Howling Stones by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page A

its own language. Whether they required chatting, whistling, clicking, harsh glottal stops, or signs, he’d been able to master them all. In fact, it was much easier for him to converse with aliens than with his own kind. Take the speech of frigid Tran-ky-ky, where he’d been stationed for a while. Rigid in inflection and boasting a highly formal grammar, it had been easy for him to master. Neither fluid, conversational seni or the local Parramati dialect had posed a problem for him.
    Something induced him to look sharply to his left. “I get the feeling we’re being watched.”
    “We are. They’ll introduce themselves in due time. The Parramati aren’t fearful, but they’re cautious. You’re new to them. Not that you’re the second human they’ve ever seen. There was the crew that erected the station,though they never had any contact with the locals. Among other features, they’re fascinated by our individual size variations. Mature seni are all pretty much the same height.”
    How tactful of you to mention the subject, he thought, then realized she probably meant nothing by it. He was far too sensitive on the subject.
    Something that looked like a purple boa constrictor with feathery external gills running half the length of its body emerged from the trash pile and slithered out of their path as they approached the support cylinder. An irrational feeling, perhaps, but Pulickel felt more secure once they stood beneath the circular shadow of the station’s bulk.
    Fawn had to yell at the door several times before it would open. Whether the delay was due to an internal fault or poor maintenance he couldn’t tell. She grinned apologetically back at him. It would not be so amusing, he thought, if something was chasing them. He wondered what else needed fixing.
    “Been meaning to work on that,” she told him as the door finally slid aside. At least, he mused, it did not make a grinding noise as it did so.
    “Station upkeep is the responsibility of those working on site,” he reminded her, “irrespective of specialty.”
    “Hey, I do what I can. The climate here is rough on electronics. My priority is the treaty, not janitorial work.”
    Not wishing to start another argument, he withheld the comment that was teetering on his lips and followed her into the lift. It was just big enough to accommodate the two of them and Pulickel’s self-hoisting travel case. The door closed smoothly behind them.
    The interior of the station was a revelation, but not the kind that inspires. Clothes were scattered about boththe living and work areas. A few hung from the ceiling. Empty food containers clung to furniture like giant, brightly colored fungal spores. The tiny carcasses of dead arthropods spotted the softfloor. Fashioned of native fibers, a hammock hung suspended in the portal that separated the main living area from kitchen and sleeping quarters. Several water bottles in various stages of consumption occupied unlikely—and in at least one instance, unsanitary—locations within the room.
    Lining the sweeping windows that ran around the station’s circumference was a small jungle of native plants. Each chosen for its beauty or uniqueness, they flourished in improvised pots that were as much a product of Fawn Seaforth’s imagination as they were of her resourcefulness. Empty food containers, cut-down power-cell packs, cleaning and maintenance tubes: all had been ingeniously pressed into service. Alien perfume and color filled the room.
    Pulickel found himself drawn to what looked like a longitudinally sliced water carrier potted with miniature black roses. It was beautiful to look at, but the streamers and leaves and tendrils blocked windows and dirtied the floor. A thick mass of aerial roots threatened to overwhelm an atmospheric monitoring panel. Fawn noted the direction of his gaze.
    “Have to trim that back.” She bent to smell of something blue and gold. “What do you think of my collection? I cleaned the place