Phylogenesis by Alan Dean Foster Page A

expansionists. The AAnn deny it. Whom are we humans to believe?”
    “Ay—I really couldn’t say, sir.”
    “No, of course you couldn’t.” Ehrenhardt sighed deeply. “And it’s wrong of me to expect it of someone like yourself. But living here, I am inescapably surrounded by those of limited vision.” Rising abruptly, he took the startled Montoya’s hand and grasped it with a firmness that belied his age.
    “Deliver the fee by the indicated date and the franchise is yours, Cheelo. The franchise, and the prestige and everything else that goes with it. One thing more: The credit transfer must be made in front of me. I am required by those others involved in the business to witness it in person. There are many traditionalists among us who do not trust long-distance electronics. So I
will
see you before the indicated date?” Montoya nodded, and the hand moved to the jittery younger man’s shoulder. “Then you can do your ‘big things.’” He sat back down. The interview was at an end.
    Cheelo rode the lift back down to the city in a haze of euphoria. His chance at last! By all the gods of his forefathers and all the gonads of those who had ever kicked, beaten, or insulted him, he would raise the necessary money somehow. It shouldn’t be too hard. He had ample experience in such matters.
    But he could not do it in Golfito. Because of the prevalence of the tourist ships and zeps there were simply too many police about. They were alert to the activities of denizens such as himself. He was too well known to them. He would have to go to work elsewhere.
    He knew just the place.

7
    U lunegjeprok’s voice was flat, betraying no hint of the excitement he felt. “Instead of preparing foodstuff basics for humans,” he asked his friend and fellow worker, “how would you like to deliver some?”
    Desvendapur did not look up from where he was cleaning a large quantity of pale pink
vekind
root. “Do not joke with me, Ulu. What are you talking about?”
    “Hamet and Quovin, the senior biochemists in charge of final checkout and delivery, are both down sick. It has fallen to Shemon to carry out the transfer of this week’s produce. I spoke to her earlier. She has never done this before and is apprehensive about doing it alone.”
    “Why?” Des wondered. “You know the procedure as well as I. It is not complicated.”
    “It isn’t procedure that concerns her. She has never dealt with the humans in person, only via communicator, and she is not sure how she will react. So she asked for subsidiary personnel to accompany her.” His antennae straightened. “I volunteered. Knowing of your interest in the aliens, I also volunteered you.” He extended a foothand. “I hope you are not disappointed in me. If you want to withdraw your services for this afternoon…”
    “Withdraw?” Desvendapur could hardly believe his good fortune. At last, after all he had suffered—physically, mentally, and emotionally—he was going to encounter the bipeds in person instead of via research team projections and odorless images. Already mellifluous phrases and biting stanzas were bubbling in his brain. “This afternoon? How soon?”
    Ulunegjeprok whistled amusedly. “Clean your eyes. We have several time-parts yet.”
    Des did his best to concentrate on his work, but everything he managed to accomplish subsequent to his friend’s revelation he did by rote. His mind was spinning. He would take a scri!ber with him so that he could compose on the spot, to ensure that nothing was lost and every advantage taken from the forthcoming confrontation. There was no telling how long his superiors’ illnesses or Shemon’s aversion would last. It might be some time before the opportunity arose again.
    “What are you doing?” As he labored at his own station, Ulu eyed his weaving, bobbing coworker curiously.
    “Composing poetry.”
    “You? Poetry?” Ulunegjeprok whistled long and hard. “You’re an assistant food service preparator. What