Quozl

by Alan Dean Foster

  “We must go down.” Lifts-with-Shout was insistent. “We cannot continue to squat in orbit and peer through our scopes like a cycling from its mother’s pouch. Each day the colonists grow more restless and that makes it harder to maintain security. We will not learn what we need to know of this world unless we walk upon it, please all to pardon my sharpness.” His eyes flicked in the direction of Looks-at-Charts. “Our sensitive touchdown personnel will lose their optimal edge if we wait much longer. Their skills will atrophy from disemployment. It is time not to debate but to move.”

  The Supervisor’s forwardness was socially off-putting, but invigorating all the same. Knowing their place, both scouts kept silent. But inwardly they were cheering their superior.

  “Remember Mazna.” Sense-go-Fade counseled caution with words and ears. “Full of hostile and dangerous, albeit nonintelligent, creatures. I agree we must move, but carefully.”

  Looks wanted to smash the philosopher’s teeth down his throat, hang him up by his ears, crush his toes. Ancient emotions. He meditated furiously.

  All waited for a pronouncement from Stream-cuts-Through. “I will call a Council of Seven. We will try to arrive at a consensus.”

  Looks-at-Charts spent the following day anxiously awaiting word. His status was too low to involve him in the decision-making process. All he and Burden-carries-Far could do was wait to follow instructions. It was the province of the Captain and the Council to decide whether to wait for additional orbital studies to be completed or to proceed with an actual visitation survey. Hard it was to wait, truly, but harder still, he reminded himself, to make decisions that would affect the future of the entire colony.

  That didn’t stop him from cornering the Landing Supervisor when Lifts-with-Shout emerged from the meeting room.

  “Profuse apologies,” the scout stammered, “for while I know it is not my place to inquire, my interest is somewhat aroused. Can you possibly hint, my Senior, as to which way the Council is tending in its deliberations?”

  Lifts-with-Shout glared at him for appearance’s sake. That did not bother Looks-at-Charts. What bothered him was that his Supervisor might choose to say nothing.

  Instead he declared thoughtfully, speaking as though the scout was not present, “The vast empty spaces of Shiraz suggest that we can establish First Burrow safely and in secret. Not all are convinced of this, but most agree that we can linger here too long. You are not the only one who wishes to experience the sensation of standing on solid ground and inhaling fresh instead of recycled atmosphere.

  “Once First Burrow is proclaimed then we can study the natives quietly and at our leisure, learning about them at close hand, as the child matures in the pouch. This feeling is bolstered by the realization that we have no other choice.” The burly Supervisor carefully adjusted a leg scarf.

  Looks-at-Charts waited a properly deferential moment. “Do we anticipate violence?” As a sign of respect he adjusted a scarf of his own.

  “We do not. We cannot. If contact proves unavoidable, violence must be abjured, regardless of the consequences. The damage to the Quozl psyche would be worse than anything the natives could do. You and your colleagues must keep that always in mind when you go down.”

  Looks-at-Charts forgot all his other questions. “Go down? It has been decided, then?”

  The Supervisor looked back at the closed door. “Not yet, but it will come soon. They must decide that way. There is no other choice.”

  Looks-at-Charts breathed deeply but hid it from his Senior lest he be considered impolite. “When?”

  “Perhaps as soon as tomorrow. One ship. You, Burden-carries-Far, others to be determined. A full complement.”

  It made perfect sense, Looks-at-Charts knew. One ship first, in case of hostilities or unforeseen complications. Survey would take longer, but this way there would be insurance. For those on the Sequencer. Not for those who went down first. He reminded himself to lay out his finest attire.

  The Landing Supervisor was checking his chronometer. “Who would you take?” he asked unexpectedly.

  Looks-at-Charts thought quickly.

  “Flies-by-Tail scores highest in simulations. She’s quick and sure.”

  “What about the scientific complement?”

  Looks-at-Charts dropped eyes and ears deferentially. “I am not so certain I am qualified to choose among experts not in my field.”

  “Don’t be so modest. You all know each other. Come, I’m asking your advice.”

