The Howling Stones

by Alan Dean Foster

  She spread her arms and performed a slow pirouette. "Honestly, Pulickel. Do I look in any way unhealthy to you?"

  In point of fact, she looked healthier than any human being he'd ever seen in his life, but that wasn't the point. There were procedures that had to be followed, strictures that needed to be observed.

  It suddenly occurred to him that he was more than a little tired. "Could you just show me my room, please? We can discuss all this later."

  "Sure. I know you must be exhausted."

  "I'm not exhausted," he replied irritably as she un­hooked the hammock that was blocking the doorway.

  "Sorry. This was the best place I could find to put it up. There's a lovely view of the inlet from here. You can lie here at night, open the windows, and watch the moons come up."

  His eyes widened. "Open the windows? You mean, you consciously and willingly violate the atmospheric in­tegrity of the station?"

  "Frequently. I like the feeling of freedom."

  "I'm sure that the native species that fly in and out at such times do, too."

  "You are a worrier, aren't you? If it'll make you feel safer, I'll arm the external defenses. As for the open windows, I happen to like fresh air. When it gets too hot and humid inside, I close everything up again. Nothing really dangerous ever intrudes. In the morning, I go around and add to the station's collection of small flying arthropods."

  He twitched at the thought of something small, alien, and buggy landing on his face while he slept. "I'll keep my quarters sealed, if you don't mind."

  She shrugged. "Suit yourself. Makes me claustrophobic."

  Thankfully, she hadn't even bothered to inspect either of the two unused sleeping areas. The standard room was typical in nearly every aspect, its familiarity a great com­fort to the weary and troubled xenologist. It was a little musty from disuse, but everything was where and as it should be, and there were no extraneous decorations of either Senisran's or Seaforth's making. He reveled in its reassuring sterility.

  He hastened to shut the door behind him to keep out any small uninvited locals that might be crawling about. "It looks fine. Let's get my case."

  "After you, my honored guest." As her left hand swept out in a gesture of invitation, she executed a mock bow.

  He forced himself to smile at the harmless, mild sarcasm. The bow took his mind off her words anyway.

  He spent the remainder of the day unpacking and put­ting up his equipment and personal gear. Several times he paused to ensure that the door was still tightly sealed against intrusion by anything larger than a human hair He also carried out a personal inspection and clean­ing of the room's overhead air filters. The curving win­dow offered a view only of surrounding forest, but he was pleased with it nonetheless. Claustrophobic, indeed! Rather than closed‑in, the room gave him a feeling of security.

  As he put away the last of his gear he wondered why he couldn't have been sent to Miramilu. The largest and most important of the island groupings thus far contacted by Commonwealth representatives, it lay only three hun­dred kilometers from Ophhlia. Conscious of their status, its citizens had held off allying themselves with either humans or AAnn, sensibly evaluating the offers of assis­tance that both sides regularly presented to its chiefs. Al­ready they were utilizing simple Commonwealth and Empire technologies to improve their everyday lives, ad­vantages gained without committing themselves to either side. The Miramiluans were playing it smart instead of stubborn.

  The station there consisted not of a single prefab struc­ture unceremoniously planted into the ground but of a growing complex that in size and sophistication threat­ened to rival Ophhlia itself in importance. In such surroundings he knew he could make an immediate differ­ence. The research that would result would be important and prominently featured in The Journal of Xenological Contact.

  Instead, they'd sent him here. Because, it had been explained to him, Parramat was more of a trouble spot, more of an insoluble problem. Less insightful xenolo­gists could be counted on to deal with Miramilu's more comprehensible recalcitrance. Despite one mild protest, he'd been sent where they needed him most‑not where he'd wanted to go.

  Well, it wouldn't take him long to compile a report on Fawn Seaforth. That part of his work here was already well on its way to completion.

