Alan Dean Foster - Drowning World

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Jemunu-jah didn’t want to have to take the time to rescue the human. If it was foolish enough to go off

into the Viisiiviisii all by itself, then it deserved whatever happened to it. Kenkeru-jah had argued that it

was theirmula to try to save the visitor, even if it was not spawned of the Sakuntala. As he was ranking

chief of the local Nuy clan, his opinion was listened to and respected.

Jemunu-jah suspected that the much-admired High Chief Naneci-tok would also have argued

vociferously against the decision to send him, but she was still in transit from an important meeting of

fellow Hatas and was not present to countermand the directive. As for the war chief Aniolo-jat, he did

not seem to care one way or the other where Jemunu-jah was sent. Not that the cunning Hata-yuiqueru

felt anything for the missing human, either. All the war chief wanted, as usual, was to conserve clan

energies for killing Deyzara.

Perhaps it was Jemunu-jah’s cheerless expression that caused the two Deyzara passing him on the

walkway to edge as far away as they could without tumbling right over the flexible railing. The

speaking/breathing trunk that protruded from the top of their ovoidal hairless skulls recoiled back against

the edges of their flat-brimmed rain hats, and the secondary eating trunks that hung from the underside, or

chin region, of their heads twitched nervously. Their large, protuberant, close-set eyes nervously tracked

him from behind their visors. Another time, Jemunu-jah might have found their excessive caution amusing.

Not today.

He supposed Kenkeru-jah was right. Chiefs usually were. But for the life of him, he could not

understand how the death of a missing human, and a self-demonstrably reckless one at that, could affect

the clan’smula . But the chief had made a decision. As a result, he now found himself directed to present

himself to the female in charge of the human community on Fluva. Since Lauren Matthias’s status was

equivalent to that of a senior Hata, or High Chief of the Sakuntala, Jemunu-jah would be obliged to put

his own feelings aside while showing her proper respect. He smoothed his long stride. Actually, he ought

to be proud. He had been selected as a representative of his people, the best that Taulau Town had to

offer. But if given a choice, he would gladly have declined the honor.

At slightly under two meters tall and a wiry eighty kilos, he was of average height and weight for a

mature male Sakuntala. Though smaller than those of a Deyzara, his eyes provided vision that was

substantially more acute. From the sides of his head the base of his flexible pointed ears extended out

sideways for several centimeters before curving sharply upward to end in tufted points. The outer

timpanic membrane that kept rain from entering his right ear was in the process of renewing itself, slowly

being replaced by a new one growing in behind it. As a result, the hearing on his right side was at present

slightly diminished. It would stay that way for another day or two, he knew, until the old membrane had

completely disintegrated and the new one had asserted itself.

His short, soft fur was light gray with splotches of black and umber. The pattern identified an individual

Sakuntala as sharply and distinctly as any of the artificial identity devices the humans carried around with

them. In that respect he felt sorry for the humans. Despite some slight differences in skin color, it was

often very difficult to tell one from another.

His cheek sacs bulged, one with the coiled, whiplike tongue that was almost as long as his body, the

other with a gobbet of khopo sap he alternately chewed and sucked. Today’s helping was flavored with

gesagine and apple, the latter a flavor introduced by the humans that had found much favor among the

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Sakuntala. He wore old-style strappings around his waist to shield his privates, while the bands of dark

blue synthetics that crisscrossed his chest were of off-world manufacture. Attached to both sets of straps

were a variety of items both traditional and modern, the latter purchased from the town shops with credit

he had earned from providing services to various human and Deyzara enterprises.

Now it seemed that despite his reluctance he was about to provide one more such service. Despite the

prospect of acquiringmula as well as credit, he would just as soon have seen the task given to another.

But Kenkeru-jah had been adamant. He was as stuck with the assignment as a kroun that had been

crammed into the crook of a drowning sabelbap tree.

Raindrops slid off his transparent eyelids as he glanced upward. Not much precipitation today: barely a

digit’s worth. Of course, it had rained very heavily yesterday. Clouds, like individuals, needed time to

replenish themselves. The fact that it rained every day on most of Fluva seemed to be a source of some

amusement to newly arrived humans. Once they had been stuck on Fluva for about a season, however,

Jemunu-jah had observed, the weather rapidly ceased to be a source of humor for the bald visitors.

