Hansen stared across the cell at the Harpupon.
“Alien intelligence, my ass,” he whispered.
The Harpupon was lying against the far wall, inert, curled up, a dog-sized cross between a rock and a potato bug.
For the hundredth time since Tlurg and his Xobon lackeys had brought in the creature, Hansen felt the urge to get up, walk the two steps, and kick it like a beachball—to watch it bounce against the wall, just to break the boredom. He suppressed it.
“Suppression won’t do any good. I felt you think that!” A voice in his head informed him. Hansen felt a thrill. There was a single antenna sticking out from the Harpupon. It was coming out!
“I did. But if you uncurl so I don’t keep thinking you’re a ball, it won’t happen again.”
“You think I’m a ball?”
“Damn straight. You look like one. Do ya bounce?”
The Harpupon thought about that.
“I don’t feel like a ball. I feel like a rock. Something you’d ignore. Why do you think I’m a ball?”
“What the fuck would a rock be doing here in the middle of a bare five by ten cell? You’re a ball.”
The urge to kick came back again. Anywhere else, he probably would have kicked it already and walked on, but here he needed its help. They needed each other if they were going to escape the Xobons. He had to convince this damn beachball of that.
Hansen stood up. The single antenna disappeared; the voice in his head ceased. He walked over, and didn’t quite kick. He rolled the Harpupon around a bit with his toe. While he toed it, he thought, “Come on now, piece of shit. Uncurl. Talk to me, you thankless excuse for a lump of protoplasm.”
There was nothing.
Hansen sat on the Harpupon. The hard shell supported his weight easily, but Hansen sat lightly. It was likely that bouncing the Harpupon wouldn’t hurt it, either, but Hansen wasn’t sure. The creature was as well known as, say, platypuses were in 1900: They’d been heard of, but their existence never confirmed. Harpupons were a supposedly telepathic herbivore that used mental as well as physical camouflage. Anywhere but a five by ten cell, and its feeling of being a rock would probably have been enough to avoid this confrontation.
Hansen bluffed. “I know you can hear me when I’m this close, beachball. Now that I know you’re awake, I really will bounce you if you don’t come out.”
He wasn’t watching, but Hansen’s image of the Harpupon was changing. It was becoming more colorful.
“I believe you, flesh eater.”
“Hamburger eater, just the thought of sushi gives me the willies.”
“Why do you want me out?”
“Because you and I have to figure a way out of here, and fast.”
“We can do that just fine the way I am now.”
“Okay, how do we get out of here?”
“You haven’t thought of a way yet?”
“Hell no! If I had, I’d’ve left you here long ago.”
“I thought so.” The imaging got a little weaker.