  His own personal computing facilities integrated seam­lessly with those of the base. He was greatly relieved to see that save for a few minor glitches, that portion of the station was operating properly. As a test, he ran through a few basic setup programs, talking softly to the vorec and making sure the more powerful station unit responded readily to his stock inquiries. By the time he was finished, it was growing dark outside. The onset of alien evening arrived on sky streamers tinged with pink and gold.

  His door chimed, using the musical quote from Brian's "Jolly Miller" that he had programmed into it.

  "I'll be out in a minute," he told the door. He didn't want Fawn Seaforth in his room any more than was nec­essary. She might bring passengers along with her. Visi­tors from outside. He intended to preserve the sanctity of his quarters for as long as was practicable.

  Setting the room on "constant clean" and his personal facilities on standby, he stepped out to join her, closing the door behind him as quickly as possible. They passed through the general living area and into the small din­ing facility. The same curving windows offered a view of rapidly darkening forest. Moments later, powerful lights on the rim of the station came to life, illuminating the vegetation and startling the early risers among the forest's nocturnal fauna. Unrecognizable creatures with large, glowing eyes vanished swiftly into the concealing treetops.

  "Very little work's been done on Senisran's night life." Fawn was busying herself with the food processor. She had traded in her nonexistent swimsuit and dirty over­shirt for clean shorts and blouse. A part of Pulickel was pleased, while the rest was gravely disappointed. This mental disagreement represented an internal conflict he would have to somehow resolve, he told himself.

  "There's so much to study and catalog during daylight hours," she continued, "that none of the resident biolo­gists on Senisran have had much time to devote to studies of life after dark."

  He took a seat at the small oval table. "Anything dan­gerous around here?"

  "You saw the revavuaa? The purple snakelike creature that slid from cover when we were approaching the lift shaft? That's got a real bad bite, but it's not exclusively nocturnal. As for the local diurnal life‑forms, I've put together a small but necessary list of critters to watch out for. You can download the relevants into your files anytime."

  "You let it hang around the station?"

  "That's where it wanted to hang around. It may be poi­sonous, but it's not aggressive. You saw it slither off when we approached. I can't be shooting everything that comes poking through, and there's not enough power to run a full defensive screen around the clock. Besides which, the screen is a pain in the butt. It wasn't on when we arrived because I get tired of having to continually turn it on and off. Regulations or no regulations." She re­moved several plates and bowls from the processor and set them on the table.

  "Don't expect me to wait on you like this every night. It's just that it's your first day and I know you're tired‑."

  He studied the platters hungrily. "I'm perfectly willing to do my share of the domestics. These aren't native foods, I hope?"

  She grinned. "I wouldn't hit you with that on your first day here. No, tonight we're having good old imported reconstitutibles. Local cuisine can wait, though I prom­ise you, besides the fruits and vegetables there are some wonderful things the Parramati pull out of the ocean. In particular, there are some soft‑shelled burrowing pseudo­mollusks that taste heavenly when they've been steamed and basted in butter."

  "I look forward to it." He started helping himself from the assembled plates. "Could I just have some water?"

  "Sure." Reentering the processing area, she returned moments later with a self‑chilling
pitcher and sat down opposite him.

  "I'll try whatever you think I might like," he promised her as they ate. "The local foods certainly haven't done you any harm."

  She smiled. "Why, Tomochelor, thank you for the compliment."

  "I didn't mean‑" He stopped, flustered, considered beginning again, and gave it up in favor of chewing his food. "I'll try them a little bit at a time, until my system becomes used to the local tastes and consistencies."

  "That's the way I did it." She ate actively from her own plate, but with care.

  He thought about complimenting her on her change of clothing, decided that anything he might say could be misconstrued, and determined that where she was con­cerned, it would be safer to avoid the topic of attire en­tirely. When they did speak, he forced himself always to meet her eyes. When there was silence, he struggled to look anywhere but at the rest of her. Clearly, being sta­tioned on Torrelau was going to involve challenges for which he had not been able to prepare himself in the usual manner.

