Drowning World

by Alan Dean Foster

  If she remembered.

  4

  It was raining more heavily when Jemunu-jah and the Deyzara Masurathoo left the office of the Hata Lauren Matthias. A few humans, huddled against the rain and looking characteristically miserable, passed them on their way to the Administration Center. Jemunu-jah observed them pityingly. Their bodies shed water and they swam well, so why did they always look so unhappy? A human acquaintance had once said something to him about “eternal leaden skies, perpetual damp, and depressing gloom.” It made no sense. The rain brought life. It kept the water high, forcing wandering predators to swim instead of run. It refreshed and cleansed.

  At least the Deyzara were more stolid in their acceptance of Fluva's climate. Not that they had much choice, being permanent residents. They had long since made their peace with the unremitting rain. Glancing to his left, he watched his unwanted new companion's eating trunk flop loosely against the smooth lower portion of the skull as its owner tugged his wide-brimmed rain hat tighter down on his naked pate. How did this Masurathoo feel about his adoptive home world and its native inhabitants? When they were cooped up together in a small skimmer Jemunu-jah knew he was likely to find out.

  Protruding beneath the hat, the speaking trunk uncoiled from the top of the Deyzara's head. “Please excuse me for pointing it out, but I can tell that you are not very personally pleased with this arrangement, though it shall prove financially and professionally advantageous to us both, I think.”

  “Heesa,” Jemunu-jah replied with curt courtesy.

  Round, baby-soft eyes turned to goggle up at him. “Do not think you are alone in your emotions. I am similarly less than happy with the present arrangement, and would have much preferred to contract this business with another of my own kind.”

  At least they had that much in common, Jemunu-jah mused. “I feel same way. Two Deyzara searching by themselves step out of skimmer in Viisiiviisii, that two less Deyzara on my world.” He waited for the other to disagree by retorting, “Our world,” but the two-trunk was either too preoccupied or too smart to respond overtly to the deliberate challenge. What he did say mildly surprised the Sakuntala.

  “As much as it pains me to admit it, you are most probably correct, sir.”

  Though it was at most a mild honorific, and a human one at that, it was not what Jemunu-jah had expected to hear.

  The Deyzara raised a hand and pointed. Following the line formed by the two soft opposing digits, Jemunu-jah found himself looking at what at first glance appeared to be a pair of transparent perambulating storage containers advancing up the walkway. As they drew nearer, he saw that each protective layer sheltered one of the other major partners in the Commonwealth, the hard-shells who called themselves thranx. They were progressing with agonizing slowness, as if (despite their use of four trulegs and two foothands to additionally steady themselves) they feared each step would send them tumbling into the water below.

  “Look at them.” Though he knew it was not a mature reaction, Jemunu-jah could hardly contain his amusement at the sight. “They step like newborns.”

  “It is well known that they are unable to swim, or even to float.” Above his eyes, Masurathoo's speaking trunk bobbed gently from side to side as he spoke. “One should pity these two, as it is most clearly evident they would rather be anywhere else than here.”

  As they came closer to the two thranx, Jemunu-jah experienced a sudden highly uncivilized urge to bump into the nearest and send it stumbling toward the walkway railing, just to see how it would react. Curious as to what Masurathoo would think, he voiced his desire to his shorter, softer companion.

  “Oh, Mr. Jemunu-jah, sir, that is thought most unworthy of a civilized being!” Hesitating, the Deyzara lowered his voice. “But one that, I confess, could prove highly amusing in its consequences.”

  Something else they unexpectedly had in common, Jemunu-jah realized. A little humor could go a long way toward defusing the tension each felt in the presence of the other. That was going to be increasingly important once they were both restricted to the limited confines of a small scout skimmer. Of course, he wasn't going to actually bump into one of the clearly terrified thranx. Still, if he should happen to do so (entirely by accident, of course) and if it did stumble toward the edge of the walkway, he could grab and steady it in an instant. No harm done. The two hard-shells were very close now.