Well, not entirely bald, he corrected himself. A fair number of humans owned at least a little fur. In that

respect they were better than the Deyzara, who were truly and completely hairless.

With an easy jump, he crossed from one suspended walkway to another, saving time as he made his

way through town. A few humans could duplicate such acrobatic feats but preferred not to. One spill into

the water below, arms and legs flailing wildly, was usually enough to prevent them from trying to imitate

the inherent agility of the tall, long-armed Sakuntala. No Deyzara would think of attempting the

comparatively undemanding jump. Human children could not be prevented from trying it, though. This

was allowed, since the waters beneath the town limits were netted to keep out p’forana, m’ainiki, and

other predators who would delight in making a meal of any child unlucky enough to tumble into

unprotected waters. That went for Sakuntala children as well as human and Deyzara, he knew. But when

they jumped, Sakuntala youngsters only rarely missed.

The rain intensified, falling steadily, if not forcefully. Making his way through the continuous shower, he

passed more Deyzara. Like the humans, the two-trunks wore an assortment of specialized outer attire

intended to keep the rain from making contact with their skin. To Jemunu-jah this seemed the height of

folly. For a Sakuntala, it was as natural to be wet as dry. As visitors who came and went from Fluva the

humans could be excused for their reticence to move about naked beneath the rain. But the Deyzara,

who had been living and working on the world of the Big Wet for hundreds of years, should have

adapted better by now. For all the many generations that had passed, they still displayed a marked

aversion to the unrelenting precipitation, though they had otherwise adapted well to the climate. The one

month out of the year that it did not rain was their period of celebration and joy. In contrast, it was during

such times that the Sakuntala tended to stay inside their houses, showering daily and striving to keep

moist.

It all seemed very backward to Jemunu-jah, even though he had viewed numerous vits that showed

many worlds where it rained only intermittently and some where water fell from the sky not at all. If

forced to live on such a world, he knew he would shrivel up and die like a gulou nut in the cooking fire or

in one of those marvelous portable cooking devices that could be bought from the humans or the

Deyzara. Rain was life. There would be no flooded forest, or varzea, as the humans called it, without the

rain that fell continuously for 90 percent of the year.

With the water from the many merged rivers of the varzea swirling ten meters below the suspended

walkway and the surface of the land itself drowned twenty to thirty meters below that, he lifted himself up

onto another crossway. This strilk-braced major avenue was strong enough to support multiple paths and

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was hectic with pedestrians. Humans mixed freely with Sakuntala and Deyzara, everyone intent on the

business of the day. Nearby, a spinner team was busy repairing a damaged walkway, extruding the strilk

that kept the town’s buildings and paths suspended safely above the water. The silvery artificial fiber was

attached to huge gray composite pylons that had been driven deep into the bedrock that lay far below the

turbid waters and saturated soil. On the outskirts of the sprawling community a carnival of lesser

structures whose owners were unable to afford pylons hung from the largest, strongest trees.

The single-story building in front of him was the administrative headquarters of the Commonwealth

presence on Fluva. Jemunu-jah had been there a few times before, on official business for the greater

A’Jah clan. That particular business being of lesser importance, it had not given him the opportunity to

meet Lauren Matthias. He had heard that she was very good at her work, not unlike Naneci-tok, and

could speak fluent S’aku. Matthias would not have to strain her larynx in his presence. His command of

terranglo, he had been told, was excellent.

A single human stood guard outside the building. He looked bored, tired, and, despite his protective

military attire, very, very wet. Visible beneath a flipped-up visor, his face was frozen in that faraway

expression many humans acquired after they had spent a year or more on Fluva. He was nearly as tall as

a Sakuntala. Drawing himself up to his full height, Jemunu-jah announced himself.

