Midworld by Alan Dean Foster

had survived.
    Employed at the station were a lesser biochemist named Celebes and a botanist named Chittagong. Together they did not quite make up one Tsing-ahn, but they were the best Hansen had. They were taken off their projects of the moment, and given the carefully gathered bits of paper and scraps of notebook, and ordered to undertake the reconstruction of Tsing-ahn’s work. Eventually, a second burl of the type carbonized in the fire was located and brought back. It was presented to Chittagong and Celebes, who worked with it, while newly installed security monitors watched constantly, checking everything from the scientists’ heartbeats to the growls in their stomachs. Both men were less than enthusiastic about the project, especially concerning the manner of their comrade’s death. However, the orders came down from an enraged person at a large desk many parsecs away. They were not to be disputed.
    Nearchose returned to his duties. He sat at his gimbal post and brooded on what there was in a simple hunk of wood that impelled someone as rational as Tsing-ahn to go off the deep end. Such things happened, and he need not concern himself with them. But he could not help it.
    He sighed, and forced himself to turn his gaze and attention to the surrounding wall of forest.
    God damn, but he was sick of green.

VI
    “OUCH!”
    Born stopped, looked back at his charges. Logan was hopping awkwardly on one foot on the cubble, holding a trailing liana for support. Born let go of the vineroot he was holding and dropped next to her. She sat down, holding her left leg. She seemed more angry than hurt. Cohoma was studying something Logan was concealing with a hand.
    “What is it? ”
    She smiled up at him. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on her forehead. “I stepped on something.” She looked around, gestured. “That flower there … went right through my boot.”
    Born saw the tiny collection of bright orange thorns sticking up from the middle of the miniature bouquet of six-petaled lavender blooms. His expression changed. A hand reached under his cloak and he brought out the bone blade.
    “Hey!” Cohoma started to move between them. Born shoved the bigger man aside. Cohoma stumbled and nearly fell off the cubble.
    “Lie down!” Born instructed Logan harshly, putting a hand on her chest and shoving. She went down, hard, then started to sit up slightly, bracing herself with her hands.
    “Born what are you doing? It stings a little, but—”
    He yanked the boot off and she fell backward again, hitting her head on the wood. Then he raised her leg and held the knife over it.
    “Now wait a minute, Born!” Her voice turned panicky. Cohoma had recovered his footing, took a threatening step toward the hunter.
    “Just a second, you misplaced pygmy. Explain—”
    There was a warning growl just overhead and he looked up. Ruumahum was leaning over the cubble just above him, holding on with four legs, the front paws dangling and claws extended. The furcot smiled, showing more ivory than a concert grand. Cohoma looked into three eyes and clenched his fists, but kept them at his side.
    “This will hurt a little,” Born said quickly. He cut into the sole of her foot, directly over the three punctures.
    Logan screamed violently, fell back and tried to twist free. Holding her foot tightly, Born put his mouth over the freely bleeding wound, sucked and spat, sucked and spat. When he finished, she was crying softly and trembling. After a cautious glance at Ruumahum, Cohoma moved to comfort her.
    Born ignored the giant’s tense questions while searching the surrounding foliage. He found what he needed, a cluster of herbaceous cylinders growing from a nearby limb. Finding an old one, he cut it off at the base. It was half the length of his arm. The knife took the top off, revealing a hollow tube filled with clear liquid. He drained it, sighed, and tried another one. This he offered to the injured woman. Logan finished rubbing at