Quozl

by Alan Dean Foster

  Looks-at-Charts listened with one ear to the polite politico-scientific banter while wondering where Flies-by-Tail was keeping herself. He was about to leave when the chief biologist drew him aside.

  “I know how you came by this prize and that it was outside the means and quota set up for regulating the taking of surface specimens, but in this instance I do not think you have to worry.”

  “It might have been avoided,” Looks insisted. “I could have run off and returned later. Or I could have driven it away without killing it. I acted in haste.”

  “You acted instinctively, to preserve lives. Those of the expedition team as well as your own. You thought you had only driven it away in the first place. You knew nothing of this creature, of its habits or inclinations. Had you fled, it might have pursued, and others might have perished. That’s why you are a scout.”

  There was admiration as well as reassurance in the Senior’s voice, and it helped more than Looks cared to admit.

  “Someone sometimes has to make decisions based on rapid analysis of a situation. We cannot always take time for thought and meditation. Soul-searching cannot precede every action. Particularly when one is confronted by incipient death. Tell me, Looks-at-Charts, how much longer do you expect to practice the profession of scout?”

  “Not very long, not after this.” Looks-at-Charts spoke ruefully, his ears down over his face. “I know the procedure. There will be a formal hearing. Everyone will agree, just as you have, that I acted correctly and within established parameters. That will do nothing to change what took place, will not resurrect the dead. I will be ‘asked’ to retrain for another profession.”

  “I will place my influence on your side.” Seeing how downcast the scout was he added, “And I will do something more. I will tell you something we have only recently learned. Only two know of it. As yet it remains only theory. You will be the third to have the opportunity to ponder its meaning, and its potential.

  “You are aware that we are finishing up our work with the native specimen you and your companions brought into the colony prior to touchdown cycles ago?”

  Looks-at-Charts’s ears straightened. “I had heard rumors to that effect.”

  The memory of that incident still affected him powerfully, though through meditation and therapy he had learned to cope with it. The dead Shirazian had brought no army of vengeful colleagues to the mountain valley. It was fortunate he had been a member of another tribe.

  Through his dissection the Quozl had learned much about native physiology. While the biologists would dearly have loved to have a female specimen to compare with the single male, no one proposed an expedition to acquire one. Unthinkable thought. They would sooner have slain themselves.

  What had the chief biologist learned? Something so unique only a select few could be entrusted with the knowledge? Looks-at-Charts scanned the room. No one was paying them the slightest attention. The other scientists were swarming around the huge carcass of the dead carnivore.

  “Everything else we have learned from our work with the native male has been made available for study by others,” the biologist was whispering. “This I and the one who first formulated the theory have decided to suppress. It is more than controversial.”

  Excitement and anticipation collided inside the scout. As the biologist intended, it helped to mute his despair.

  “What is it? Something inconceivable? Do they have unsuspected mental powers, or physical capabilities we have not yet observed? It must be something we have not been able to discover from monitoring their programs or all would know of it.”

  “Truth. What is strange is that everyone in the colony is unconsciously aware of it without having considered it. When eventually we make contact with the natives it may prove to be our salvation—or our deaths. It is something we can control only marginally, and the secret itself we cannot control at all. We are helpless. Everything will be determined by how the Shirazians react to the revelation.”

  He gestured for Looks-at-Charts to enter his Sama, to come as close as possible without actually making contact. Looks complied, twisting an ear close to the biologist’s mouth, all but caressing the fine fur there.

  As the biologist spoke Looks realized the theory was like nothing he’d imagined. And yet the scientist was right when he’d declared that everyone in the colony was aware of it unconsciously. Looks listened calmly despite the emotions running through him, careful to betray none of his excitement to the others in the room. When the biologist finished he turned and walked off without a formal farewell, leaving Looks to stand alone with his thoughts. He remained a while longer before departing in search of Flies-by-Tail.

  The scout was stability and calm outside, utter turmoil and astonishment within. He could hardly walk straight for the wonder that filled him. That, and a surging curiosity he had not expected and could not put aside. It was a curiosity that could never be satisfied, which made it all the more frustrating to contemplate.

  If he was fortunate to live long enough, then someday he might at least see the knowledge become common among the colony. He wondered what they would make of it, even as he wondered how the natives would react to the revelation. Assuming the work of the biologist who’d made the discovery was accurate, of course.

  He hoped that it was, and hoped that it wasn’t, and saw why the chief biologist had decided to withhold the discovery from the colony at large.

  It was sufficient to tear it apart.

  There was no such thing as a patrol. It was unthinkable, for example, that anyone might try to sneak out of the Burrow in contravention of every colony law and regulation. Only the privileged few were permitted access to the outside. The rest of the colony lived and loved and meditated within the buried body of the Sequencer and the network of tunnels and sub-burrows that the engineers were constantly pushing out in all directions from the ship itself.

  The settlers seemed content. After all, their lot was an improvement on that of their ancestors. They accepted the need for remaining concealed and went about their business, secure in the knowledge that their Seniors would make the best decisions about their future.

