Part 11 (1/2)
Bushbaby c.o.c.ked its golden head, listening. ”You see? We just pa.s.sed a place with gorgeous fruit, but it'd kill any of us to go down there. If we could just ramplig you down for ten minutes?”
He started to say, ”Glad to,” forgetting they were telepaths. As his mouth opened, he found himself tumbling through strobe flashes onto a barren dune. He sat up spitting sand. He was in an oasis of stunted cactus trees loaded with bright globes. He tried one. Delicious. He picked. Just as his arms were full, the scene strobed again, and he was sprawled on the Lovepile's floor, his new friends swarming over him.
”Sweet! Sweet!” Ragglebomb bored into the juice.
”Save some for the pod, maybe it'll learn to copy them. It metabolizes stuff it digests,” Bushbaby explained with its mouth full. ”Basic rations. Very boring.”
”Why couldn't you go down there?”
”Don't. All over that desert, things dying of thirst. Torture.” He felt the boa flinch. ”You are beautiful, No-Pain.” Bushbaby nuzzled his ear.
Ragglebomb was picking guitar bridges on his thorax. They all began to sing a sort of seguidilla without words. No instruments here, nothing but their live bodies. Making music with empaths was like making love with them. Touch what he touched, feel what he felt. Totally into his mind. I-we. One. He could never have dreamed this up, he decided, drumming softly on Muscle. The boa amped, mysterioso.
And so began his voyage home in the Lovepile, his new life of joy. Fruits and fondues he brought them, hams and honey, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. World after scruffy world. All different now, on his way home.
”Are there many out here?” he asked lazily. ”I never found anyone else, between the stars.”
”Be glad,” said Bushbaby. ”Move your leg.” And they told him of the tiny, busy life that plied a far corner of the galaxy, whose pain had made them flee. And of a vast presence Ragglebomb had once encountered before he picked the others up.
”That's where I got the idea for the Rulers bit,” Muscle confided. ”We need some cheese.”
Bushbaby c.o.c.ked his head to catch the minds streaming by them in the abyss.
”How about yoghurt?” It nudged Ragglebomb. ”Over that way. Feel it squis.h.i.+ng on their teeth?
Bland, curdy... with just a rien of ammonia, probably their milk pails are dirty.”
”Pa.s.s the dirty yoghurt.” Muscle closed his eyes.
”We have some great cheese on Earth,” he told them. ”You'll love it. When do we get there?”Bushbaby squirmed.
”Ah, we're moving right along. But what I get from you, it's weird. Foul blue sky. Dying green.
Who needs that?”
”No!” He jerked up, scattering them. ”That's not true! Earth is beautiful!”
The walls jolted, knocking him sidewise.
”Watch it!” boomed Muscle. Bushbaby had grabbed the b.u.t.terfly, petting and crooning to it.
”You frightened his ramplig reflex. Raggle throws things out when he's upset. Tsut, tsut, don't you, baby. We lost a lot of interesting beings that way at first.”
”I'm sorry. But you've got it twisted. My memory's a little messed up, but I'm sure. Beautiful. Like amber waves of grain. And purple mountain majesties,” he laughed, spreading his arms. ”From sea to s.h.i.+ning sea!”
”Hey, that swings!” Raggle squeaked, and started strumming.
And so they sailed on, carrying him home.
He loved to watch Bushbaby listening for the thought beacons by which they steered.
”Catching Earth yet?”
”Not yet awhile. Hey, how about some fantastic seafood?”
He sighed and felt himself tumble. He had learned not to bother saying yes. This one was a laugh, because he forgot that dishes didn't ramplig. He came back in a mess of creamed trilobites and they had a creamed trilobite orgy.
But he kept watching Bushbaby.
”Getting closer?”
”It's a big galaxy, baby.” Bushbaby stroked his bald spots. With so much rampligging he couldn't keep any hair. ”What'll you do on earth as stimulating as this?”
”I'll show you,” he grinned. And later on he told them.
”They'll fix me up when I get home. Reconnect me right.”
A shudder shook the Lovepile.
”You want to feel pain?”
”Pain is the obscenity of the universe,” Muscle tolled. ”You are sick.”
”I don't know,” he said apologetically. ”I can't seem to feel, well, real this way.”
They looked at him.
”We thought that was the way your species always felt,” said Bushbaby.
”I hope not.” Then he brightened. ”Whatever it is, they'll fix it. Earth must be pretty soon now, right?”
”Over the sea to Skye!” Bushbaby hummed.
But the sea was long and long, and his moods were hard on the sensitive empaths. Once when he responded listlessly, he felt a warning lurch.
Ragglebomb was glowering at him.
”You want to put me out?” he challenged. ”Like those others? What happened to them, by the way?”
Bushbaby winced. ”It was dreadful. We had no idea they'd survive so long, outside.”
”But I don't feel pain. That's why you rescued me, isn't it? Go ahead,” he said perversely. ”I don't care. Throw me out. New thrill.”
”Oh, no, no, no!” Bushbaby hugged him. Ragglebomb, penitent, crawled under his legs.”So you've been popping around the universe bringing live things in to play with and throwing them out when you're bored. Get away,” he scolded. ”Shallow sensation freaks is all you are. Galactic poltergeists!”
He rolled over and hoisted the beautiful Bushbaby over his face, watching it wiggle and squeal. ”Her lips were red, her locks were free, her locks were yellow as gold.” He kissed its golden belly. ”The Night-Mare Life-in-Death was she, who thicks man's blood with cold.”
And he used their pliant bodies to build the greatest lovepile yet. They were delighted and did not mind when later on he wept, face-down on Muscle's dark coils.
But they were concerned.