The guard seemed to respond to his presence only with great difficulty. Water ran down the human’s

face. It was not rainwater, as both of them were standing under the wide lip of the roof overhang that ran

completely around the front and sides of the administration building. Jemunu-jah recognized the facial

moisture as a phenomenon humans called perspiration. It was a condition unknown to the Sakuntala,

although the Deyzara suffered from it as well.

“Limalu di,” the guard mumbled apathetically. Jemunu-jah was not so far removed from the culture of his

kind, nor so educated, that he did not gaze covetously at the long gun that dangled loosely from the

human’s left hand. A single swift snatch and he could have it, he knew. Then, a quick leap over the side

of the deck into the water below, and he would be gone before the sluggish human barely knew it was

missing.

With a sigh, Jemunu-jah shifted his gaze away from the highly desirable weapon, away from the ancient

calling of his ancestors. He was here on clan business. He was civilized now. “I am called Jemunu-jah. I

have appointment with Administrator Matthias,” he responded in terranglo.

Reaching up to wipe away sweat and grime, the guard blinked uncertainly. “Appointment?”

“Appointment,” the lanky gray-furred visitor repeated.

Eyeing the Sakuntala with slightly more interest, the guard tilted his head slightly to his left and spoke

toward the pickup suspended there. “There’s a Saki here to see Matthias. Says he has an appointment.”

Jemunu-jah waited patiently while the human listened to the voice that whispered from the tiny pickup

clipped to his left ear.

A moment later the guard bobbed his head, a gesture Jemunu-jah knew signified acceptance among

humans. Parting his lips and showing sharp teeth, he stepped past and through the momentarily

deactivated electronic barrier that was designed to keep out intruders both large and small. Another

door, Jemunu-jah reflected as he entered the building. Humans and Deyzara alike were very fond of

doors. The Sakuntala had no use for them.

Behind him, the guard had resumed his lethargic pose, leaning back against the wall, his expression

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having once more gone blank as a part of him dreamed of other worlds and of the long-forgotten state of

being dry. Rain fell steadily beyond the brown composite decking and overhang. A few streaks of olive

greenwalus were visible on part of the porch railing. It had taken only a hundred years for several of the

millions of varieties of fungus and mold that thrived on Fluva to learn how to survive on the supposedly

inedible specially treated composite.

Chief Administrator Lauren Matthias had red hair, green eyes, a short and solid (but solidly attractive)

build that was growing stouter with every passing year, a temper to match her contentious official

position, and a desk full of worries. She had been chief Commonwealth representative and administrator

on Fluva for just over a year now, ever since Charlie Sandravoe had gone nuts and been granted a hasty

medical discharge. Like everyone else, she remembered the day when the well-liked Sandravoe had

finally lost it, tearing off his electrostatically charged rain cape and the clothes underneath before flinging

himself out the window and off the deck outside the office she now occupied. He’d fallen nearly twenty

meters to the water below. Several members of the cultural staff, whose offices were in the building

below Administration, had seen him plunge past the window of their workplace, arms at his sides, legs

together. Maria Chen-ha had had the best look. To this day, she insisted that the face of the

ex-administrator had been oddly calm.

They’d found him floating below, miraculously alive, having just missed cracking his skull on a number of

intervening branches. A couple of Deyzara had fished him out of the water and brought him up. Diagnosis

had been swift: mental breakdown brought on by too much time on Fluva. Sandravoe had extended his

tour of duty several times, receiving a bonus for each extension. His offers had been reluctantly accepted

because it was hard to find qualified personnel willing to remain on Fluva for any length of time. Besides

having to adjudicate the never-ending turmoil between the Deyzara and the Sakuntala, there was also the

often hostile and unpredictable flora and fauna, the interesting new diseases, the voracious molds and

fungi, and of course the small and slightly disturbing fact that it rained 90 percent of the year. And the

absence of dry land.

Therewas permanent dry land, Matthias knew. Up in the western mountains that ran the length of

Fluva’s single substantial landmass. The mountains caught the flow of moisture from the western ocean

and turned it into rain. The rain fed thousands upon thousands of rivers that, for most of the year,

overflowed their banks and drowned the immense tropical woodland that the moisture supported. The

result was varzea, where the land lay thirty meters or so below the surface of the merged rivers. It was a

morass, it was a mess, and the combination had a disconcerting tendency to drive visiting humans insane.

