Below her, the eerie sound of untranslated alien speech. She had the translator in her pocket, and she knew it had been on in the stockroom because it had translated the speech of whatever had grabbed her. Had it been damaged in transit? She fished it out of her pocket, holding it to her ear to hear it humming. There were no other buttons, no other controls. What had Chiddy said to her . . . yell at it? Not damn likely, here where she was a minute away from being sucked like a orange!
She whispered, “Translate what you hear into English, very softly.”
“Is this soft enough?” whispered the translator.
“Very good,” she said, fighting an urge to giggle hysterically.
“The Wulivery is saying he sees no reason not to eat Chad now, or if not him, then the girl. The Fluiquosm say they do not want to partake of Bert or Carlos, inasmuch as they both smoke and drink much alcohol which makes the blood taste funny.
“The Xankatikitiki don’t mind eating Carlos or Bert, but they’re not hungry right now, and besides, they should leave everyone alone until after they have spoken to the humans again. They must not do anything to endanger the pact they hope to make to hunt on this world, as this will give them authority before the Confederation.”
Benita put her head on her hands and considered. “Can you speak Fluiquosm?” she asked. “And Wulivery?”
“Of course,” said the translator. “Right now one Fluiquosm says she wants to drink your blood because she has smelled you, and you smell very sweet. Someone else has told her to wait until . . . until they talk to someone named . . . M’van?”
“McVane.”
“Ah. Would you like me to summon the Pistach?”
“Can you do that? Silently? Without the predators knowing?”
“If you wish it. They are very far away, however, and they cannot travel as quickly on a planet as they can in space.”
“Please let them know immediately where we are and what’s going on. Now what are they saying?”
“The Wulivery assert their right to eat Chad or the girl now. They are hungry and see no reason to wait.”
“Oh, Lord,” she sighed. What could she do? Obviously, something was needed by way of a diversion, which she could do better from ground level.
Easing back along the branch, she reached the trunk, the translator keeping up a steady murmur of argument from the creatures below. There were plenty of branches on the back side of the trunk, and she slithered from one to another, taking care not to make any sound. Luckily, she was wearing chinos and a sweater and soft-soled shoes when the attack came. If one had to climb trees, at least it was better to be dressed for it. The argument went on, and on, as she struggled silently downward, arriving finally at the foot of the tree, where, realizing she’d been holding her breath, it took all her willpower not to gasp audibly.
Slow breaths. One, two, three. Again. One, two, three. The pressure in her head and chest eased.
“ ‘Go ahead and eat him then,’ says the Xankatikitiki. ‘If you have so little foresight.’“ The translator chuckled to itself. “The Wulivery says the man is out of reach, it asks the Fluiquosm to bring him down and the Fluiquosm says no.”
Diversion, diversion, Benita thought desperately. Stab something with the nail file? Confuse them with the translator? Shoot them? How about all three?
She leaned from behind the tree to reconnoiter. The woods thinned opposite her, and beyond was a moonlit meadow.
“When you hear a loud bang,” she whispered to the translator, “I want you to yell loudly, first in Fluiquosm and then in Xankatikitiki. Yell, There it goes, out onto the meadow, get it, get it.’ Okay?”
Leaning from behind the tree, Benita sighted the pistol at the nearest Xankatikitiki’s head. It was talking with another Xanka, just a foot to the right, so she shot twice, bang, right a notch, another bang. She sagged back behind the tree.
“Qyoxilizimak! Zixit izi. Shamma! Shamma!” yelled the translator. “Gromfrr growrrg glor, Furrgrinnor! Furrgrinnor!”