  He had not yet decided what to do when the chigyese landed right on top of the alien he was unworthily contemplating nudging. The chigyese had a soft, flexible body that enabled it to squeeze into narrow clefts in the branches of trees. There it could swell itself with water, rendering it impossible for would-be predators to extract. To move about the trees it had a dozen long, glistening tentacles lined with fine hairs. It was not very strong, it had poor eyesight, and its tiny mouthparts were adapted not for biting but for sucking plant juices from new growth.

  None of which was known to the two thranx. As the anxious chigyese sought to free itself from the suddenly hysterical surface on which it found itself, the thranx on which it had landed began hopping about on all six legs while flailing frantically at the soggy object clinging to the back of its b-thorax. Instead of helping, the hard-shell's horrified companion was tripping all over its six legs while uttering frantic cries for help. In the panic of the moment, they spoke in Low Thranx instead of terranglo. Acutely conscious of the deadly water below, both visitors lurched away from the railing. This only sent them careening wildly toward the railing opposite.

  Jemunu-jah would have helped, had he not been overcome with laughter. Masurathoo tried to call out to the two visitors that the chigyese was quite harmless and that if the one afflicted by its presence would only stand still and let it go free, it would crawl away as fast as its arms would carry it. Unfortunately, his speaking trunk kept emitting small bubbles, this being the Deyzara method of expressing laughter. It was a reaction he was unable to control. Jemunu-jah noted the phenomenon with interest. He'd heard about it, but this was the first time he had ever seen a Deyzara laugh. Usually the two-trunks were so businesslike it made one want to scream. Or cut off their speaking trunks.

  Meanwhile, the poor chigyese was doing its best to extricate itself from its hopping, flailing, wildly chittering host. Slipping on the perpetually damp walkway, the thranx thus afflicted fell down, kicking and fighting with all eight limbs. This finally allowed the traumatized chigyese to find purchase on a different surface. It proceeded to scramble clear. In less than a minute its long arms pulled it through the side of the railing and it dropped from sight over the side, hopefully to land this time on a more amenable and less feverish surface.

  During the commotion, the protective coverings worn by both thranx had been worked into a tangled shambles. Helping her companion to his feet, the female struggled to untangle her knotted ovipositors before fighting to adjust her own rain shield. It seemed to Jemunu-jah an unnecessary activity, since by now both hard-shells were soaking wet. Moisture sputtered from the breathing spicules that pulsed madly with exertion on either side of their exposed Thoraxes.

  “That,” he declared as he and Masurathoo continued on their way, “is funniest thing I see since adolescent relative Moukie-jeu get swallowed by ourulu plant and need to spend three-day having female relations de-sap him hair by hair.”

  “It was certainly most amusing.” Words instead of bubbles issued from the Deyzara's speaking trunk. “They were displeased that we stood by and watched without providing any assistance.”

  Jemunu-jah looked down sharply. “You can do hard-shell's click-talk?”

  “Dear me, no.” Using one hand, Masurathoo raised the end of his speaking trunk higher than its internal muscles alone could lift it. “We make sounds and words by sending air over the inflexible ridges that line the insides of our cotos. To manage thranx speech requires the ability to snap something flexible against something unyielding. Humans and Sakuntala have internal mouth organs called tongues that are capable of doing this.
We do not. But while I cannot speak High or Low Thranx, I can manage some of their meaning-rich gestures, and I can understand some of that speaking.”

  It was not meant to be a soliloquy on superiority, Jemunu-jah knew. Nevertheless, he reacted defensively. So many Deyzara were not shy about flaunting their intelligence, their mastery of terranglo, or the ways of the Commonwealth. They could not help it, he supposed. But it was a poor way to endear one's kind to such as the Sakuntala.

  We just as smart as you are, he told himself with certainty. You just had head-start period on us. Given time and education, he felt, the Sakuntala would catch up.

  Unless they took a shortcut by eliminating the Deyzara altogether, as certain rabid Hatas and Yuiquerus like the notorious Aniolo-jat frequently expressed a desire to do.

