So Fluff had undertaken several journeys to the water cisterns for her. He could not bring her back much to drink in the dripping cloth. He knew it wasn’t enough.
Food too had been a problem, for both of them. His own natural diet was insects, gum, and fruit. A wild galago wouldn’t have said no to occasional scorpions, birds or reptiles either. Of course Fluff had never had to forage for himself. The Company dieticians had made up a special-supplement diet for him, which Virginia enlivened with extra titbits, such as hideously expensive acacia gum. Of course there had also been a daily delivery of fresh termites of which he had been particularly fond.
Down here the only insect-like things were the Magh’. There was certainly no gum. He’d found ample grain, loads of harvested and decaying greenery, but other than three wrinkled lemons, harvested along with the tree and not yet rotten, nothing much either of them could eat. He’d given them to her. At least they had a little juice.
“I must go further, Virginia. I must find some more food, and some kind of container for water.”
Her voice was full of anxiety. “Just be careful, Fluff. I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t come back.”
“I will be. Promise.”
It was a troubled galago that had set out. He’d actually been on one other long foray. He hadn’t told Virginia what he’d found, and it was pressing on his mind and conscience. He’d found the Korozhet prisoner. Her Professor. He should go to help the alien. He really should. It was pricking his conscience terribly. He must help the Korozhet. But there were just so many Magh’ there with it. He was too scared. He knew if he told her about it she’d insist on him trying to get to the good Korozhet.
Even braving a journey into the unknown was better than dealing with this dilemma.
Chapter 11: Biter bit.
Dawn could not be far off. The mound-top was already dark against a lighter sky. “We need cover,” said Eamon, looking at the skyline.
“And sleep and food,” Behan added.
“And strong drink,” said Fal, mournfully.
“And tickets in the Managing Director’s box to see a full Monty production of Carmina Burana,” put in Chip.
The bats fluttered off to find a spot. They came back a few minutes later and led the human and the rats to a muddy undercut bank. As a hideout it was lousy. Chip was too exhausted to care.
“Well, Fal, your tail saved my bacon. I have a haunch of maggot stowed in my pack,” said Melene, with real regret in her voice.
The plump rat had been looking a bit seedy in the dawn light. At the mention of food he perked up. He rubbed his ratty paws together. “Well, good friends, we have a place to sleep. We have food. If only we had a drink . . .”
“I have some alcohol impregnated swabs for cleaning injection sites,” offered Doc. “We could suck those.”
“Ah! Now, if the bats are familiar with this Common Boo Rana, we could just rename this tranquil rural beauty spot, ‘The Managing Director’s Box,’ and Chip too would be satisfied,” said Fal, contentedly.
Pistol peered into the muddy puddle just below the hideout. “Hey, Fal, what would a ‘Rana’ be then?”
“Some kind of frog, I should guess, my ancient Pistol.”
Doc nodded in agreement. “Indeed, there is a genera of frog by that name, I believe.”
“Ah.” Pistol gave his best one-eyed wink. “There’s a toad in here. That’s close enough. I’m sure that would do, eh, Chip?”
* * *
Gnawing hunger awoke Chip. He’d heard if you stopped eating you stopped feeling hungry. Only he’d been eking out his rations. Eating less and less, but still eating. Now the cupboard was bare. And his stomach was not satisfied with some silt-flavored water.
Earlier presleep jokes about the toad having to be careful about not becoming a double amputee, with a chef around looking for frogs’ legs, stopped seeming so funny. It was time he started to eat off the land, time he got rid of his foibles. He would starve otherwise. The thought of raw toad was still hard going though. Maybe he could toast it over fat Fal’s zippo.