  The dinner was excellent, the familiar reconstituted foods reassuring as well as nourishing. Near the end, he broke his own resolve and tried a sample of each of the three native fruit juices she had placed on the table. All were superb. He wondered if she gathered the fruits her­self or traded with the natives for them. He could see her climbing the local trees, crawling out on limbs, her in­credible legs twisting and dangling . . .

  Resolutely he returned his attention to the meal. Tree climbing was not in his job description. Mildly amazed, he watched her pack away an astonishing amount of food.

  "If you have work to do, don't worry about keeping me up," she told him in response to a question he hadn't planned to ask. "I sleep like a rock here and the sound­proofing between partitions is excellent. Plus, there's a vacant room between yours and mine. Whatever you're doing, I won't hear you."

  "I'm pretty quiet, though I do like to play music rather loudly on occasion. Contemporary inventions."

  "Really? Have you heard the latest from Chikareska or Mattuzh?" Before he could reply she rushed on. "I can download via relay from Ophhlia, but they're not exactly up on what's new there either."

  "I don't know Mattuzh that well," he replied, "but Chikareska is a favorite of mine. Do you know the Blue Collage?"

  "You've heard the Blue Collage?" Her excitement was palpable. "I've heard about it, but I can't get the philistines in charge of imports to shell out the necessary royalty."

  Having unintentionally struck a topic of mutual non­professional interest, they engaged in an animated dis­cussion of music imaging, both human and thranx. It made the rest of the evening pass very smoothly.

  Chapter Four

  When he awoke the following morning and stumbled tiredly into the dining area, there was someone waiting for him, and it wasn't Fawn Seaforth. Reddish orange in color, responsive localized chromophores flashed wavy light blue lines down its side. Dark red pupils centered in tiny, bright pink eyes stared sharply at him. The long pro­boscis resembled a collapsed balloon.

  When he interrupted it, it was skittering across the din­ing table on comically short legs covered with fine brown fur, using the strange mouth part to suck up loose crumbs and food fragments from the night before. Turning to face him, it inflated its proboscis to half its body size and emitted a very human‑sounding raspberry of impressive dimensions. This noise proved so unexpectedly farcical that Pulickel's initial apprehensions instantly evaporated.

  "That's a floob," Fawn declared from behind him.

  This morning she wore full tropic field gear. Loose­ fitting and casual, it managed the difficult task of dimin­ishing her figure. He found himself grateful for the visual respite. In addition to the knee‑length shorts and regula­tion multipocketed shirt, she wore appropriate headgear. The face screen was flipped up and back, its visor pow­ered down but ready for instant use.

  She gestured at the table. "It shows up every morning, after I've turned off the defensive screen. Comes in through a window and cleans the place up."

  He blinked. "Cleans it up?"

  "In addition to table scraps, it gets all the local arthro­pods that I and the station cleanser miss." She whistled at it and the fuzzy floob squeaked a response. Approaching the table, she wiggled several fingers in its direction.

  Inflating to several times its body size, the floob used its proboscis like a jet exhaust to rocket backward off the table, across the room, and through the open rim window through which it had entered. It was able to see where it was going because, to Pulickel's astonishment, its eyes had crawled up its spine and onto its back. It soared over the clearing and into the trees beyond, leaving him to eye the dining table distastefully.

  "You've made sure, of course, that this charming regu­lar visitor doesn't carry any kind of parasites or commu­nicable diseases?"

  "As a matter of fact, I haven't." She proceeded to make a show of scratching her sides and arms.

  "Very funny," he commented dryly, less than amused.

  She lowered her hands. "You don't really approve of me, do you?"

  He didn't meet her gaze. "It isn't you so much, Fawn," he replied, neither confirming nor denying her accusa­tion. "We just have a different outlook on certain proce­dural matters."

  "I hope you have a better opinion of my work. You haven't seen any of that yet, except for my picking you up, bringing you here, and saving your life along the way." She sighed resignedly. "If it really means that much to you, I'll make an effort to clean the place up, even though we're really out of sight, out of mind here."

  "I would greatly appreciate it, and I will do more than my share to help."