  Having shared mutual amusement at the discomfort of the two thranx, Jemunu-jah found himself in a slightly better mood by the time he and Masurathoo finally reached the transportation depot. Suspended by thick strands of strilk from dozens of pylons and massive trees, the port was designed to serve the close-in needs of several communities. The main port, where the shuttles that shifted people and goods between the surface and orbiting KK-drive ships landed and took off, was located a number of keleqs to the north, atop the only piece of semisolid land in the entire region that rose above the waters of the Viisiiviisii year-round. For ages it had been an important hunting ground. No sane Sakuntala would live there, of course, since solid surfaces were also favored by carnivores. Its clan owners now relaxed in Commonwealth-supplied leisure, their traditional hunting territory having been leased for the port.

  Even though they could be counted among his own clan's old enemies, Jemunu-jah did not begrudge them their good fortune. He was only upset that his people had not been able to share in it. And of course, no one had expected the T'kuo to share with the A'jah or any other clan. That was not the Sakuntala way.

  It was one of the ways that was going to have to change, he knew, if his kind were ever to catch up to the Deyzara. The clans would have to stop fighting among themselves and learn to cooperate. Despite the example posed by the races that made up the Commonwealth, such changes were proving difficult to instill. Something else, some other force, was going to have to be found to unify the Sakuntala.

  He intended to check in with the depot master himself. Irritatingly, his companion beat him to it. Something about the Deyzara obliged them always to speak first.

  “Good morning, my friend.” Masurathoo waved his speaking trunk politely at the human attendant, addressing her in perfect, barely accented terranglo. Jemunu-jah knew that, unlike the Sakuntala, humans were not disturbed by such movements. But then, he knew, humans had spent many hundred-years among many different kinds of intelligent beings and were used to strange shapes and gestures.

  Peering out at them from her dry, dehumidified office, the stout middle-aged human female pushed back her hydrophobic cap and smiled at her visitors. Her expression showed that she was not used to seeing a Sakuntala and Deyzara walking alone together.

  “Mornin'.” Her eyes went skyward. “Think it'll rain today?”

  Jemunu-jah knew he should have smiled, but he had heard the joke far too often from far too many humans. It had to be allowed in the Deyzara's favor that they did not repeat it.

  Standing in the morning downpour, he pushed his way roughly past Masurathoo before the Deyzara could venture any additional expressions of politesse. Though he was eloquent for a Sakuntala, Jemunu-jah knew his own terranglo could not equal that of his companion. But it was more than adequate.

  “I Jemunu-jah, this Masurathoo. We are to go search Viisiiviisii for missing-absent human Hasslema. . . . Hasmogi—Hasa. We have authorization from office of Lauren Matthias for use of one scout skimmer.”

  There! Surely that was as clear as the silently watching Masurathoo could have managed.

  It certainly was clear enough for the human attendant. She bobbed her head in the fashion Jemunu-jah had long since come to recognize. “Yep, the office let us know you were coming. You're all set to go, fueled and provisioned.” She hesitated as she started to exit the office. “It's just the two of you then, is it?”

  “Verily, that is correct,” Masurathoo confirmed, getting in a couple of words before Jemunu-jah could respond. Magnanimously, the Sakuntala let it pass unchallenged.

  The attendant led them out onto the small staging area and into an open hangar protected from the rain by a hypo curtain. Inside, a number of skimmers were being serviced by human techs and their mechanical subordinates. Emblazed with the hourglass/infinity symbol of the Commonwealth, their craft was just large enough to accommodate four humans. It would allow the two of them to carry out their survey in comparative comfort.

  “Here you are, guys.” The woman eyed Jemunu-jah. “You might have to do some bending over near the back, Saki.” She proceeded to supply details about the specific model, addressing herself to Masurathoo on the assumption that he was going to be doing the piloting. The fact that she was correct did little to assuage Jemunu-jah's quiet humiliation.

  Have tolerance, he told himself. The female was a bureaucrat, not a diplomat. Still, the longer the conversation went on, alluding to terms and technology he did not understand, the more uncomfortable he felt. He forced himself to listen and, where possible, to learn. To give in to his rising anger and embarrassment would be to react exactly the way someone like Aniolo-jat would wish.

