“Fond of their privacy, maybe.”
Masurathoo was following the human’s line of reasoning, and he did not like it. “Permit me to inquire, Hasa, if you are claiming some sort of consciousness for this . . . this . . . fungus.”
As he did always, Hasa was clearly enjoying the Deyzara’s discomfort. “I’m not claiming anything of the sort—yet. But consider: Something saved us from the mokusinga. These tendrils are inspecting me instead of trying to enter my body. Admittedly, that kind of work is usually done by mycelium and not rhizomorphs, but it’s still evidence of some kind of restraint, be it directed by intelligence or instinct. And what about that feeling I’ve been having for days and days of us being watched?”
Pushing back the hood of his rain cape, Masurathoo stepped forward. “In this I fear most strongly that I must be at variance with you, sir. A fungus possesses neither intelligence nor instinct. Nor does it have anything to ‘watch’ us, or anything else, with.”
“The Viisiiviisii is full of surprises, bug-eyes. Say it ‘perceives’ rather than ‘sees.’ ” As he spoke, several of the inky rhizomorphs had risen high enough to begin investigating his lips.
“Be careful.” Jemunu-jah’s fingers itched to draw his weapon. “Remember the poisonous residue that killed mokusinga!”
“If this plant wanted me dead, it could already have slain me a dozen times over. Or it could have let the mokusinga do the job.” Inquisitive black tendrils touched his lips, felt of the soft flesh. They tickled. And the feeling of being observed, even in the absence of anything recognizable as eyes, was more compelling than ever.