Drowning World by Alan Dean Foster

flying. If it only boasted a working light or two, he might well be able to spot it while soaring over the varzea below.
    He settled himself down to searching, disdaining the use of the auxiliary equipment in the skimmer's storage. Monitoring instruments was Masurathoo's job. A Deyzara's job.
He
would rely on the incredibly sharp vision with which Nature had equipped the Sakuntala.
    They made steady progress southward along the course that had been plotted for them by the Commonwealth navigation section without seeing a thing. By the afternoon of the fifth day, Jemunu-jah had acquired a grudging admiration for the skills of his companion. Not only did Masurathoo prove to be a superb pilot, but he also showed himself to be equally adept at manipulating the skimmer's food sourcer. While not sufficient to endear the Deyzara to Jemunu-jah, it went some ways toward tempering his view of his companion. Even the usual flatulent Deyzara pronouncements on everything from proper social intercourse to life in general were muted and carefully timed. There were surprisingly few moments when Jemunu-jah experienced the familiar Sakuntala desire to wring the Deyzara's short neck.
    For his part Masurathoo had become, if not actually comfortable around the tall, brooding Sakuntala, at least reasonably confident his companion was not going to slit his throat and drink his blood while he slept. This Jemunu-jah was an unusual example of his kind. While his terranglo grammar and pronunciation were still awkward, he showed a much greater command of vocabulary than was usual for his people, together with an inherent intelligence and curiosity that was almost—almost but not quite—Deyzaran in its perspicacity. So much so that Masurathoo finally felt comfortable asking about it.
    That was another thing about the Deyzara, Jemunu-jah reflected as he worked to compose a reply to his companion's question. They had no hesitation about prying into one's personal history. In this instance, however, he felt it arose from Masurathoo's genuine curiosity about him and not from the usual Deyzaran desire to gain some sort of commercial or personal advantage.
    Sitting back from the canopy through which he had been watching the Viisiiviisii slide past below, he spoke without turning: “Family always thought me strange. On rare nights when rain would stop and sky clear, others would stay inside houses to avoid attentions of possible predators. I more inquisitive than fearful. Especially at night. Would go outside, sit on porch or branch, and look up at stars. Unreachable lights shimmering through the mist. Always wanted to touch them.”
    “Now you very much can,” Masurathoo observed approvingly, “thanks to the great Commonwealth.”
    “No, not yet.” Jemunu-jah turned to regard his companion. “Other things must be settled first.” He did not elaborate, and Masurathoo did not press for details. “Besides, I have not enough money. Enough . . . credit. That one reason why I finally decide take this task—though not really wanting to.”
    “Something else we have in common then, sir. I admit openly this was not my first choice of assignment for this and forthcoming weeks. However, as you have so clearly stated, the remuneration is very good indeed. Also, it provides a most excellent opportunity to ingratiate myself to the Commonwealth authorities, whose contacts are of significant assistance in improving one's standing within the local business community.”
    Jemunu-jah knew of a human term that was both more succinct and more applicable to the condition Masurathoo was describing. It was
sucking up
. The Deyzara were masters at it. No Sakuntala could do it. We have too much pride, he told himself. Too much individual dignity and self-respect. Where the line was to be drawn between pride and arrogance, however, was still a matter of some debate among those Sakuntala who had done successful business dealings with the humans and the thranx—and the Deyzara