Reunion

by Alan Dean Foster

  His characteristic unquenchable curiosity aside, he did not think he wanted them investigating him.

  Pip was already safely airborne and out of their reach. As they continued their approach, he could hear the soft whoosh and thump as multiple air sacs repetitively discharged their gaseous contents. Up close, the tiny teeth that filled the narrow jaws looked at once larger and more menacing. The absence of visible arms, claws, tentacles, extrudable proboscises, or other gripping appendages was encouraging, but despite this he doubted he could fight off all nine of them should they choose to attack as a pack. Standing alone and exposed on the glistening emerald-and-azure plain, he had exactly one option left open to him. Despite his exhaustion, he did his best to take it.

  Turning, he briefly contemplated the challenge before him. Then he wrapped his legs tightly around the sturdiest of the four alien growths, extended his arms above his head, and began to climb. Without the knoblike tumescences that lined the trunk, the task would have been impossible. As it was, in his weakened condition the ascent proved arduous enough. The wheezing, eerily sibilant emissions of the flimmers did much to inspire his efforts.

  Somewhat to his surprise, he succeeded in making it all the way to the crown of the distinctive growth. It was an uncomfortable, precarious perch. But it was better than being caught below, where the pack of flimmers clustered around the base of the four growths, their air sacs expanding and contracting mightily as they strove to reach the bipedal food that had moved out of their reach. Despite their most strenuous efforts, none managed to rise more than halfway up the treelike growth. Pip hovered nearby, uncertain whether to attack or wait for some further indication of distress from her companion.

  Adjusting his uncomfortable position in search of a more accommodating one, and not finding it, Flinx was relieved when the brownish stalk of the growth he was clinging to did not shift beneath him. Unpleasant and awkward his roost might be, but at least it was well rooted. It did not sway beneath his weight, nor tremble when several of the eager flimmers threw themselves against it. Before too long, he hoped, perhaps with the onset of evening, they would grow bored or give up and whistle away, allowing him to slide back down to the ground and resume his trek.

  A new sound reached his ears. Curious, he turned as sharply to the right as his perch would permit. Three of the flimmers had clustered at the base of the quasi-tree, their foreparts jammed tightly together. Since he could not see what they were doing, it took him a minute to connect the noises he was hearing with references from his own memory. The instant he made the connection, his heart began to beat a little faster. Those multitudes of small, sharp teeth could rend other things besides flesh.

  They were eating away at the base of his tree.

  More than a little concerned, he contemplated his choices should they succeed in chewing their way through the tough material. Unfortunately, plunging helplessly to the ground was the first alternative that occurred to him, and it was less than promising. He still had the endural pistol he had salvaged from the survival suit, but he had no idea how effective it would be on the flimmers. If he had to use it, a lot would depend on whether they approached their potential prey cautiously, or swarmed him all at once. If the latter . . .

  Pip would help, but the poison sacs in her cheeks were of finite dimensions, and took time to replenish. The stout treelike growth that was his refuge began to quiver ominously. Reaching into a pocket while his perilous perch communicated a conspicuous quiver to his backside, he carefully drew out the survival gun and sighted the muzzle on the largest of the flattened predators gnawing at the base of the growth. Better to use the weapon to try and drive them away, or at least to diminish the pack’s numbers, before they cut completely through the base of the quasi-tree and sent him crashing to the ground.

  The trunk shuddered afresh, but remained upright. Looking down as he took aim with the tiny endural, he paused as an entirely new kind of vibration shuddered through the trunk. Beneath him, near the base of the growth, the protruding nodules that had provided precarious footing for his ascent were inflating alarmingly, like so many infected pustules on the skin of a dermatically challenged giant. The voracious flimmers paid no attention to the development. As the protuberances continued to swell, their dull gray integuments became almost translucent. Flinx thought he could detect movement within, but could not identify the cause.