Not the Deyzara. Imported from Tharce IV a couple of hundred years ago, the Deyzara were well

adapted to working in Fluva’s sodden conditions. They thrived in its climate, working the plantations that

produced dozens of highly valued botanicals and other products. Preoccupied with fighting among

themselves, the native Sakuntala had accepted the Deyzara’s presence from the beginning. Unfortunately,

the Deyzara bred rather faster than the locals, with the result that there were now nearly as many Deyzara

as long-arms. Now, a highly vocal and influential faction among the Sakuntala wanted all Deyzara off the

planet.

Yet these Deyzara knew nothing of Tharce IV. Some were fourth- and even fifth-generation Fluva-born.

The consequent conundrum constituted a mess and morass of a different kind. One that fell squarely in

the lap of the resident administrator. Her lap. As if that weren’t enough, she also had to deal with the

plants and animals that were constantly evolving in their attempts to penetrate the perimeter of Taulau

Town and the other tentative Commonwealth outposts that were scattered around the planet. Not to

mention the problems she had with Jack and Andrea. Her husband, a plant physiologist with the

Commonwealth’s research and taxonomy division, seemed reasonably content lately. On the other hand,

Andrea had decided last month, on the occasion of her twelfth birthday and for no discernible reason (at

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least, none that an adult could discern), that from then on her given name would be Fitzwinkle.

And then there was the unnerving problem of Sethwyn Case. “Sethwyn Case—always on the chase,”

the other women posted to Administration were fond of murmuring and sometimes of giggling. One of

many independent contractors who had come to seek their fortune on Fluva, Bioprospector Sethwyn

was tall, handsome, bold, with a grin that induced uncommon tremors in parts of her that she had long

thought tectonically stable. He would be gone for weeks at a time, always returning with this or that

fascinating new specimen or information or, hopefully, profitable discovery.

Once he had checked in, he would always report dutifully in person to Administration. It was not

necessary for him to see her to render his report, but he always did so. At such times he would grin and

joke and make light of the dangers he had faced. Once or twice, he had brushed up against her.

Accidentally, she chose to believe. But there was nothing accidental about that grin or what she felt she

saw in his eyes. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about.

And now this fool—what was his name?—she checked the hard copy. Shadrach Hasselemoga. This

Hasselemoga person, another freelance bioprospector not six months arrived on Fluva, had gone and

gotten himself lost in the depths of the Viisiiviisii. One more irritation to add to a list that was already far

too big. It was her job, as administrator, to send someone to try to find him. Apparently, and remarkably,

the man’s emergency beacon had been completely destroyed or, at the least, damaged beyond repair.

She would have sent Case, but he was out somewhere in the foothills of the Varaku mountains. Jillis

Noufoetan was on leave at the orbiting station, and Nicolo Manatinga had been laid up with a fever and

an infection that mutated as fast as the doctors tried to isolate it. All of which meant she would have to

send out a search team consisting entirely of locals. It had been done before, successfully. Staff had

presented her with several possibilities, from whom she had selected a couple on intuition and

recommendation of past service.

Outside, the downpour was becoming heavier, sealing off the view across the town and into the dense

Viisiiviisii beyond. With a sigh and conflicting thoughts of Jack and a certain free-ranging explorer in her

mind, she turned and resumed her seat behind the curving desk. Like everything else in the administration

building, it was fashioned of resolutely nonbiodegradable materials.

Everything else, that is, except the people.

“Send him in.” The desk’s omnipickup identified her voice and relayed the request to Sanuel Pandusky,

her administrative assistant. It took several tries before Pandusky responded. Pity it wasn’t Case, she

thought. I’d have to get on his case.

Stop that,she told herself firmly. Settling herself into the chair and letting it mold itself against her, she

rested elbows on the desk and steepled fingers in front of her. They pressed against one another more

tightly than was necessary.

