Later, once they had climbed to a comparatively safe height above the water, Jemunu-jah murmured softly to the miserable Masurathoo, “If it of any kind solace, know that I not find human’s action funny, either.”
The Deyzara turned goggle eyes on his much taller, leaner companion. “It is most considerate of you to say this thing.” Water spilled in tiny cascades from the wide brim of his rain hat. “I most assuredly did see movement in the water. Perhaps the next time neither of you will be in quite such a rush to enjoy laughter at my expense.”
Jemunu-jah dipped his head and ears slightly in the Deyzara’s direction. “Perhaps,” he admitted.
But that won’t keep us from laughing at the sorry sight of you, he mused as he followed the soggy lump of pink flesh deeper into the trees.
Their first night away from the shelter of the skimmers was terrifying to Masurathoo. A highly educated administrator and executive, he had spent all his life in the developed towns of Fluva. In his mind and those of his fellow managers, camping out and going to hell had interchangeable meanings.
At least, he reflected as he sat in the supportive crook of several large branches some five meters above the water, he was traveling in the company of two tough individuals. They were used to surviving such conditions (even, he reminded himself with a certain degree of satisfaction, if they were incapable of recognizing the potential danger to be found in a pool of unnaturally disturbed water). All he had to do was remain in one piece, keep up with the pace they set, stay between them, and he would get out of this with both trunks intact.