  “Since you ask, I would take Breathes-hard-Out as meteorologist and Walks-with-Whispers for geology. I beg indulgence for my poor selections.”

  “You need a xenologist.”

  Looks-at-Charts considered. The xenologist would have to be female, since the idea of taking an unbalanced crew was unthinkable. He didn’t have to think long.

  “Stands-while-Sitting.”

  Lifts-with-Shout was clearly surprised. “She is fifth generation. I applaud your respect but beg additional explanation.”

  “I know, but she’s still active sexually and anyway, mating considerations and compatability should not be foremost in these determinations. The science group will need internal direction and she’ll be senior to the others.”

  “Some say she is actually fourth generation.”

  “I don’t care. I’ve met her several times and wouldn’t mind mating with her myself. She’ll be a steadying influence on the entire sextet, especially if the unforeseen happens and we stumble into any of the natives. I’d like to have her knowledge and experience with us.”

  “As you wish. I commend your choice, but make certain everyone takes the proper coupling suppressants prior to departure.”

  Looks-at-Charts acknowledged strongly. “Time enough for that later if everything goes well. We don’t want to be dealing with hormonal distractions on the surface of Shiraz.”

  “No, we don’t,” the Landing Supervisor agreed. “I disagree with none of your choices, and I’m certain the Captain will concur.”

  It was all going smoothly enough, Looks thought to himself. They would land, engage in a flurry of studies, select a burrow-site, and bring down the Sequencer, all while avoiding contact with the combative natives. Glory without conflict. Their names would fill entire history texts. He was wholly optimistic. He had to be. They all had to be because there was nowhere else for them to go.

  Lifts-with-Shout turned to leave but the scout begged a last question. “Are we positive the natives have no means of detecting the Sequencer while we remain in orbit?”

  “The group analyzing surface emissions is not positive of anything, but they are relatively certain. We will have to content ourselves with that. Another reason for making haste in securing a burrowsite.” He hesitated and became for only a moment something less than a Landing Supervisor and more than a friend.

  “That doesn’t mean we want the survey team indulging in unnecessary risks. You and Burden-carries-Far are the two highest-rated scouts we have trained. It would be catastrophic if the ship were to lose you both. I would also be personally distressed.” And he turned and hurried off before Looks could say anything.

  It was a comforting thought to carry with him as he walked off to find his colleague. They had much to talk about before tomorrow.

  “Who could have anticipated such a thing? Who could have imagined it?” Burden-carries-Far was sipping from a tube, lying on his back with his feet propped comfortably in the air. The lounge was nearly empty except for the two scouts. Everyone else was on duty. Their work would start tomorrow. “What do you think they’ll be like?”

  “It’s not our job to find out. It’s our job to secure the immediate landing site and protect the scientific team.”

  “I know what our job is.” Burden stared languorously at the ceiling. The contents of the tube were affecting him. “They might have cold blood and external skeletons.”

  “Not according to the techs co-opted for the native studies group. They say they’ll probably look a
lot like us.”

  “That lot of spring humpers?” Burden made a derisive noise. “I wouldn’t place much reliance on their ravings. If only their broadcasts contained visuals!”

  “Apparently their technology hasn’t advanced that far, and we can’t wait for them to develop visual to accommodate our curiosity. We must get down and in quickly. We don’t even know what their climate will be like for certain.”

  “So you don’t trust these long-range approximations either. I thought as much.” Burden was clearly amused. “Me, I’m not making any evaluations until I breathe the stuff personally.”

  “Not that weather matters very much since we’ll be burrowing,” Looks muttered. “We have one thing in our favor: Shiraz is severely underpopulated. We ought to be able to find an adequate and hidden site without too much difficulty.”

  “All that water.” Burden-carries-Far stared at the colored bubbles in his drinking tube. “If only we were river motiles.” He let out a series of short, sharp barks. Listeners would have taken umbrage, but not inside a lounge.

  “I wonder how long contact will be delayed,” Looks murmured.

