Observing this, the always alert Masurathoo took a couple of prudent steps backward along the branch on which he was standing. “What ails our unhappy colleague?”
Ignoring the heaving human, Jemunu-jah walked back to the plant and began making measured slices on every blossom. Honey-hued fluid promptly began to flow from each successive cut. When he was satisfied with his destructive but measured handiwork, the Sakuntala put away the flare tool. Using his long fingers, he began to scoop up the thick, sticky liquid and smear it strategically on his body. Every now and then, with a look of resigned expectation, he would pause to throw up. Each time one of these startling episodes of strenuous but measured upchucking concluded, he would resume the work.
Eventually, Hasa’s digestive system had nothing more to give. Too weak to be really angry, the prospector rose to his feet to confront the Sakuntala.
“You scrawny, underhanded excuse for an alien monkey-rat! You could have told me the plant was protected by an olfactory defense!”
Methodically applying daubs of golden goo to his fur, the Sakuntala regarded him out of double-lidded eyes. “If I had described in detail what going to happen, would you still have been willing undergo the experience?”
Hasa started to respond, hesitated, then replied in a low murmur of grudging acceptance, “Not likely.”
“You see?” Having exhausted the supply of glistening golden stink from one flower, Jemunu-jah moved on to the next. “You need not put it on you bodies. The vatulalilu sap will stick plenty enough to your clothing.”