  "Agreed. You hungry?"

  He eyed the table uncomfortably. "No thank you. I rarely eat in the morning. What I would like is to get started."

  "Just arrived and already you're anxious to leave."

  He nodded. "Just because I've done a lot of fieldwork doesn't mean I particularly enjoy it."

  "I'll bet you don't like having to rely on others, either." She disappeared into a back storeroom and returned mo­ments later with a thin belt. Hanging from the belt was a qwik holster holding a compact needler. Extra power cells occupied the other side of the belt, balancing out the modest weight of the weapon.

  "I think this one'll fit you." She tried to hand him the belt and gun.

  He demurred. "Why give me this? Except for what's in the already outdated study file, I wouldn't know what to pet and what to shoot."

  "I'll take care of the flora and fauna. This is in case we run into any AAnn. Their base is only thirty minutes away by fast skimmer. I haven't had any serious run‑ins with them, but other outposts have. When they think they can get away with it, they're not above taking potshots at the competition, especially when it's isolated and alone out in the local woods."

  "Meaning us?" Reluctantly he accepted the belt and began strapping it on.

  "Meaning you, anyway. I've been so quiet here for so long I'm not sure they regard me as much in the way of competition. That suits me just fine. I've had a couple of chats with their local chief of operations, an oily type named Essasu. Everything very formal and polite. But if I didn't keep rigorous, recoverable recordings of my movements, I'm sure he'd cheerfully have one of his un­derlings slap an explosive shell into my spine the first time I wasn't looking. Traveling armed lets him know that I'm neither naive nor helpless. I'm a firm believer in discouraging temptation right from the start."

  The needler was virtually unnoticeable on his hip. "Competition for the hearts and minds of the natives is supposed to be on a friendly basis."

  She made a rude noise. "Sure it is. And the AAnn are happy‑go‑lucky comedians who'll gather 'round at every opportunity just to tell you the latest jokes from Blas­susar." She patted the weapon that rode high and wide on her left hip. "That's why I'm always careful to carry my critic with me.

  "Plus, there's always the chance that a gribiwith or a cochco vine will take a leap at you when I'm no
t in a position to help. Think of your needler as a prophy­laxis." She nodded in the direction of their living quarters. "Any other gear you want to bring? I have my recorder with me."

  He shook his head. "Not on the first visit. I need to ac­climate myself first."

  She nodded and turned in the direction of the central elevator shaft. Once he had joined her, she thumbed the single switch and the cylindrical conveyor started down. It squealed and whined outrageously, suggesting that it, too, had been the subject of less than assiduous maintenance.

  "Why didn't they site the skimmer shed closer to the station and connect it with a sealed walkway?" he won­dered aloud.

  She shrugged. "Probably cheaper this way. I don't mind. I like being outside. Later I'll show you my fa­vorite swimming hole. It's a deep pool fed by a five­ meter‑high waterfall. Smooth rocks on the bottom, clean sand around the edges. I'd call it Eden, if I were inclined to nacre things. When I'm bored or just hot I'll walk in to it on the little trail I've cut, take everything off, and just float or lie on the fronting beach."

  Pulickel manfully turned his thoughts from the image thus conjured up. "The natives leave you alone at all times?"

  She nodded. "They have plenty to do and as you know from your prep, the nearest village is a ways from here. I very rarely see them unless I go looking for them. They never bother the station."

  The lift bottomed out with a grinding sound. When after a suitable pause the door refused to open, Fawn kicked it into compliance. She smiled apologetically.

  "Damn thing's supposed to be permanently lubricated, but you know what a tropical climate can do to even the best machinery."

  "Which is why," he observed as they stepped out of the shaft into the oppressive heat and humidity, "even sup­posedly permanently lubricated doors and glides need to be checked as part of a weekly routine."

  "I agree," she confessed readily. "And now that you're here and I'm not expected to do everything myself, you can make that your responsibility, Pulickel. I'm sure you're much better at it than I would be."