Quozl

by Alan Dean Foster

  Looks-at-Charts had been expecting the insult and so it did not shake him. “I am no killer. I am a scout who knows his duties and responsibilities, much as we both know the laws you choose to defy. I do not kill.”

  “Then how can you expect us to take your threat seriously?”

  “I said I didn’t kill. I did not say I couldn’t shoot you. As the security of the entire Burrow is at stake I believe I can make myself shoot to incapacitate you. Medical could make repairs later.”

  He could see that High didn’t believe. “You threaten violence. I know you, Looks-at-Charts. You’re still Quozl. If you shot us you’d suffer severe mental damage.”

  “It would risk such damage, and I have the ability to override my conditioning. It was part of my training. If I were you I wouldn’t insist on a demonstration of that ability.”

  It shook High-red-Chanter. Looks could see it in his expression though the musician struggled to hide his emotions. It was a victory of sorts.

  “If you shoot us you’ll lose everything you’ve worked for. Command would never allow anyone who’d demonstrated deviant tendencies to travel to the surface again.”

  “You speak to me of deviant tendencies? It wouldn’t matter. I would resign voluntarily. It might cost me my mate. Friends would shun me. My parents would turn their faces away in shame should they encounter me in a corridor. Not even the mentally impaired would want to couple with me. Such reactions would be proper. I am prepared to deal with them all to ensure the safety of the colony.”

  “Yes,” murmured Thinks-of-Grim, “I can see that you are crazy enough to go through with such actions.”

  “I do not think it is my sanity that is in question here.” He unsealed his holster and started to draw his weapon. “Therefore I must insist that for the sake of the Burrow and the future of all Quozl on Shiraz you …”

  He never finished the sentence.

  When he regained consciousness he found himself lying on this back staring up at a semicircle of concerned faces. They were not those of High-red-Chanter and Thinks-of-Grim but of the study team he’d been guiding. They helped him to his feet, then evacuated his Sama as he stood alone surveying the otherwise deserted granite basin. The packs were gone, along with their owners.

  “We came searching for you,” said the zoologist. “I know we should have waited for you to return but much time passed. We grew concerned and came looking. For this breach of regulations we apologize profusely.”

  “You are forgiven for you zeal,” Looks replied absently. At the moment formalities did not interest him.

  “You must have fallen.” The expedition’s botanist indicated the slight slope behind them.

  “I did not fall. I was struck.” He proceeded to tell them about the source of the music which had intrigued them.

  “High-red-Chanter’s mind is gone but there’s nothing wrong with his reflexes, nor those of his companions,” he concluded. “He engaged me so deeply in conversation that I forgot to monitor the location of his mate. I was so concerned with my own potential for violence that I failed to consider she might be capable of it herself.”

  Word of the artists’ perfidy stunned the scientists and much mutual meditation was required before they regained their psychospiritual equilibrium. Only then were they able to discuss what had happened in a calm and rational manner.

  “Do you think we should go after them?” the botanist asked. “There are four of us. We might force them to return.”

  Looks-at-Charts extended both ears parallel to the earth. “We cannot. We are not authorized. Besides which, we’ve no idea which way they’ve gone nor do we have any equipment which might aid us in tracking them. Furthermore,” and he noted with irony that he was repeating High-red-Chanter’s own argument, “we cannot risk being detected by the natives.”

  The zoologist was staring off into the forest. “Surely we can’t let them go. They could jeopardize the entire Burrow.”

  “I tried to explain that to them. They are convinced they can remain hidden from the natives.” He touched the front of his head, came away with blood on his fingers. He eyed it as if it was an illustration from a medical text and not the reality of his own body. One Quozl had bled another. Truly the two artists were insane.

  “This is not for us to decide.”

  Unlike the time when he’d been forced to kill the native, this time he was calm and relaxed. He’d done what had to be done and failed, but at least he had tried. And it was not he who had committed violence.

  “No one will blame you for what has happened.” The geologist spoke most sympathetically. “You failed because you acted properly. Had you not come upon them their flight would have gone unremarked upon. Now the authorities can determine how to deal with it, before it is too late.”

  “It may already be too late.” Looks-at-Charts took a step forward, felt himself swaying. Instantly two of the scientists moved to support him. The geologist inspected his forehead. The rock had struck him just above the left eye.

  “You could have been killed. This is proof enough of their madness.” She eyed her companions. “We must make a report. Our own work can wait.”

  “By all means,” agreed the zoologist fervently. “Let us return to the Burrow as rapidly as possible.”

  They had no choice, of course, but Looks-at-Charts still found reason to regret their action. Perhaps this one time it might have been better to have acted insensibly.

  Lifts-with-Shout was beside himself when he heard the news. The aging Landing Supervisor was all for sending out an armed party to track down the two miscreants. He was vetoed by the Captain and the Council of Seven. Exactly as High-red-Chanter had predicted, they decided the risk was greater than the possible gain.

  “Human atmospheric craft are slow and primitive,” the Captain was saying, “and they pass close to this region but infrequently, yet we cannot chance one sighting a sizable search party. We must balance this and the small chance of tracking the two against other possibilities.