  Not only did they have the spacious Sequencer for a home, they now also had tunnels and new excavated chambers to explore, with more to come. They did not miss the sun and the sky because neither they nor their parents had ever known such things. They could view the recordings brought back by the surface expeditionary teams and perhaps fantasize, but they would never consider breaking the law to see for themselves the wonders of the surface.

  For education as well as amusement and an entirely different view of the world above they could watch the broadcasts of the humans, as the Shirazians called themselves. Detail study of these transmissions was a part of every young Quozl’s education. When contact was finally made, the Quozl would be familiar with their hosts’ society.

  Contrary to his expectations, Looks-at-Charts was not stripped of his privileges nor shorn of his duties. It was not his fault that his team had wandered into a valley that was home to monsters, nor was he responsible for the two members of his team who had strayed from their assigned work location. He was still allowed to visit the surface as escort and guide.

  Flies-by-Tail never accompanied him. She was not qualified and her abilities were in demand elsewhere.

  Having explored the valley to the north of the colony site, Looks-at-Charts determined to lead the first expedition to the next one to the south. Another river flowed through the gap in the mountains before emptying into a small lake.

  Only three accompanied him. Looks preferred small groups so he could keep his eye on all of them. Oftentimes the scientists were like cubs, oblivious to the world around them, interested only in their play. They expected him to look after them.

  The botanist and zoologist could hardly restrain themselves. Little research had been down so far on Shirazian aquatic lifeforms, yet human broadcasts indicated life existed in abundance in lakes and other large bodies of w
ater. They anticipated a plethora of discoveries.

  The hike over the intervening ridge was not difficult. Once down the opposite slope they found an easy descent the rest of the way to a healthy, roaring stream.

  The last thing any of them expected to hear as they made their way downriver was music.

  But music it was, and familiar at that: a brash, martial piping. Looks-at-Charts gestured for his charges to wait in a clearing while he reconnoitered, since he was the only one carrying a side arm.

  As he advanced he wondered at the source of the music. Perhaps it was some kind of Shirazian animal skilled in mimicry, which was repeating music it had overheard played by a member of another expedition.

  The sounds led him through the trees and up a steep slope, until he found himself staring at a small, natural amphitheater. The acoustics were excellent, the notes bouncing off the smooth granite. It explained how he and his companions were able to hear the melodies so clearly.

  Two Quozl occupied the center of the formation. While one played the slute, the other pirouetted and leaped gracefully, dancing patterns in the sand that had been deposited by the spring runoff. In the warm growing season the amphitheater was probably filled with water instead of music.

  He didn’t recognize the female. She was half white, brown fur being confined to her legs, arms, and muzzle. As if her natural coloring wasn’t pale enough, she had shaved more than a third of her body. She wore scarves and jewelry on the left side of her body only, an unorthodox arrangement the significance of which puzzled the fascinated scout.

  The male manipulating the slute Looks-at-Charts did recognize. He was shorn as radically as his female companion. He wore no scarves at all, only earrings and other jewelry. The music he made was traditional, devoid of contemporary embellishment.

  There was no danger here. Only disobedience.

  Leaving his weapon holstered, Looks-at-Charts picked a path down into the basin. “High-red-Chanter!” His voice echoed through the amphitheater. “I hope you have permission to perform outside.”

  The dancer halted in mid-pirouette. The tremolo of the slute stilled as both performers turned to confront the intruder. High-red-Chanter removed the mouthpiece of the instrument from his teeth. Neither of them bolted, which was an encouraging sign.

  But what in all underspace were they doing out on the surface, unescorted, unarmed, and so far from the nearest Burrow entrance.

  “I do have permission.” High-red-Chanter recognized his old rival. “It is nothing to cause you embarrassment, scout.”

  “Your reassurance consoles me.” Looks leaped the last body length to the sandy surface and approached the pair. The female stood slightly to one side, watching him warily. High glanced at her, his ears moving eloquently.

  “Thinks-of-Grim, this is the scout Looks-at-Charts. But you probably recognize the first Quozl to kill on the surface of Shiraz.”

  Looks stiffened but did not respond to the challenge. He’d anticipated something other than a hearty welcome from the musician. Old humiliations were hard to keep buried.

  Beneath the single hostile sally, High-red-Chanter and his companion wore an air of stolid indifference. It was as if anything their visitor cared to say was of no consequence. Under the circumstances that might be construed as a kind of madness, but Looks knew it was premature to affix labels to the performance he’d just witnessed and the subsequent attitudes displayed by the performers.

  “You said you have permission.” It was a polite rejoinder which High could have accepted. Instead his reply was cruelly brusque.

  “I do.”

  Blunt to the point of insult. Looks-at-Charts held his temper and considered leaving with the situation unresolved. This was not something he was obligated to pursue. He could depart with a farewell, leaving them to their music and dance, and file a formal report. Let Lifts-with-Shout and the Elders deal with it as they saw fit.

  But he found he could not simply walk away. Something held him there: curiosity, old memories, a sense of responsibility perhaps. He could not have said. So he opened himself to further execration.

