Free Phylogenesis by Alan Dean Foster Page A

The information embossed on the side of the gray repository was less than descriptive.
    “Food,” the other male informed him. “Ingredients. I am a food-preparation assistant, third level.” There was no false pride in his voice. “Graduated at the top of my classification several years ago. That is how I secured this position.”
    “You make it sound like it’s something special.” Never known for his tact, Desvendapur was not about to open a new wing case now. He passed another container to the waiting male. “This is Geswixt, not Ciccikalk.” In what had become a rote comment, he fished automatically. “Of course, if the humans were here, it would be different.”
    “Here?” The hardworking preparator whistled amusedly. “Why would there be any humans here, in Geswixt?”
    “Why indeed? An absurd notion.” A practiced Des displayed neither discouragement nor excitement.
    His new acquaintance barely paused to catch his breath. “It really is. They are all up-valley, in their own quarters.” He indicated the rapidly growing stack of containers. “This is food for them. I’m learning how to prepare sustenance not for our kind, but for humans.”

5
    H aving by now more or less come to the depressing conclusion that the presence of humans in Geswixt was a myth, Desvendapur made the fastest mental adjustment of his life. With admirable lack of hesitation, he responded, “Yes, I know.”
    “You know?” The preparator hesitated uncertainly. “How do you know that?”
    “By the markings on the containers,” the poet replied without hesitation, supple prevarication being close kin to the white heat of creation. The only difference was that he was creating for the sake of convenience and not for posterity.
    His new acquaintance clicked dubiously. “Every shipment is coded. How do you come to know the codes?”
    Self-immersed in semantic mud and unable to see a way clear to extricating himself, Des blithely burrowed in deeper. “Because I’m here to cross-check you. I am also in food preparation, just assigned here as a general kitchen assistant.” He tapped the repository he was cradling with all four digits of one truhand. “How are your skills? Current? Up-to-date? Tell me what this contains.”
    Distracted, the preparator glanced at the embossing. “Powdered milk. A natural mammalian bodily extract that is used as an ingredient in many meals.”
    “Very good!” Des complimented him slavishly even as he wondered what ‘powdered milk’ might be. “This one’s trickier.” He singled out a cylinder with a larger embossed identification area than its predecessor. “How about this?”
    The younger male hesitated only briefly. “Soya patties, various nut extracts, dehydrated fish, assorted fruits and vegetables. I don’t know all the individual names yet.”
    “Go on, try,” Des urged him. “I’m going to catch you out yet before we’re finished here.”
    “Nothing was said to me about another assistant being assigned to my section,” the preparator murmured, still uncertain.
    “That’s what I thought.” Des moved to stack the container without letting the other have a look at its index. “This one is too alien for you.”
    “No content listing is too alien for me. At least, I don’t think it is.” Antennae gyrated pridefully. “I complete all my assignments and receive notable ratings.”
    They continued in this fashion until the last of the containers had been transferred and its contents elucidated. “Where are your quarters?”
    “They have not been designated yet.” Des continued to improvise, a skill at which poet-soothers excelled. “I came up early. I’m not supposed to present myself until next day next.”
    The preparator considered. “There is not much to see here in Geswixt proper. Why don’t you come with me? You can share my room until you have been assigned.”
    “Many thanks, Ulunegjeprok.”
    His new friend glanced around. “Where is your personal