The doorway barrier dissolved to admit a Sakuntala of average height. As the portal had been designed

to accommodate his kind, he did not have to bend in order to enter. His waist strappings and chest

straps, she noted, were particularly stylish and well equipped. This was a prosperous local who stood

before her. She knew that Personnel would not have sent her anything else.

A couple of empty chairs reposed nearby. She didn’t offer him one. In the absence of the traditional

suspended seat, the Sakuntala preferred to squat rather than sit. At a gesture from her, her visitor eased

back onto his lean but powerful haunches.

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“I don’t believe we’ve met before. I am called Lauren Matthias.” She stuck out her tongue and braced

herself. Though the traditional Sakuntala method of greeting had become second nature to her by now,

that did not make the nature of it any less disconcerting.

“I know your status.”

His mouth opened and her visitor’s remarkable tongue shot out to curl once completely around her face

before the end touched the tip of her own protruding organ. Although the raspy eating surface was turned

away from her and only the smooth, wet back side made contact with her skin, she still found herself

wincing slightly at the contact. That was a considerable improvement over the first time the gesture had

been extended. No one had bothered to warn her, and her screaming, shocked reaction had been a

source of considerable amusement to her coworkers. Not informing newcomers to Fluva of the nature of

the habitual Sakuntala greeting was always a surefire laugh producer.

As quickly as it had emerged, the tongue recoiled, zipping in reverse around her head to disappear back

into the visitor’s bulging right cheek pouch. Pitiful as they were, Jemunu-jah reflected, at least the humans

had tongues. When among the Deyzara, the Sakuntala had to content themselves with touching tongue tip

to the end of the Deyzara’s eating trunk. It was a matter of some debate as to whether it would be more

proper to touch tongue to speaking trunk or eating trunk. For their part, the Deyzara did not care. They

tolerated the Sakuntala gesture only because they had to.

“I am called Jemunu-jah.”

“I know your status.” Matthias fought against the urge to pick up a dehydrating towelette and wipe her

face. Most of the time, the Sakuntala tongue didn’t leave behind much moisture. But she squirmed

internally all the same. “You come highly recommended.”

Both flexible ears dipped briefly toward her. “I thank you for themulat . I say openly to you I would

prefer another go in my stead.”

Well, it would be too much to expect enthusiasm, she knew. Alotl was bumping up against the back

window, trying to get in. Looking for a nesting place, she suspected. Someone unaware and lumpish to

lay its eggs within. Fortunately, the football-sizelotl were almost comically slow-moving. If one flew too

near, a single swipe with the back of a hand was usually enough to drive it away. If it persisted, a quick

jab with any sharp object would puncture its air sac and send the parasite spinning helplessly into the

water below. Unless it caught you when you were asleep. On Fluva, nobody slept unprotected, either

inside a building or out in the Viisiiviisii. Not if they valued their bodily integrity.

“You were the one recommended,” she reiterated. “We need the best for this, and you’ll be well paid.”

“Why not send one of you own people?” As he crouched before the human chief, Jemunu-jah chewed

idly on the lump of the khopo sap stored in his right cheek pouch. The activity did not unsettle humans, he

knew, because some of them engaged in similar food-related behavior. A few had even tried khopo sap

and liked it, especially when it came with added flavorings. When not being masticated or sucked, he had

been told, it was excellent for making temporary repairs to all kinds of machinery.

“Several reasons.” She leaned toward him. With the desk between them, it was not perceived as a

hostile gesture. One had to be ever conscious of Sakuntala protocol, because they never traveled outside

their homes without at least one weapon. Jemunu-jah’s was politely concealed, probably somewhere

under his waist straps.

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“The human who has gone missing is called Shadrach Hasselemoga.” Seeing her visitor struggle with the

syllables, she added, “I am informed that he is often called Hasa, for short. He’s an independent

bioprospector working on a loan-and-consignment basis. I haven’t met him myself, but I’m told that he’s

at least as competent as most of his kind. He arrived here only six months ago from one of our colony

worlds. His documents are all in order.”

Jemunu-jah bobbed his head. “Apparently, he’s not quite as competent as all his kind.”

