Phylogenesis by Alan Dean Foster Page B

makes you think you can compose poetry?”
    “It is just a hobby. Something to occupy my recreational time.”
    “Good thing Hamet and Quovin are both out sick and Shemon is busy inventorying the week’s consignment. They wouldn’t look upon this as recreational time. Well, as long as you’re making the effort, I’ll give it a try. For friendship’s sake, even though it will be painful. Go on, I’m braced—recite something.”
    “No, never mind.” Aware that in his excitement he was skirting potentially dangerous territory, Desvendapur turned back to his work, stripping the thorny casing from oblong
cazzi!!s
fruit. “I’m not very good at it.”
    “That goes without saying, but I would still like to hear something.” Ulu would not be put off.
    Cornered, Des complied, trilling and clicking as inconsequential and unsophisticated a brace of stanzas as he could manage, a feeble collage of words and sounds guaranteed to get him whistled down at any semiprofessional gathering of qualified soothers.
    Ulu’s reaction was wonderfully predictable. “That was awful. You had better stick to making
hequenl
buns. You’re good at that.”
    “Thank you,” Des told him, and he meant it.
    Systems idling, the small transport truck in the warehousing chamber hovered an arm’s length off the floor. Des and Ulu saw to the transfer of assorted crates and containers while the venerable Shemon accounted for each one as it was loaded. It was evident from her attitude as well as her words that she did not want to be doing this, that she dearly wished the absent Hamet or Quovin were present instead, and that the sooner they had concluded the delivery and returned, the better she would like it.
    There was barely enough room in the vehicle’s enclosed cab for three. As she adjusted the guide controls and the truck started silently forward down a well-lit corridor, Desvendapur checked to make certain his scri!bers were nestled snugly in the abdominal pouch slung over his left side. He had brought two, in case one should fail.
    “Why do you need us to come along anyway?” Ulu was asking her. At these words, Des wanted to reach out and smother him. “Are these creatures so physically feeble that they cannot unload their own supplies?”
    “The ones that are present are engaged in more important tasks. They are scientists and researchers, not manual laborers. Easier for us to do such work.” She looked over at him. “Why? Do you want to go back?”
    Desvendapur hardly dared to breathe.
    “No. I was just wondering,” the unimaginative Ulu concluded.
    The corridor was blocked by another guard station. Here they were waved through without an identification check, the contents of the transport being sufficient to establish their legitimacy and purpose. As the vehicle accelerated, Des looked for any sign of a change, for anything exotic or alien, and saw nothing. They might as well still be traveling through the thranx portion of the complex.
    Eventually they pulled into a storage chamber scarcely different from the one they had left. Easing the truck into a receiving dock, Shemon shut off the power to the engine and slipped off the driver’s bench. Ulu and Des followed her around to the back of the conveyance.
    Under her direction, they began unloading the foodstuffs they had brought. Save for small robot handlers and cleaners, the chamber remained empty. He tried not to panic. Where were the humans? Where were the aliens he had sacrificed his career, more than a year of his life, and the life of another to see? Unable to stand it any longer, he asked as much.
    Shemon gestured indifferently. It was evident that she was well pleased with the turn of events. “Who knows? It is not necessary for them to be here for the unloading.”
    “But don’t they have to acknowledge receipt? Don’t they need to check the delivery to make sure everything’s here?” Desvendapur was moving as slowly as he possibly could without appearing to be