“No, no, wait and hear me out, please.” Though he was in a position to do so, Masurathoo did not reach out to grab his fellow traveler by the arm. No Deyzara would dare to think of physically trying to restrain a Sakuntala. Instead, Masurathoo used a hand to gesture in Hasa’s direction.
The human was seated with his back against the interior wall of the fallen sokulaa. There would be a dark spot there when he moved away, his weight having crushed dozens of the tiny luminescent ovatu. They would quickly be replaced by the dense network of ovatu hyphae that permeated the decaying wood.
In front of him, several dozen black rhizomorphs danced and swayed in reaction to the slow weaving of his hand. For the moment, their burly, resilient, unlikable human looked like a child playing with a new toy. Which, in a way, he was. The delight he took in getting the rhizomorphs to respond to his increasingly elaborate gestures was palpable. It was not shared by his companions.
“Look at him.” Masurathoo could not keep the distaste from his voice. “One might think this was a game. Our lives are at stake and he insists that we should place our hopes for survival in the cryptic actions of a fungus. One whose dimensions are a matter of pure speculation and who he would have us believe is not only intelligent but empathetic. A compassionate fungus!”
“It may not be matter of compassion.” Jemunu-jah was reluctant to take sides. In point of fact he could not, because he had yet to decide who was right.
The Deyzara pressed his argument. “Even if this pannula growth—and it is nothing but a growth, no matter how great its actual physical size—is sentient, that hardly means it is capable of, or interested in, helping us. It could be no more than minimally aware of us. The response of its rhizomorphs to the human’s hand movements may be nothing more sophisticated than a basal response to movement or shadow. Many plants respond to the proximity of more motile life-forms by closing flowers or curling leaves.”