  “If they’re primitive enough to war among themselves I’d think the Council would try to avoid it as long as possible. Don’t fret, my friend. There will be plenty to observe. I don’t think we will lack for excitement. A whole new world lies before us, and the flora and fauna can’t be very hostile. Not if these natives, primitive as they are, have managed to develop civilization.”

  “Not necessarily. Who knows what another sentient race might do, how they might think and act? You are theorizing as a Quozl. Shirazian thought processes might be utterly different. Reason says they should have exterminated themselves by now, not maintained their present level of barbarism.”

  He slept only with the aid of heavy meditation tapes. The magnitude of what they were about to do, the responsibility, was beginning to sink in.

  In the morning the six members of the initial survey team were shown the drop site. It was located east of the mountains of the war-free northern continent, in high foothills. The land was almost unpopulated and the vast empty mountains would help to conceal the survey vessel’s approach as it dropped down over the frozen wastes of the northern polar region. The nearest native population center was an enormous distance away.

  Breathes-hard-Out wondered what they would do if their presence was detected by hostile native aircraft. Lifts-with-Shout replied that based on their observations of the ongoing native conflict, the fastest Shirazian craft hardly moved fast enough to stay aloft. As for the drop site itself, the study team would have preferred a couple of years to choose a place. They did not have that time.

  The survey ship was small and narrow. Two sets of flexible wings folded tight against the fuselage for extra-atmospheric travel. Flies-by-Tail was already there when the others arrived. She’d been busy with the mechanics all morning, questioning them on the smallest details, making certain the backup systems for the backup systems were in full working order. At the last moment it would be up to her, not Lifts-with-Shout or the Captain or anyone else, to decide whether the team would drop or not.

  Everyone wore full scout suits instead of the more comfortable but less attractive onboard jumpsuits. No scarves, but they were permitted a normal complement of jewelry. Looks-at-Charts checked his multiple earrings. They were not expected to do their work completely naked. The full suit was reassuring. He did not entirely trust the study team’s assessment of Shiraz’s mild climate.

  It was also comforting to know that native aircraft had yet to be observed overflying the drop site. It was as remote as it was protected.

  Burden-carries-Far looked nervous despite his usual bravado. Looks wondered how the Landing Supervisor and the others perceived him. They kept their opinions to themselves. The six were the best the Sequencer could put forward. Now was not the time to show lack of confidence.

  He studied his companions for the historic journey. Breathes-hard-Out was tending to her shaving, plucking at contrary follicles to ensure she looked her best. She noticed his stare and ignored him, a sure sign their hormonal suppressants were doing their job. Stands-while-Sitting stood off by herself, silent and composed and slightly regal as befitted the senior member of the landing team. The only one unable to hide his nervousness was Walks-with-Whispers. The geologist was a worrier. It was not severe enough to compromise his brilliance, but Looks made a mental note to ensure that Walks was always assigned a companion, both on board and off. His anxieties could complicate matters in an emergency.

  Except that there weren’t going to be any emergencies, he reminded himself firmly. The first landing on Shiraz was going to be dull, predictable routine, nothing more.

  He had a few words with Walks before they boarded.

  “I’m fine,” the geologist assured him. “Just think what we are about to do! I am to be the first of my profession to examine the surface of a new world, a world never before visited by Quozl. It is almost too much!”

  Looks-at-Charts kept his reply deliberately low-key. “Why? Aren’t rocks the same everywhere?” He was careful to remain clear of Walks’s Sama space.

  “They are not,” said Walks with emphasis. His eyes flicked to the ramp that led into the ship. “No more time for talk, is there? Now is for real.”

  “And forever,” Looks finished solemnly for him. “Don’t worry. Everything will go smoothly.”

  “I know that,” said the geologist as he turned to board, “but I wish there were no natives. No, that’s not true. I wish they were civilized.”

  “Maybe they’ll surprise us.”

  “I doubt it.” Walks-with-Whispers started up the ramp, his sandaled splay feet slapping on the plastic.