  With a hundred subdued plopping noises, the swollen tubercles finally burst. A cascade of clear, cool liquid gushed forth to drench the attacking carnivores. Reacting as one, they immediately abandoned their assault on the tough, stubborn trunk to imbibe as much of the precious deluge as they could before it vanished into the parched earth. Flinx would have risked an attack and rushed to join them, save for one recent memory that made him hesitate.

  He had already had one enlightening encounter with water that had turned out to be something else.

  Nothing sprang at the eager flimmers from within the liquid that was already beginning to form rapidly shrinking puddles on the blue-green ground. The soft tissues of the thirsty predators did not hiss and blister from contact with artfully disguised acids. They continued to drink, the diligent pack swarming around the base of the growth, smaller individuals fighting for their share of the unexpected liquid bounty, until the last priceless drop had been swallowed or lost to the dry earth beneath them. They then returned their attention to their isolated, treed quarry who, despite his wishes, had not been forgotten. The same ravenous trio resumed chewing at the base of the bole while the rest waited in a hungry circle, bouncing up and down with excitement and anticipation on their individual cushions of air.

  If the Pyrassisian growth’s intention had been to divert the attackers at its base from continuing their onslaught, the ploy had failed. If anything, the liquid they had just ingested seemed to give the industrious gnawers renewed energy and determination. Trying to focus on the largest of those doing the damage to his perch, Flinx once again took aim with the endural.

  Before he could fire, the big flimmer he had fixed in his sights jerked spasmodically and fluttered away from the trunk. It was followed in rapid succession by its two companions. The entire pack, in fact, had suddenly begun to exhibit symptoms of unmistakable distress. As Flinx looked on, they engaged in a brief group paroxysm of twitching and tremors. Then, one by one, they convulsed, shuddered, and sank to the ground.

  Only when the last of them had stopped quivering did Flinx dare to descend from his discomfiting refuge. Walking over to the nearest of the motionless creatures, he kicked hesitantly at its flattened body. It did not move. If it was paralyzed, the paralysis was total. Kneeling tentatively, he examined the motionless predator at close range. It was not paralyzed, he concluded: It was dead.

  That was when he noticed the fine spray of transparent crystals protruding from the creature’s broad mouth and stilled lips. Picking up a rock, he used it to gingerly snap off several of the centimeter-long formations. Save for several green liquid inclusions that might have been embedded alien blood, they were perfectly pellucid. This time, he realized somberly as he rose and tossed the rock aside, one of the local life-forms had used specialized liquid masquerading as water to defend itself instead of to capture prey.

  The fluid that had spewed from the quasi-tree’s bloated nodules had looked like water, flowed like water, had even, from his unsteady perch at its crest, smelled like water. But instead of that life-giving liquid, it consisted of complex organic polymers that, when exposed to air, congealed rapidly into a solid, crystalline form. In ingesting it, the flimmers had committed a particularly gruesome form of group suicide. The fluid had crystallized and expanded inside their bodies, piercing vital organs and suffocating them from the inside out. Were he to dissect one, he suspected he would find the organs of the dead flimmer’s digestive system filled to bursting with enchanting, jewel-like, and utterly deadly crystalline formations.

  Turning away from the deceased predator, he eyed the four silent
brown growths still standing tall and straight behind him with new respect. The quasi-tree had defended itself most successfully. First the hulking saliva-baiter, now this. He wondered if he would be able to trust real water when he found it.

  Momentarily overwhelmed by the effects of the quasi-tree’s cunning defense, he knew he was being disingenuous. When he finally found something that looked like water, he knew he would rush to it with little regard for the consequences. He had no options left. If it chose to drink him before he could drink it, well, at least he would die hydrated.

  As he stood over the inert bodies he contemplated slitting several of the dead flimmers and sampling their blood. Reckoning that their green, copper-infused life fluid was as likely to poison as revivify his system, he reluctantly decided to pass on the opportunity. He wasn’t that desperate, he decided. Not yet. Maybe he was well down the road to that unenviable destination, but he still had a ways to go before he got there.