  “Who gave permission?” There, he thought, pleased with himself. I can be as impolite as you.

  It didn’t faze the musician. “The Second Book of the Samizene. The Scroll of Aesthetics. The Talker Soliloquies. The entire artistic history of the Quozl.”

  The scout’s ears dipped. “I don’t understand.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.” High-red-Chanter’s mouth twitched to reveal a couple of teeth. Looks felt his blood rush. The ancient challenge was almost enough to make him charge. Almost. Only training, experience, and great self-control kept him safely within his own Sama.

  “You are not an artist,” High continued. “Merely another cog in a machine.”

  “We are all cogs in the colony. If it survives, that is more important than anything else. You are troubled by false individuality. You need help.”

  Ears bobbed negatively. “Not we. As artists we can no longer abide by the foolish, arbitrary rules and restrictions that force us to dig in the ground like bugs.”

  “The Quozl have always lived underground,” Looks-at-Charts pointed out. “There is no shame in living as our ancestors did.”

  “Not if that is the only choice, but it is not.”

  Looks tried another tack. “The decisions of the Council are not arbitrary.”

  “They are whenever art is concerned. Since they chose to conspire to deny us choice, we must make one for ourselves.”

  “You’re crazy, the two of you.”

  “We’re artists, the two of us.” High-red-Chanter said it as if it explained everything. In a way it did.

  Looks-at-Charts’s conscience required him to say one more thing. “You have no official permission to be out here, do you?”

  “We have aesthetic permission, historical precedence.” The female spoke for the first time. “It is there in the Second Book for any to see. We have spiritual permission. Those are the only permissions we need.”

  “That’s not for me to decide. You realize I must note your presence here in my official report.”

  “We would not expect otherwise from you.” High managed to turn compliment to insult by way of inflection. “Report whatever you wish. It will not matter.”

  “It will when you return to the Burrow.”

  “Who spoke of returning to the Burrow?” Obviously relishing the scout’s confusion, the musician continued. “We aren’t going back. We’re going to start our own Burrow. A place of free choices. Out here life is not predetermined as it was on Sequencer.” Extending both arms and all fourteen fingers, he pivoted slowly and addressed the sky. “A world is not underspace!”

  “Honest aesthetic sentiments I’m sure,” Looks replied carefully. This was worse than he thought, much worse. He couldn’t leave now. “But if you don’t return you risk exposing yourselves to the natives, thereby putting the entire colony at risk.”

  “We risk nothing of the sort.” The musician halted and lowered his arms. “We will live as well concealed as any colony. We know our responsibilities as well as our limitations. We have with us an ample supply of suppressants which we have been hoarding since we oversubscribed more than a year ago. Nothing will be put at risk.”

  For the first time Looks-at-Charts noticed the pair of handmade, cleanly fashioned shoulder packs lying off to one side beneath a protective overhanging rock. He sighed, locked eyes with the unrepentant High.

  “All this is nonsense. No one breaks from this Burrow. No one defies Landing Command.”

  “Four years we have lived on this world,” argued High-red-Chanter, “and not a single native has been sighted in the vicinity of the Burrow. The colony remains safe no matter the wanderings of two inspired Quozl. We will not be seen. Two are less conspicuous than thousands even if they happen to be living on the surface.

  “It may happen that we will eventually become bored with our self-imposed isolation and will voluntari
ly return to the colony, but right now we burn for freedom. We need the stimulation new sights, new smells, new sounds can provide. Recordings are not enough. If we do not obtain these things we will perish creatively.”

  “There are many other artists in the colony. All content themselves with their surroundings.”

  “How do you know? Have you asked any of them how they feel? It does not matter anyway. What matters is that we are not content. We seek space beyond our individual Samas. We required it.”

  “You will not be allowed to find it. You must know that you will be returned, forcibly if necessary.”

  “Those who would punish us must first find us,” High said haughtily. “I do not think Command will try to because dozens of tracking Quozl would be too conspicuous. We’ve been planning this for some time. Trying to locate us would be more of a danger to the colony than letting us go. We have kept it to ourselves and have encouraged no one else. Let any others who are disillusioned find their own path to freedom.”

  Looks-at-Charts examined the musician’s words. This was no irrational act, as he’d initially thought, but something which had been thoroughly planned. It might be as High-red-Chanter said, that Landing Command would decide it was less risky to leave them be than to try and bring them back.

  He advanced to the outer limits of the musician’s Sama, remained poised there on the thin edge of tolerance.

  “There is one other possibility you have not mentioned.”

  “What might that be?”

  “That having found you and learned of your intentions, I might force you to return with me. That would eliminate the need for any large-scale search.” His right hand rested meaningfully on the butt of the weapon holstered at his waist.

  High-red-Chanter glanced at the side arm, then searched the scout’s face. “We are not going back and neither you nor anyone else can compel us to do so.”

  “I could shoot you.”

  “That’s true, you could.” The musician’s ears bobbed as he displayed his amusement. “Having already killed I suppose you could do so again.”