Alan Dean Foster Interlopers

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as if he had swallowed a bucket of acupuncture needles that suddenly
hit bottom. Weak as a kitten, he fell over on his side, his legs drawing up
into a fetal position, his arms locked against his belly. His guts
were on fire. No students, no groundskeepers, no patrolling security
personnel saw him lying there among the mostly abstract and
overpriced sculptures, a long drink of professor writhing spasmodically on the
neatly clipped grass.
The timer-controlled sprinklers came on without warning. Lying in the damp
turf, soaked through, he did battle with his own insides, uncertain as to the
ultimate outcome. After what felt like hours but in reality was no
more than ten minutes, the pain began to subside. He found he could breathe
normally again. The irrigating water, falling like rain, aided his attitude if
not his digestion.
Coca leaves, arrow frog toxin, and bug guts, he told himself as he struggled
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to his knees. Serves you right.
Serves you damn well right. He hacked up the residue at the back of his
lungs, and something black and
thick spewed from his mouth. Rising slowly, he wiped his lips with
the back of his wrist, not caring if he stained the sweater. Keeler
would be delighted to hear that their little clandestine experiment had
produced some results after all, even if their nature was such that Cody could
have done without them. He felt that the same consequences could have been
induced much more simply and cheaply by drinking from the carton of milk that
had been sitting in the back of the small refrigerator in his office for two
weeks too long.
As shaky as if he had been puking for hours, he straightened and took a
hesitant step. Encouragingly, the movement did not induce the pain to
return. Advancing carefully, one step at a time, he resumed walking
toward
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the car, ready to collapse anew if his belly should try to waylay him
again. It did not, but the queasiness remained, as if the ground itself
had suddenly become infirm. He had never been seasick in his life, but from
first-hand experiences described by others, he supposed the sensations must be
very much akin to what he was presently feeling. Glancing furtively around the
gently rolling, grassy sculpture garden, he was relieved there had been
no one around to witness his embarrassing little nocturnal episode. As he
staggered toward the street where his car was parked, his thoughts focused on
home, on Kelli's waiting embrace, on bed, but truth be told, not more than a
very little on the supper that she would have waiting for him.
Food! Azahoht sensed its approach. He had come close to feeding and
reproducing several times in the past month, only to be thwarted on each
occasion by last-minute changes in the paths of his intended quarry. But this
one was very near, and moving unsteadily. It might well need to rest against
something solid for support, to steady itself, and Azahoht's dwelling was
as solid as any object in the vicinity. Let the food make but
casual contact, and feeding could begin immediately. Azaholt waited
expectantly as he monitored the erratic course of the food. Come closer, he
thought hungrily. That's right. This way, not that. Just a little
closer.
There, that left hand! Stretch it out, reach for my abode, touch
it. Make contact. Eagerly, he extended a portion of himself in the
direction of the food.
Something happened then that was so extraordinary, Azahoht could scarce
believe it. It was unprecedented in his experience, in the entire long course
of his existence. He knew that such a thing was possible from contact
with others of his kind, but he had never actually observed the
phenomenon himself. Now that it happened, involving him directly, he was
too stunned to know how to react. He could only draw back into his dwelling in
shock. It was impossible, it was astounding, it defied anything and everything
in his far-ranging experience. It was as if the very fabric of existence had
been suddenly turned inside out. Inconceivable though it might be, there was
no mistaking what happened. None whatsoever.
The food saw him.
Four
Still weozg from the gastrointestinal tremor that had knocked him to his
knees, Cody was less than fifty feet from the street and his car when he
reached out to steady himself against the nearest sculpture. It was a
sinuous, free-form needle of bolted-together pink and black granite boulders
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that aspired to inspiration but fell more than a little short of the
artist's lofty intent. It would be cool to the touch and, if
necessary, would support his weight easily, providing a convenient backrest
with which to ease his disturbed equilibrium for a few precious moments. His
left hand fumbled in the direction of a stone protrusion.
And quickly drew back without making contact. Blinking hard, he gawked at the
smooth, polished stone. At the approach of his hand, something had begun to
emerge from within. It looked like a triplet of intertwined tentacles. Each
tip terminated in a dime-sized sucker, and a handful of small, glowering eyes [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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