  Shouldering his shrinking sack of supplies, he resumed his march eastward. The dark ridgeline loomed in front of him, a highly attenuated but nonetheless promising grail. If it sheltered no water beneath its dusky brow, then the question of what he would do when he reached the Crotase encampment would be rendered moot. If it did . . . He tried not to think about what he would do after enjoying a long, long drink and an invigorating rest. He tried not to think about drinking at all.

  As he advanced, he viewed every rock with suspicion, dodged the homeliest plants with care, and tried to avoid anything that moved. It was a secure way to travel, but not a very nourishing one. For one tantalizing, brief moment, clouds seemed to gather, only to dissipate beneath the brutal heat of the merciless sun. He found himself wondering if during a flash flood on this spectacularly tinted world, the riverbeds would run bright with dissolved azurite and other vividly colored copper minerals. The images thus evoked served to occupy his mind while doing nothing for his throat or belly.

  Offered a choice, he would rather have been tramping through dense jungle. Not only was he more familiar with such an environment from his travels, at least there, despite the unavoidable endemic dangers, he could have found water easily. He tried not to think too much about what he did not have: about the cool, soothing rush of liquid down his throat, about the lubricious bloating sensation that resulted from too much drink accumulating too rapidly at the bottom of his belly, about . . . Unable to stop himself, he meditated on how different things might be if the battered and torn survival suit were still intact. And as long as he was wishing, he decided wryly, he might as well wish for an intact shuttlecraft to be waiting for him, door ajar, on the other side of the ridge.

  He stumbled onward across the brilliant blue-and-green copper salts with their intermittent eruptions of incredibly rare crystallized minerals, no longer appreciative of the striking tints and hues, seeing in them only exceptionally vivacious harbingers of doom. Despite her small size, a weakened Pip was rapidly becoming a debilitating weight on his shoulder. She took to the air less and less frequently, rising only when irresistibly prompted by some exceptionally intriguing sight or movement. The rest of the time she preferred to rest in the bouncing, very limited shade provided by his head and neck. Though he looked forward to her occasional flights for the momentary cooling her rapidly beating wings brought to his face, he was not about to chivvy her airborne just to provide him with a few seconds of heightened comfort.

  He had fashioned an improvised patch for the worm-punctured water tank. Now if only he had something to put in it, and the empty bottle he had salvaged from the wrecked shuttlecraft. The larger container was beginning to chafe against his back, threatening to raise a painful welt. At least he had something to take his mind off the raging thirst that otherwise occupied his every waking moment. They were almost out of food, too. In that regard, Pip was a little better off. At least she could hunt, though in her weakened condition she did so less and less often. Her elevated metabolic level demanded that she eat frequently. Despite the increasing desperation of his situation, he still refused to consider sacrificing her to save himself.

  From overhead, from beneath cracks and holes in the chromatically hued salts, from behind the cover of strange flora, hungry eyes watched and waited. Flinx doubted his off-world origins would prevent their owners from closing in when they thought the moment propitious. Meat was meat, protein was protein, and in the truly barren expanses of any world, scavengers would always eat first and suffer any bellyaching consequences later. He had to keep alert and on the move. When his intermittently active talent was functioning, he could sometimes sense their primitive presence nearby, out of sight but not out of perception. Unfamiliar though their emotive projections might be, he had no trouble interpreting them. They were menacing, and expectant.

  The sun of Pyrassis was as merciless as its counterparts on other worlds. Repeatedly, clouds would gather, only to break apart. Hesitant and fluffy, their sole purpose seemed to be to tempt and then frustrate him. They shuffled and re-formed in the clear indigo sky as if uncertain what was expected of them, only to eventually disperse as thoroughly as his hopes.

  This was no place to die, he resolved. Not here, so far from Moth, from Alaspin, from the comforting confines of the Commonwealth itself. His determination, however, did nothing to alleviate the thirst that dominated his thoughts or the growling in his belly.

