Via a tiny communicator, Kel’les was listening to words that were not being sent the human’s way. The minder eyed him evenly. “We are to make our way to the central meeting chamber. The Vrizan know you are here. They insist, rather forcefully, on seeing you.”
Ruslan frowned. “Seeing me? That’s all?”
“That is all they have requested. San’dwil has consulted with his aides. It has been decided that under the circumstances, refusing would risk more potential harm than good. Neither the Myssari nor the Vrizan have succeeded in codifying a final claim to Treth. Until ownership has been granted to one or the other, our respective scientific teams must share this world. It is better that this be done on a cordial basis. Also…”
“It would be impolite to refuse, given their insistence that they know I’m here,” Ruslan finished for the intermet.
Kel’les gestured affirmatively. “With the exception of your regrettably inadequate physique, you have acquired all the makings of a good Myssari.”
S’he was trying to be encouraging, Ruslan knew. In return he offered up a smile of his own that was as reassuring as it was fake. As the door opened and they started out, he tried to prepare himself for whatever might come. Somewhat to his surprise he found that it didn’t matter. On the heels of Wol’daeen’s failed efforts to resurrect any of the preserved humans, it seemed that nothing mattered much anymore. Not to him, anyway.
To the Myssari his continued existence among them still mattered very much indeed.
In contrast to the single individual he had encountered under dark and difficult circumstances, the half dozen Vrizan who awaited him in the meeting room were patently of a different standard indeed. In place of the lone scout’s camouflaged field attire, the majority of the visiting aliens were resplendent in silklike garb of some electric-blue material. A few were differentiated from their comrades by garments fashioned from an intense turquoise-hued fabric that shimmered whenever their wearers took a step. The latter also featured a vertical line of rotating gold orbs embedded in the upper left shoulder of their clothing. The optical effect was striking. Despite San’dwil’s change of attire into something more suited to a formal meeting, the duty dress and uniforms of the assembled group of Myssari were dull by comparison.
Daylight defined the external anatomy of the Vrizan sharply. Bipedal, they were basically two conjoined ovoids topped by a severely flattened sphere. Bright eyes glistened at either end of the wide skull. The exceptional multiplicity of joints in their legs was matched by a similar number in their arms. These limbs were not quite human, not quite tentacles. Studying them as they moved, an intrigued Ruslan reflected that a Vrizan snapping its joints would generate a veritable symphony of pops and crackles.
The few gasps that came from them as he entered the room were unsettlingly humanlike.
A Myssari technician was about to pass out translators when one of the taller Vrizan clad in the brilliant turquoise garb stepped forward.
“Conversational instrumentation will not be necessary. I and several of my colleagues speak Myssarian.”
“Quite well, too.” Grateful of the opportunity to respond with a cost-free compliment, San’dwil advanced to meet his counterpart. The wariness with which he approached was well considered.
“I don’t suppose any of you speak Vrizan?” the visitor added before his host could continue with an official greeting.
San’dwil maintained his poise. “Several of us are fluent in your language. However, the human is not. I am assuming that in addition to seeing him and verifying his existence for yourselves, it would please you to speak to him. Absent translation equipment, this can only be done in Myssarian.”
Startling Ruslan, the Vrizan’s long, narrow mouth parted at opposite ends while the center section remained tightly closed. Even though the lone human in the room could not properly interpret its meaning, from an anatomical standpoint the alien expression was fascinating. Was it the equivalent of a smile? A grimace? Or something unknown?
“When working in the field, all scientists must adapt to the circumstances of the moment,” the Vrizan murmured. This time only one corner of the extended mouth opened. “We will speak in your language.” The widely separated eyes shifted to focus on Ruslan. He met them evenly—or as evenly as he could given their remarkable degree of physical divergence. “How conversant is the… creature?”
Bac’cul spoke up. “Fully fluent. He has resided among us for some time now.” If the Vrizan recognized the scarcely muted pride in the Myssari scientist’s voice, the visitor gave no sign.
“We desire physical contact.” One of the other turquoise-clad visitors was unable to restrain herself. “If only to know for certain that the creature is not a cleverly constructed artifice designed to mock us.”
“I’d think that the scout I encountered who reported my presence would be able to give you confirmation enough of that,” Ruslan told the anxious researcher.
His confident response, wholly as articulate as Bac’cul had promised, sparked an animated babble among the Vrizan. Calling for quiet, their leader turned back to the assembled Myssari.
“For myself I would be content to leave with the evidence of my eyes, but there are scientists among us teetering on the verge of giddiness who have threatened me with all manner of incivilities if their request is denied. So I must ask again: may several of us be permitted to approach the survivor?”
“Survivor.” Not “specimen.” For all that one of their number had threatened to shoot him on that frantic night when Ruslan had taken his unauthorized stroll, he found himself softening toward the Vrizan, only the second intelligent species with whom he had exchanged more than a passing glance.
As San’dwil’s head swiveled to regard the human, Kel’les leaned close and whispered, “I do not think this is a good idea.”
Ruslan rejected his minder’s appraisal. “Why not? All they want to do is touch me. Where’s the harm, if it inspires them to leave quietly and satisfied?”
Kel’les’s small eyes were scanning the waiting, impatient visitors. “What if they have something else in mind? Something more?”
“What, like trying to carry me off?” The image this speculation conjured was so absurd that he had to struggle not to laugh. “I’d fight back. San’dwil would not permit it—it would mean the ruination of his career.” He nodded toward the Vrizan. “There aren’t many of them, some are self-proclaimed scientists, and they’re inside a Myssari base. They don’t strike me as fools.”
“They are not.” Kel’les’s worry remained. “That is why I am concerned.”
“Let’s put an end to that.” Walking toward the visitors, he lowered his arms and spread them wide. “Approach and satisfy yourselves, if this is what you want.”
While it was evident that San’dwil was unhappy with his prize guest’s willingness to accommodate, there was little he could do about it. Alien and sole survivor of a vanished species, Ruslan was too valuable to risk injuring. It never seriously occurred to San’dwil to try to prevent the encounter by calling for the use of sudden physical force. So he stood where he was and looked on apprehensively.
While it was plain that the Vrizan were sexually dimorphic, Ruslan was unsure which was which. Fearing it might be undiplomatic to inquire, he resolved to ask Kel’les to settle the question later. Meanwhile Vrizan of both sexes took their time inspecting his frame, from running small, narrow, and many-jointed fingers through his brown hair, to marveling at the flexibility of his ears, to trying to understand how his arms and legs could efficiently carry out their apparent functions utilizing only three joints and such heavy bones. As they grew more comfortable in his proximity they began asking questions.