She nodded back, meeting the incredibly sharp, penetrating Sakuntala eyes without flinching. “There’s

been no word from him since he went south nearly a seven-day ago. No communication, no emergency

beacon transmission. Nothing. We know what course he took because he filed a flight plan, but he could

have deviated in any direction at any time.”

“What about satellite tracking? Does not that keep constant position of all your skimmers?”

A well-educated Sakuntala indeed, she reflected. The report on this native had been correct. “Mr.

Hasselemoga’s bounceback failed two days into his journey. We don’t know why. For a bounceback

and an emergency beacon on a properly equipped and maintained skimmer to both fail simultaneously is

very unusual. Six months is not a lot of time to learn about Fluva. Some of my staff speculate he may

have gotten lazy, or overconfident, and turned off his avoidance system, or gone to sleep at an

unpropitious moment.”

“Or something hit him.” Jemunu-jah exhaled through pursed lips. “Viisiiviisii can do that.”

She nodded knowingly, having seen vits of some of the varzea’s larger known inhabitants. As to the

unknown ones, even the Sakuntala were themselves sometimes surprised by what came wandering out of

the flooded forest.

“That is why we need someone like you to go and look for him. You see things we cannot, and not just

because your eyesight is so much better. You know the varzea. We are still learning about it. I’m told

you’ve traveled in skimmers before.”

“Heesa—yes. I very much like experience. But I not trained to pilot one.”

“Don’t worry. We’re sending someone with you who is. Someone who has spent as much time in that

part of the Viisiiviisii as anyone we could find.”

“Another of your scout-kind-people?”

“I’m afraid not. Those of our community who would qualify for a task like this are all busy with other

assignments or for various reasons are presently unable to help with the necessary operation.” Looking

past him, she spoke toward the doorway. “You might as well come in now, Masurathoo.”

Despite his education, despite his comparative sophistication, Jemunu-jah tensed at the calling of the

name. It was not a human designation. But he did recognize it.

The Deyzara who entered was shorter than the administrator. Like the majority of his kind, alongside

Jemunu-jah the mature male two-trunks would have appeared positively insignificant. The oval opening in

the traditional body-swathing lightweight rain cape at the front of the head exposed the upper breathing

trunk, the two wide eyes, and the eating trunk that dangled downward below that. The Sakuntala’s

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inherent and traditional preference for low-key dress, a natural consequence of trying to blend in with the

teeming and dangerous Viisiiviisii, clashed wildly with the unabashed Deyzara fondness for bright colors

and garish patterns. But Deyzara were far less fearful of being eaten by one of the varzea’s denizens than

they were of being considered unfashionable. Defying the inimical realities of the Fluvan Viisiiviisii and the

ongoing disapproval of their Sakuntala neighbors, they continued to adhere stubbornly to the customs of

their original home world.

At least this one’s facial makeup was less gaudy than the ostentatious splashes of color and lurid

phosphorescence favored by some of his kind, Jemunu-jah decided. The Deyzara’s skin was a uniform

pale pink that contrasted sharply with Jemunu-jah’s own strikingly mottled gray fur as well as with the

human’s light brown epidermis and short mane. He had to remind himself that he was a civilized person

and that he and the Deyzara had more in common than they did in difference. As usual, it wasn’t easy.

The human gestured in the new arrival’s direction. “This one is called Masurathoo.”

Advancing, the Deyzara extended one ropy, rubbery two-digited hand. Lacking a tongue, it preferred

the human gesture of greeting to that of the Sakuntala. It was trying to avoid the substitute trunk-touch.

Hiding his distaste, Jemunu-jah flicked his own tongue out and around the hairless head, making contact

with the dangling eating trunk only briefly before executing an immediate retraction. He had often seen

Deyzara shaking hands with humans or Sakuntala, a gesture they seemed able to manage effortlessly

despite having only two digits to the human’s five or the Sakuntala’s six.

“Ah, I am informed that we shall be working together. I hope you will not find it too disagreeable an

experience, as I am prepared to do whatever is necessary to locate this unfortunate human who has gone

missing.”