  “High-red-Chanter and Thinks-of-Grim are artists. They do not have survival training.” She glanced in Looks’s direction as she said this but he kept his gaze properly averted. “They may very well perish at the claws of the native fauna or die of food poisoning. When the cold season arrives they are quite likely to die of exposure.” The Quozl had learned that the cold season on this part of Shiraz was very cold indeed, characterized by immense drifts of frozen water and bone-chilling temperatures.

  Looks-at-Charts confirmed that neither of the renegades was heavily dressed, though of course he had no way of knowing what they carried in their packs. The packs were not large enough for them to carry much.

  One of Lifts-with-Shout’s subordinates rose to speak. “They are at the mercy of a hostile alien environment, with only what they can carry to help them. I cannot see how they could survive the cold season. Any tools they did not steal they must fashion with their own hands.” He let his gaze wander around the conference room. “Although much of the local flora is edible or neutral, some is toxic to Quozl systemology. The renegades have no botanical training. They may have taken records and information with them, but that is not the same thing. Our work is still very incomplete. They must survive all alone and,” he could not keep a sneer out of his tone, “propagate their art.”

  “I think they will return,” said a member of the philosophical staff. “As Quozl we know that the company of others of our own kind is absolutely necessary to maintain mental health. Even should they succeed in coping with the Shirazian surface and climate, they will still suffer from loneliness. I give them half a year before the absence of another Quozl face, the whistle of another Quozl voice, or the dip of an ear drives them back to the Burrow.”

  Senses-go-Fade rose and his subordinate sat back down. “Perhaps it might be so save for one thing. High-red-Chanter and Thinks-of-Grim are artists. Such individuals are capable of unusual things.”

  “Not so much.” The one who’d sat down
refused to abandon his thesis. “They will go insane, if they aren’t already.”

  Looks-at-Charts sought and was granted permission to speak. “At first I too thought they were mad. On reflection I realize this was not the case. They were calm and in control of themselves, though passionate as to their intentions.”

  Stream-cuts-Through pointed both ears in his direction. “What would you recommend, scout?”

  Looks had already decided how to answer the question if asked. He didn’t hesitate. “This is difficult country, full of sheer cliffs and uncrossable watercourses. Two unarmed Quozl are unlikely to get far, especially while burdened with supplies. The single native specimen available to us displayed no natural equipment for climbing or extended journeying. If anything, he appeared less equipped by nature to withstand extremes of cold than the average Quozl.

  “Based on what we already know and on my own personal observations, I think it safe to assume that the natives avoid this region. The proof of this is that we have found no evidence of their presence since the First Burrow was established. I consider it, therefore, highly unlikely that these two fools will travel far enough to come in contact with even isolated natives.

  “Should this occur, we might reasonably expect the natives to react much as did our solitary specimen: with violence. They would then know of the existence of two Quozl only. They would learn nothing of the existence of the rest of us, of the colony, or even of our origin. I have studied their broadcasts. There would be much initial excitement, which would rapidly fade as soon as native authorities decided the two artists were alone.

  “Weigh that against the chance that an armed search party might encounter a prowling native or two. At first I thought we should go after them. I no longer believe this. Let them go. Let them slute and dance for a while. The surface of Shiraz will take care of them.”

  Stream-cuts-Through and Lifts-with-Shout did not vote. Instead, they let the experts make the decision. It was decided the best thing to do was to do nothing. They would all meditate in the hope that the renegades would return. They would be punished for their actions, but welcomed back as well. They were still Quozl.

  When all was done, the Captain made an eloquent speech praising the two artists for their daring and boldness. This was proper. As for maintaining secrecy it was decided to ignore but not deny, since the relatives of the two who had vanished would surely ask questions. It would be treated as a matter for the mental specialists. That would discourage interest on the part of the general population. If the Council did not make an issue of it, the colonists would assume there was nothing much out of the ordinary to discuss.

  Looks-at-Charts found himself reciting one of the multiple chants for the souls of the departed. High-red-Chanter had been no friend to him, but he and his paramour were still Quozl, of the Shirazian Quozl. They deserved sympathy, if not respect.

  While he chanted on their behalf he mused on what a pity it was that he’d been unable to shoot the both of them.

  The colony continued to expand and grow at a carefully monitored predetermined rate. Tunnels were dug in the cardinal seven directions as well as downward. Elaborate ventilation systems sucked fresh air from the surface of Shiraz to cool and invigorate the lowest levels. Chambers were built according to patterns first developed on Azel and Mazna.

  Meanwhile scouts led by Looks-at-Charts and his successors continued to escort study teams to the surface. Expeditions ranged farther and farther afield without finding any evidence of native presence. The native war ended and was soon followed by other tribal conflicts, though on smaller scales. The Shirazians seemed congenitally incapable of cooperating among themselves. The philosophers debated such contradictions fruitlessly.

  During the intermittent tribal peace that followed, the local natives developed and expanded, but none of their destructive pathways came anywhere near the Burrow. The landing team had chosen the touchdown site better than they could have known.

