Free Drowning World by Alan Dean Foster Page B

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