“Tawalakuikin,” he murmured.
When Masurathoo couldn’t get his speaking trunk around the word, Hasa supplied the simpler terranglo equivalent. “That one’s been classified. Called a darter.”
“Why?” Masurathoo was as unfamiliar with the creature as he was with its name.
Hasa’s expression was as flat as ever. Sunlight was dimming as dark cumulus continued to coagulate above the treetops. If the predator in question was going to make a last move before the rain resumed, it would have to strike soon.
“Watch.”
In appearance, the darter was neither attractive nor intimidating. Its long, low, flat body lay draped over the branch on which it reposed. Carpeted in stubby brown bristles, its neckless torso and short, thick legs looked barely capable of moving it forward. Each of the half-dozen legs terminated in a single curved hoof or claw that was designed to grip wood rather than prey. No fangs hung from the upper lip of the pointed snout; no stinger protruded from the stunted, useless tail. But the four jet-black eyes arrayed across the front of the head were alert and glistening, and the narrow, forward-pointing ears reminded Masurathoo of Jemunu-jah’s. More than anything else, the darter looked like a sharp-eyed rug.
A pod of pekawa put in an appearance on the water. Pale, fat, and lightly feathered, they were more buoyant than they looked. A flotilla of tiny pink eyes encircled the head that jutted straight up from the plump central body, giving each individual a full and constant 360-degree range of vision. Its four finned feet could send a pekawa shooting rapidly away in any direction. Where a duck would have glided across the surface of the water, the pekawa advanced in short sprints, scooting from cover to cover, never lingering too long in any one spot. With their eating apparatus located on the undersides of their bodies, they never had to dip their heads below the surface to feed. This allowed them to dine while keeping continuous watch for potential predators.