  The formal ceremony of departure was brief and affecting. Stream-cuts-Through was not present. She was in the command center overseeing every aspect of the drop.

  Since the native’s transmission-interception capabilities were still a matter for hypothesis it had been decided to limit contact between the Sequencer and the survey team. They would talk only as absolutely necessary until they returned. Then there would be ample time for conversation.

  Looks-at-Charts had ridden the simulators hundreds of times to the surfaces of as many imaginary worlds, but despite the simulator’s accuracy he discovered it was not the same. He heard Flies-by-Tail’s voice, watched her delicate fingers touch the few critical instruments not controlled by the ship’s brain, but it was different. Different because it was not a simulation. Reality, he thought, has its own flavor.

  Then they were floating free, clear of the Sequencer’s artificial gravity, falling without seeming to fall toward the blue-white curve not so very far below. Burden-carries-Far sat on his right, unnaturally silent and introspective.

  Both scouts were qualified pilots, but that was not their specialty. Both knew they could not have managed the descent nearly so well as Flies-by-Tail, and they admired her skill as the little vessel was swallowed by air. The trio of scientists were secured in back, each in a private room-lab, watching the drop on monitors. Looks felt sorry for them. It was not the same as being here, in forward command, watching Shiraz rise rapidly toward you.

  Their new home was a vast gemstone awash in spilt milk, a water-filled pouch dotted with land. The Sequencer, the only home any of them had ever known, was reduced to a simple schematic on a small monitor screen.

  Looks inhaled deeply, reflectively. The children of Quozlene were leaving the Pouch. How fortunate Shiraz would be to have them.

  They bumped and slewed as they fell through the gratifyingly thick atmosphere, the four wings taking the buffeting efficiently, the counterdrive howling as it fought to reduce their velocity. Anyone watching their descent would see only a falling meteorite, he knew.

  They could see the surface now. The instrumentation which had been hastily installed to alert them to the caress of a locating beam or transmission remained mute. No one was observing their approach
ing with anything more advanced then the naked eye.

  Suddenly he was aware of the painful tension in his body. He’d been sitting so stiffy his muscles ached. He recited the relaxing exercises and concentrated on Flies-by-Tail as she brought them down. Thanks to the suppressants coursing through his system he was able to admire the smooth curve of her shoulders, the lean nape of her neck, and the delicate arch of her ears without anxiety. He focused on the top half of a particularly complex whorl shaved into the fur of her upper left shoulder where it peeked out from beneath the seal of her dirty suit.

  They were coming down too fast, toying with the safety margin, cutting across snow-clad peaks and the crest of a vast green forest. His Quozl soul leaped. Real trees. Hard-grained wood. He tried to isolate details among the green and brown blur beneath them.

  He could feel his weight again. Gravity slightly less than that of the Sequencer and Quozlene. A noticeable but not significant difference.

  Then they were down, hardly a bump or jolt as Flies-by-Tail coasted on the landing skids to a halt opposite the nearest trees. Through the port Looks-at-Charts saw they were tall and straight and nearly identical, but at that point their resemblance to the trees of Quozlene ended. Instead of leaves these growths were clad in some kind of green fur. It was difficult to be certain at a distance but they looked like nothing in any of the botany texts. Nor were they visibly kin to any of the growths discovered on the three colony worlds. Yet trees they surely were, however alien.

  At least Burden-carries-Far kept his mind on his work. “We can’t stay here. We’re too exposed.” He gestured forward with an ear. “There’s an opening large enough to admit the ship.”

  Flies-by-Tail acknowledged and the little vessel rose on hovering jets as she maneuvered them toward the green wall. Dust accompanied the passage of the ship.

  They were crossing a small meadow, water and green growing things dancing beneath the hovering jets. Then over a narrow stream which emptied into a small lake. On the far side of the lake was a reasonably flat open place bordered by a number of fallen trees whose roots had been undermined by an ancient flood. Flies-by-Tail managed to back the survey ship halfway under the largest. There was a bump as she struck wood, then a sigh as she cut the hovering jets. They settled to the ground beneath the natural lean-to.