The ability to tie knots seemed to baffle the curious creature. “It’s called an opposable thumb,” I said, wiggling the digits. “It’s what separates the brains from the brawn. Don’t sweat it, in another ten million years your kind may possesses something similar.”

Having completed my task, I attempted to drag the bulky coil of vines to the edge of the plateau, but could barely budge the pile.

Oscar snatched it off the ground with two tentacles, picking it up easily.

“Okay, I’ll admit there are benefits that come with having suckers and tentacles.”

I led Oscar to the edge of the cliff, motioning him to toss the vine over the ledge. The two of us watched as the slack unfurled more than a thousand feet before the excess settled on the rock pilings below.

A few miles to the north, Oceanus towered over the deserted valley like a giant olive-green marble. My pulse raced as I realized it was time again to risk life and limb.

I had rappelled down the face of a mountain twice—both times with Andria—and I had not been very good at it. This rock was higher, my vine rope was untested, save for an abbreviated descent from the redwood canopy, and I lacked everything from a harness and carabiner to shoes—the latter fact establishing itself as I stepped out onto the hot flat rock, blistering the soles of my bare feet.

Sensing my distress, the massive squid suddenly scooped me off the ground. Before I could protest, I found myself suspended twelve hundred feet in space as Oscar climbed down the sheer rock face in herky-jerky heart-stopping ten-foot drops and catches. I had no choice but to hang on to the thick hairy tentacle supporting my body, as the cephaloped’s other appendages alternately slipped and caught narrow ledges of rock in our semicontrolled free fall.

“Jesus, Oscar—at least use the vine!”

Despite my rants, the cephaloped stubbornly refused to grip the vine, which remained within a tantalizing arm’s reach. I’d have grabbed the damn thing myself had I not been holding on for dear life.

Three minutes later we were ten feet from landing on the ground when Oscar abruptly stopped, reached out to the vine, and handed it to me.

“Ha-ha, the octopus has a sense of humor.”

The octopus refused to budge.

Reluctantly, I reached out and grabbed the vine, rappelling the last ten feet.

Red faced, I turned around to find the creature gesticulating wildly with six of its eight tentacles as it splattered a rock with urine from an unseen cavity.

THE CEPHALOPED IS AMUSED.

“Hey, suck-face, I’m glad I could amuse you.” Feeling the urge myself, I thought about peeing over Oscar’s urine-drenched rock as a retort, but having no idea what the gesture might translate to in cephaloped, decided against it.