Robert?”
There was neither reply nor movement up there in that high thicket. “Robert! Are you all right? Answer me!” The Anglic words felt thick in her mouth.
She tried to locate him with her corona, the little strands above her ears strained forward. He was in there, all right… and in some degree of pain, she could tell.
She ran across the meadow, leaping over low obstacles as the gheer transforrriation set in — her nostrils automatically widening to accept more air as her heart rate tripled. By the time she reached the tree, her finger- and toenails had already begun to harden. She kicked off her soft shoes and began climbing at once, quickly finding holds in the rough bark as she shimmied up the giant bole to the first branch.
The ubiquitous vines clustered here, snaking at an angle toward the leafy morass that had swallowed Robert. She tested one of the ropy cables, then used it to shimmy up to the next level.
Athaclena knew she should pace herself. For all of her Tymbrimi speed and adaptability, her musculature wasn’t as strong as a human’s, and coronal-radiation didn’t dissipate heat as well as Terran sweat glands. Still, she could not taper off from full, emergency speed.
It felt dim and close within the leafy blind where Robert had crashed. Athaclena blinked and sniffed as she entered the darkness. The odors reminded her that this was a wild world, and she was no wolfling to be at home in a ferine jungle. Athaclena had to retract her tendrils so they wouldn’t get tangled in the thicket. That was why she was taken by surprise when something reached out from the shadows to grab her tightly.
Hormones rushed. She gasped and coiled around to strike out at her assailant. Just in time she recognized Robert’s aura, his human male odor very near, and his strong arms holding her close. Athaclena experienced a momentary wave of dizziness as the gheer reaction braked hard.
It was in that stunned state, while still immobilized by change-rigor, that her surprise was redoubled. For that was when Robert began touching her mouth with his. At first his actions seemed meaningless, insane. But then, as her corona unwound, she started picking up feelings again… and all at once she remembered scenes from human video dramas — scenes involving mating and sexual play.