Jemunu-jah took a care not to clench his pointed teeth, even though those sharp incisors were offset so

as not to damage his own mouth. He could only envy the more galactically sophisticated Deyzara his

perfect terranglo that in some ways sounded more polished than that of the administrator herself. That the

newcomer was as soft-spoken as the rest of his kind did nothing to diminish his eloquence.

Despite what Matthias had said, Jemunu-jah felt compelled to offer one more objection. “Thisthe one I

going into southern regions with?”

Distressingly, the human nodded. “Masurathoo is an excellent skimmer pilot. You’ll decide where and

how to look, and he will facilitate your efforts to the best of his ability.”

“That I will do.” In spite of the Deyzara’s accommodating tone, Jemunu-jah could see that the

newcomer was himself something less than overly enthusiastic about the assignment. No Deyzara would

be keen on the idea of being forced to work in tight, isolated quarters for an indeterminate period of time

with a surly Sakuntala warrior. On the other hand, when there was good money to be made, a Deyzara

would endure almost anything.

One last time, Jemunu-jah thought briefly about turning down the task. Since Kenkeru-jah had already

promised his services, to refuse would be to insult his chief as well as bring shame on his clan. Accepting

meant money andmula . When a difficult situation presents itself, he knew, it is sometimes useful to have

no choice.

“Since this an emergency, I can of course leave immediately.” He felt like a hypocrite, butmula wasmula

. If he was going to have to suffer, he was going to wring every bit of gain from the arrangement.

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“I have already seen to the provisioning of the assigned vehicle,” Masurathoo informed them both. “We

can be on our way as soon as you wish.”

The mournful eyes that humans seemed to find so—what was the word he had once heard

used?—“winsome” stared up at him. When the pilot’s speaking trunk was not in use, compact muscles

kept it coiled flat atop his head. The eating trunk swung lazily back and forth from the lower portion of

the skull, its naked hairlessness a distasteful sight at best. He would have to get used to it, he knew, for as

long as it took to locate the stupid missing human and bring him back. Or to admit defeat. Given the

extent of the region to be searched, the latter was a very real possibility.

“Leave now,” he muttered as politely as he could. A glance out the nearer of the two windows showed

that the rain was likely to lessen for a little while. That would mean more local traffic but better visibility.

“Better to leave town during clearing.”

“Precisely what I would have suggested,” concurred the Deyzara knowledgeably. He looked back to

the administrator. “We will file regular reports; you can be sure of that.”

“I have every confidence in the two of you,” she lied. “You were the best team that could be

assembled.” Given the exploration and rejection of every other possible alternative, she thought silently.

Still, it was part of her job to give these kinds of orders and to look after the human contingent on Fluva.

Both of the sentients standing before her seemed quite competent. Given that, there was always the slight

chance they actuallywould find the misbegotten bioprospector alive somewhere in the unmeasured

depths of the Viisiiviisii.

Turning back to her desk’s readout as soon as they had departed, she could only hope they might

manage to do so before they killed each other.

Shadrach Hasselemoga had come to Fluva hoping to make a killing—of the financial kind. He had

sincere hopes of making a fortune—always a possibility where the discovery of useful, previously

unknown botanicals was concerned. While others might find the combination of soldier of fortune and

botanist (with a special interest in mycology) a peculiar melding of professions, to men and women

engaged in Hasa’s line of work it was perfectly natural. People had indeed been known to kill one

another over the discovery and possession of something small, green, and deceptively insignificant. They

were willing to go to such occasional extremes because alien botanicals were frequently the key to the

gengineering of everything from new pharmaceuticals to artificial flavorings, and much else besides.

Too bad he hated his new posting.

There wasn’t much about it he didn’t hate, from the constant rain to the molds and fungi that matured so

fast you could watch them reproduce on your supposedly spore-resistant clothing. Or on your face, if

you weren’t careful. One poorsimick who had gone hunting for a celebrated lotion-oozing slime mold

about a thousand kelegs to the north of Taulau Town had been found only a hundred meters from the

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safety of his skimmer. Apparently, he’d become disoriented in the varzea and had wandered around

unaware that the mold he’d collected had enthusiastically transmuted in the warmth of his collection pack

into an ambulatory amoeboid state. Its potential lotion-generating properties notwithstanding, it had

invaded his body right through the allegedly impermeable material of both pack and clothes, whereupon it

had then proceeded to bed itself down nice and comfy inside his vital organs. Harold Tsukakaza, yeah,

that was his name. He’d been lotioned to death.