  Following the death of honored Stream-cuts-Through, permission was given to the native study team to install a well-camouflaged antenna atop the northern peak, to better monitor native transmissions. Language studies in particular benefited from this development.

  It was learned that the natives had developed fission and fusion weapons. This was serious, since their uncontrolled use might result in the accidental destruction of the colony. Yet after a short testing period they were put away and not utilized in any of the intertribal conflicts. Another puzzling development that enriched the work of the philosophers. The Shirazians were not only alien, they were as alien as could be imagined. Having developed a superior weapon of war, they chose not to employ it. The ancient Quozl would not have hesitated. Nothing the Shirazians did made any sense.

  Yet their technological development continued apace, with the study team wondering what they might achieve if they could ever quash their propensity for conflict. Trails in the sky were found to be made by advanced native atmospheric craft that flew far faster and higher than those the Quozl had encountered at touchdown. Their visual broadcasts acquired color and sharpness if not depth.

  There came the day when the presence of an artificial relay satellite was detected. It was followed by others, by a rapid increase in the number of transmissions, and by visits via primitive propulsion craft to the planet’s single satellite. The Quozl watched and meditated, and all the while the colony slowly grew.

  Meanwhile their mountain fastness remained as isolated and unvisited by the native population as ever. In the double generational gap that followed touchdown, only one sighting was ever made of a native in the vicinity of the Burrow.

  Actually there were four of them. The study team that made the rare encounter numbered five and was led by the aged but still virile Looks-at-Charts. They concealed themselves as they observed, hardly daring to breathe, ears held flat against their necks to present as low a profile as possible. They should have fled, but could not bring themselves to do so. The natives gave no indication that they were in any way aware of the nearby Quozl presence. The team stood alert and ready to flee quickly, but unless circumstances forced them to do so they determined to stay as long as possible to take advantage of the unprecedented opportunity for observation.

  “Surely their intent is not to establish a burrow here,” insisted a zoologist as he peered through his observation scope. “See how flimsy and small their structure is.”

  “Obviously temporary,” the xenologist agreed.

  The site was kept under observation around the clock, even at night when activity was limited. The team intended to miss nothing, not knowing when such an opportunity might come again. The study of electronic broadcasts was highly informative, but nothing compared to observation in the field.

  It was pleasant to learn that the natives traveled in the manner of Quozl: an equal number of males and females. They were thoughtful enough to perform many of their daily activities outside the shelter, which enhanced the team’s ability to record. Among these activities was one the natives called swimming, which they executed in a nearby lake. This was fascinating to the study team, which had seen such movements performed on recorded broadcasts. It was much more interesting to witness it in the wild. The activity itself smacked of insanity, which was only in keeping with the rest of Shirazian society.

  The natives remained for several days. Special excitement was provided by one pair who on two separate occasions abandoned the communal habitat to couple amidst the trees in the middle of the night. The trees played no part in the coupling and the pair appeared to ignore them completely. This was disappointing to those team members who had hoped to record at least one behavioral pattern analogous to that of the Quozl.

  The team observed for a long time until it struck them that no pause was involved and that coupling had concluded for the night. The realization was met with general disbelief.

  The senior zoologist peered through the dim light in the direction of the scout. “Do you suppose they truly
have finished and that really is all?”

  “It would seem so.” Looks-at-Charts was as astonished as the scientist.

  Her assistant continued to stare through his scope, hoping in vain to spot additional activity. “Perhaps this pair is not healthy.”

  That assessment acquired some credence until the following night when the second pair emerged to couple. They finished faster than their predecessors. Confusion among the team members deepened. If the first pair had been unwell, then the second had to be on the verge of death. Yet the quarter appeared normal and healthy in every other way.

  “Most of them choose to live at sea level,” the geologist pointed out. “Possibly the altitude of this valley is affecting their biorhythms. Or it might be something in the atmosphere.”

  “I doubt it.” Looks-at-Charts spoke with confidence even though this was hardly his field of expertise.

  If there was something in the air, a gas or pollen or anything similarly detrimental, it did not affect the Quozl. Looks proved that by coupling with the senior zoologist half a dozen times before the sun rose. Neither of them experienced strain or illness as a result of the activity. There was nothing wrong with the air.

  “It seems impossible for them to have populated the planet to the extent that they have if what we just witnessed was typical.” The junior zoologist spoke in conference later that day, after the natives had collapsed their portable shelter to return the way they’d come.

  It was again the geologist who incongruously first proposed the obvious.

  “If their frequency of coupling is so much less than our own, then their fertility rate must be higher. Keep in mind that in our study of their transmissions we have seen little use of artificial contraceptives.”

  Looks-at-Charts gestured acknowledgment with both ears. “Perhaps only a single coupling is sufficient to ensure pregnancy. That would go a long way toward explaining its infrequency.”

  “Another partial explanation for their continuation of interspecies combat.” The junior zoologist could not contain his amazement. He added hastily, “This is not for us to decide. We are simply a field team, here to gather facts and record observations. Final determinations will be made by those more qualified than ourselves.”