  When at last the human female finished, they boarded the compact, powerful craft and made their own check of provisions. That, at least, he could do as well as Masurathoo. The inspection concluded to their mutual satisfaction, they settled into the two seats forward. Though designed to accommodate a human backside, the particular curve of the flight chair allowed Jemunu-jah to sit comfortably without putting pressure on the tail that emerged from the back of his waist straps.

  Receiving clearance from port control, Masurathoo smoothly powered up the craft and guided it out of the hangar. A large cargo skimmer lifted in front of them, rising above the clearing in the trees on its way to another town. In the rain gloom, the glare from its traveling lights caused Masurathoo to shield his eyes with one arm.

  “Too much shining to see safely, I fear,” he commented unnecessarily.

  “No brighter than what you wearing,” Jemunu-jah couldn't resist observing.

  Lowering his arm, the Deyzara glanced down at the swirl of fabric that spiraled up his body to enclose his torso in a tornado of pink, bright blue, and chartreuse fabric splashed with black ovals and squares.

  “In deference to the seriousness of our enterprise, my friend, I have come garbed in my most subdued attire.”

  “Your subdued attire will make you target for first predator that see us the instant we step outside skimmer craft.”

  A single bubble formed at the tip of Masurathoo's speaking trunk before expiring with a single soft pop. “Then I must rely on you, my most esteemed and knowledgeable companion, to exercise your natural talents on my behalf to ensure that I do not become a meal for some indifferent wandering horror.”

  Not until we have accomplished our goal, Jemunu-jah thought silently, before quickly quashing the thought as dishonorable. Much more of that and he would lose mula, he decided. But it wasn't going to be easy to moderate either his words or his thoughts.

  In spite of himself, he admired the skill the Deyzara displayed in raising the skimmer above the tops of the trees. Rain continued to fall around them as Masurathoo pivoted the craft in midair, turned south, and accelerated along the course heading that had been filed by the missing human. Finding their objective in the absence of an actively broadcasting emergency beacon was going to be difficult, Jemunu-jah knew. But not necessarily impossible. His people had spent thousands of years evolving to find one another, and other things, in the depths of the rain-swept Viisiiviisii. Smaller things. The skimmer they were hunting was larger than the one they were flying. If it only boasted a working light
or two, he might well be able to spot it while soaring over the varzea below.

  He settled himself down to searching, disdaining the use of the auxiliary equipment in the skimmer's storage. Monitoring instruments was Masurathoo's job. A Deyzara's job. He would rely on the incredibly sharp vision with which Nature had equipped the Sakuntala.

  They made steady progress southward along the course that had been plotted for them by the Commonwealth navigation section without seeing a thing. By the afternoon of the fifth day, Jemunu-jah had acquired a grudging admiration for the skills of his companion. Not only did Masurathoo prove to be a superb pilot, but he also showed himself to be equally adept at manipulating the skimmer's food sourcer. While not sufficient to endear the Deyzara to Jemunu-jah, it went some ways toward tempering his view of his companion. Even the usual flatulent Deyzara pronouncements on everything from proper social intercourse to life in general were muted and carefully timed. There were surprisingly few moments when Jemunu-jah experienced the familiar Sakuntala desire to wring the Deyzara's short neck.

  For his part Masurathoo had become, if not actually comfortable around the tall, brooding Sakuntala, at least reasonably confident his companion was not going to slit his throat and drink his blood while he slept. This Jemunu-jah was an unusual example of his kind. While his terranglo grammar and pronunciation were still awkward, he showed a much greater command of vocabulary than was usual for his people, together with an inherent intelligence and curiosity that was almost—almost but not quite—Deyzaran in its perspicacity. So much so that Masurathoo finally felt comfortable asking about it.

  That was another thing about the Deyzara, Jemunu-jah reflected as he worked to compose a reply to his companion's question. They had no hesitation about prying into one's personal history. In this instance, however, he felt it arose from Masurathoo's genuine curiosity about him and not from the usual Deyzaran desire to gain some sort of commercial or personal advantage.