Perambulating slime molds were the least of a person’s worries on lush, fascinating, deadly Fluva. There

were fungi that put out toxic mycelia and actively hostile basidiocarps, rusts that gave new meaning to an

old word (and class), and all manner of nasties that made their homes in the trees or in the waters of the

flooded forest. The Viisiiviisii was no place to be marooned. Hard to walk out of the woods when the

base of the tree in which you found yourself stranded was twenty meters or more underwater.

Then there were the natives. The happy, smiling Sakuntala and the hardworking, comparatively

diminutive Deyzara. Except that the Sakuntala were as likely to cut your head off as offer you a cup of

traditional katola and the Deyzara would bow enthusiastically and wave their trunks in their disarmingly

disconcerting fashion while quietly picking your pocket. Not that his own kind were much better. Among

the many different species of sentients Hasa had encountered in his travels (and there had been many),

humans fell somewhere in the shifting middle of the sentient muddle. That they were not as obvious cheats

and liars as the Deyzara or as blatant deceivers and cutthroats as the Sakuntala was only due to the fact

that power and experience had rendered them a tad more restrained.

Now, seemingly good and stuck in the middle of nowhere, and an unrelentingly hostile nowhere at that,

he was going to have to rely on those same self-serving sons-of-bitches to extricate him from a bad fix

not of his own making. Hasa was reasonably willing to take responsibility for his own mistakes. But he’d

done nothing wrong this time, certainly nothing that should have led to his current imbroglio.

He’d done everything right prior to setting out: had the skimmer thoroughly overhauled and checked out,

paid any overdue bills, settled with that thieving Dararpatui who ran the Kus supply depot, notified the

proper authorities of his tentative flight plan, and registered his intentions with Administration. All so he

could find himself, a week out from town, locked in a frantic uncontrolled dive down into the yawning

depths of the Viisiiviisii. When oral commands failed to effect the necessary adjustments to his craft’s

plunge, he’d taken manual control, only to find that the relevant instrumentation was also locked and

unresponsive. At the last possible moment, he’d thrown himself to the left and activated the craft’s

emergency self-contained landing sequencer. It, at least, had worked, as evidenced by the fact that he

was still alive, mobile, and bitching.

Ripping himself out of the swollen cocoon of sofoam that had saved his life, he’d rushed the control

console, only to stumble and fall. Not because he had been injured in the crash, not because he was

suddenly overcome with dizziness, but because the floor of the skimmer was pointed down and sideways

at respectively sharp angles. Recovering from the slip, he noticed immediately that the protective

climate-controlled canopy was cracked in at least a dozen places. He was made aware of this fact

because he was sitting in the rain. Also because several blue-striped tree branches now extended inside

the skimmer. A head-sized flying creature was presently perched on one. It stared at him out of eyes that

were so deep-sunk it seemed they must be set in the back of the animal’s skull. In actual fact, they were

positioned in the center, where by rotating they could stare as easily out the back of the skull as the front.

“Get out of here, you neeking goscack! I’m nobody’s dinner yet!” Reaching down, he picked up a piece

of some instrument that he hoped was not essential to the skimmer’s functioning and threw it.

Letting out an unexpectedly melodious tootle, the weird arboreal with the internally gimbaled oculars

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摘要：

1Jemunu-jahdidn’twanttohavetotakethetimetorescuethehuman.IfitwasfoolishenoughtogooffintotheViisiiviisiiallbyitself,thenitdeservedwhateverhappenedtoit.Kenkeru-jahhadarguedthatitwastheirmulatotrytosavethevisitor,evenifitwasnotspawnedoftheSakuntala.AshewasrankingchiefofthelocalNuyclan,hisopinionwaslist...

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Alan Dean Foster - Drowning World

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