  A pointed tongue caressed his neck. Breathing slow and steadily, he halted in the semishade of a rocky outcropping, a cracked green surface beneath his feet. Fumbling in a pocket, he removed half a food bar. Breaking off a chunk and setting it carefully on his shoulder, he waited while Pip gratefully consumed the nutritious segment. He considered trying to collect some condensate, but held off. They would drink tonight, he told himself firmly. After the blazing orb had dipped behind the horizon and both moons were high in the sky.

  Squinting, he looked upward. Despite the deterioration of their condition, there was no sign of the Teacher. It must still be hovering behind the nearer of the two moons, its functions on hold, patiently awaiting the next communication from its owner. Sophisticated as its AI was, the means for including theoretical speculation in its cybernetic cortex remained more an art than a science among designers. Besides, he had foolishly, perhaps overconfidently, not specified a time frame for his return. In the absence of one, the ship was unlikely to assume that anything had gone amiss and act, or not act, accordingly.

  Within its duralloy depths was a sufficiency of foods both synthesized and natural, a perfectly maintained atmosphere, various diversions and entertainments, and cool, freshly processed water. Enough water to swim in. Enough water to . . .

  Pip had finished eating. For an instant, her slitted eyes flashed more brightly than they had in a while before she once more settled her triangular, iridescent green head back down on his shoulder. Stretching painfully, he resumed his eastward march. By now he would have been grateful for any sign of civilization, AAnn or human. At least before they interrogated him, the reptiloids would give him food and water. He was beginning to fear that he had reached the point where that was as much as he could hope for.

  Then the dark ridgeline loomed before him, transformed from distant goal to impending obstacle. At the sight of it, the muscles in his legs protested. Halting at its base, he surveyed the barrier that he had made his immediate destination. It was steeper than it had appeared from a distance, but climbable, and thankfully not too high. Interestingly, the crest was of uniform height. Taking final stock of his surroundings before beginning the ascent, he saw that it ran away to north and south as far as he could see. Certainly, there was no going around it.

  Moving slowly but with deliberation, his perception dangerously fogged and his reflexes slowed, he approached the base and began to climb. The otherwise slick-surfaced formation was ribbed with knobs and projections that provided excellent foot- and hand-holds. He was halfway to the top when he slipped, scrambled to regain his footing, and in doing so noticed something
that would have greatly excited his interest had he been capable of feeling anything so peripheral to his continued survival as scientific curiosity.

  From the time he had begun his long march, he had believed the ridge to be a natural formation made of dark stone. Slathered as it was in sand and grit and gravel, there was no reason to suspect otherwise. Now he saw that where his scrabbling feet had kicked away the adhering granules and accumulated cupric silicates, something black and shiny lay underneath.

  Bracing himself against the inward-sloping wall, he used one hand to hold on and the other to brush at the coarse grains. More of the curious ebony slickness appeared beneath his fingers. Running his dirty nails along the now exposed surface, he found that he was unable to scratch it. His survival knife did no better. With only such crude devices at his disposal, he was unable to tell if the slope was metal, ceramic, plastic, some kind of welded fiber, or something even more exotic. Of one thing he was certain: It was unquestionably artificial.

  Straightening slightly, leaning away from the wall, he looked along its interminable length first to the north and then to the south. If it was all composed of the same dark, reflective material, it suggested a unified assembly of considerable magnitude. From the air it doubtless resembled the natural scenic ridge he had previously imagined it to be. Who or what had raised it up in this desolate place, and to what purpose, he could not imagine. He was too tired to expend time and energy on lofty speculation. Had this world once been home to a people in need of such structures as long, high walls? Had at one time in its history, ancient wars raged across the surface of a greener but not kinder Pyrassis? As he struggled upward, slipping and grasping, he had time to weigh only the most insignificant of conjectures.