Part 12 (1/2)
”Never mind-take me there! That's Earth, it has to be. You can find it again, can't you? You said you could,” he implored, pawing at them. ”Please!”
The Lovepile rocked. He was frightening everybody.
”Oh, please.” He forced his voice smooth.
”But I only heard it for an instant,” Bushbaby protested. ”It would be terribly hard, that far back.
My poor head!”
He was on his knees begging. ”You'd love it,” he pleaded. ”We have fantastic food. Culinary poems you never heard of. Cordon bleu! Escoffier!” he babbled, ”Talk about combinations, the Chinese do it four ways! Or is it the j.a.panese? Rijsttafel! Bubble-and-squeak! Baked Alaska, hot crust outside, inside co-o-old ice cream!”
Bushbaby's pink tongue flicked. Was he getting through?
He clawed his memory for foods he'd never heard of.
”Maguay worms in chocolate! Haggis and bagpipes, crystallized violets, rabbit Mephisto! Octopus in resin wine. Four-and-twenty blackbird pie! Cakes with girls in them. Kids seethed in their mothers'
milk-wait, that's taboo. Ever hear of taboo foods? Long pig!”
Where was he getting all this? A vague presence drifted in his mind-his hands, the ridges, long ago.
”Amanda,” he breathed, racing on.
”Cormorants aged in manure! Ratatouille! Peaches iced in champagne!” Project, he thought. ”Pate of fatted goose liver studded with earth-drenched truffles, clothed in purest white lard!” He snuffled l.u.s.tfully. ”Hot b.u.t.tered scones sluiced in whortleberry syrup!” He salivated. ”Finnan haddie souffle, oh, yes! Unborn baby veal pounded to a membrane and delicately scorched in black herb b.u.t.ter-”
Bushbaby and Ragglebomb were clutching each other, eyes closed. Muscle was mesmerized.
”Find Earth! Grape leaves piled with poignantly sweet wild fraises, clotted with Devon cream!”
Bushbaby moaned, rocking to and fro.
”Earth! Bitter endives wilted in chicken steam and crumbled bacon! Black gazpacho! Fruit of the Tree of Heaven!”
Bushbaby rocked harder, the b.u.t.terfly clamped to its breast.
Earth, Earth, he willed with all his might, croaking ”Bahklava! Gossamer puff paste and pistachio nuts dripping with mountain honey!”
Bushbaby pushed at Ragglebomb's head, and the pod seemed to twirl.
”Ripe Cornice pears,” he whispered. ”Earth?”
”That's it.” Bushbaby fell over panting. ”Oh, those foods, I want every single one. Let's land!”
”Deep-dish steak and kidney pie,” he breathed. ”Pearled with crusty onion dumplings-”
”Land!” Ragglebomb squealed. ”Eat, eat!”
The pod jarred. Solidity. Earth.
Home.
”LET ME OUT!”.
He saw a pucker opening daylight in the wall and dived for it. His legs pumped, struck. Earth! Feet thudding, face uplifted, lungs gulping air. ”Home!” he yelled.
-And went headlong on the gravel, arms and legs out of control. A cataclysm smote his inside.”Help!”
His body arched, spewed vomit, he was flailing, screaming.
”Help, Help! What's wrong?”
Through his noise he heard an uproar behind him in the pod. He managed to roll, saw gold and black bodies writhing inside the open port. They were in convulsions too.
”Stop it! Don't move!” Bushbaby shrieked. ”You're killing us!”
”Get us out,” he gasped. ”This isn't Earth.”
His throat garroted itself on his breath, and the aliens moaned in empathy.
”Don't! We can't move,” Bushbaby gasped. ”Don't breathe, close your eyes quick!”
He shut his eyes. The awfulness lessened slightly.
”What is it? What's happening?”
”PAIN, YOU FOOL,” thundered Muscle.
”This is your wretched Earth,” Bushbaby wailed. ”Now we know what they tied your pain nerves to. Get back in so we can go-carefully!”
He opened his eyes, got a glimpse of pale sky and scrubby bushes before his eyeb.a.l.l.s skewered.
The empaths screamed.
”Stop! Ragglebomb die!”
”My own home,” he whimpered, clawing at his eyes. His whole body was being devoured by invisible flames, crushed, impaled, flayed. The pattern of Earth, he realized. Her unique air, her exact gestalt of solar spectrum, gravity, magnetic field, her every sight and sould and touch-that was what they'd tuned his pain-circuits for.
”Evidently they did not want you back,” said Muscle's silent voice. ”Get in.”
”They can fix me, they've got to fix me-”
”They aren't here,” Bushbaby shouted. ”Temporal error. No snap-crackle-pop. You and your baked Alaska-” Its voice broke pitifully. ”Come back in so we can go!”
”Wait,” he croaked. ”When?”
He opened one eye, managed to see a rocky hillside before his forehead detonated. No roads, no buildings. Nothing to tell whether it was past or future. Not beautiful.
Behind him the aliens were crying out. He began to crawl blindly toward the pod, teeth clenching over salty gushes. He had bitten his tongue. Every move seared him; the air burned his guts when he had to breathe. The gravel seemed to be slicing his hands open, although no wounds appeared. Only pain, pain, pain from every nerve end.
”Amanda,” he moaned, but she was not here. He crawled, writhed, kicked like a pinned bug toward the pod that held sweet comfort, the bliss of no-pain. Somewhere a bird called, stabbing his eardrums.