Quozl

by Alan Dean Foster

  The geologist and meteorologist continued to argue against an abrupt departure but it was not a question for serious debate. In an emergency Stands-while-Sitting had command. She was backed up by Looks-at-Charts and Flies-by-Tail. The scientists continued to grumbled even as rapid preparations were made to depart.

  There was some discussion about when to leave. It was decided to lift during the darkest part of the night to render visual observation from the surface as difficult as possible. Except they were not leaving, not departing, thought Looks-at-Charts as he secured his harness. They were fleeing with their dead, leaving whatever optimism they’d brought with them in their wake. They were running away to preserve the secrecy of their existence.

  It was not how he’d planned to return to the Sequencer. There would be no quiet glory, no solemn triumph. One of his best friends was dead and Shiraz was worse than they’d imagined. He would have a different place in the history texts than he’d envisioned.

  If the burrow survived long enough to fashion any history texts, he told himself.

  Because of the development of Mazna there was ample information in the texts on how to deal with inimical primitive lifeforms. There was nothing on how to cope with a hostile intelligence, not even theories. They would have to develop a plan as it was implemented, knowing that one wrong move could result in annihilation.

  His pride surged along with the hovering jets as Flies-by-Tail lifted them off the moist earth and pivoted the little vessel. They were Quozl. He ought to have more confidence in his seniors, in Stream-cuts-Through and Lifts-with-Shout and the others. They would cope because they had no other choice. He found himself reciting the first part of the Ninth Book as they emerged from the forest and Flies-by-Tail activated the drive, sending them soaring into the night sky.

  There is no end.

  There is no beginning.

  There is only the middle.

  For such small favors are we thankful

  Now is hard enough to comprehend.

  The decon crew that sprayed and checked them for alien bugs were bursting with questions they knew could not be answered. So were the ordinary colonists the survey team encountered in the corridors upon their release from quarantine. Only a few stared impolitely, insultingly. Most managed to keep their eyes on their business and not intrude on the surveyors’ spaces, though there were some uncivil eye contacts. By mutual consent the survey team ignored these. No one wanted to deal with matters of common courtesy now. Other outrages were uppermost in their minds.

  There had been communication with the Sequencer on the way back, however, and despite every safeguard it was impossible to keep all that had happened secret. So there was a perception, a feeling among the thousands on board the ship that something on Shiraz was not quite right, that their new home was not a garden world like Azel. No one knew precisely what was wrong. They only sensed that something was.

  The worst rumors about Shiraz could not compare to the reality he and his colleagues had encountered, Looks knew. He ignored the soft-voiced queries of the escort that was supposed to shield him from questions as they convoyed him to the conference chamber. The Captain was there, of course, and Lifts-with-Shout, and Senses-go-Fade, and the rest of the command staff.

  When it was his turn he delivered his report as unemotionally as possible. It wasn’t easy to ignore the shocked expressions that stole over the faces of his seniors as he described the circumstances of Burden-carries-Far’s death and the subsequent killing in self-defense of the Shirazian. It was with immense relief that he concluded, sat down, and listened dully while Stands-while-Sitting presented her report in concert with the audiovisual recordings she’d made while on the surface. The delight the senior staff would ordinarily have experienced at the sight of the true clear sky, the great fur-needled trees, the fascinating alien flora and fauna, was mitigated by what they had already been told. Thus the perceptible air of apprehension that came over the room when the first images of the native dwelling appeared on the projection wall.

  Looks had prepared them as best he knew how, but the room was still filled with uncharacteristic expressions of shock and dismay as the interlude with the native unfurled. Stands-while-Sitting’s recorder had been running constantly since they’d entered the native dwelling, and while the image skewed wildly with her movements, the recorder’s stabilizer still held it steady enough to show the advancing Burden-carries-Far, the explosion at the end of the metal tube, and Looks’s response.

  Several of the Seniors required immediate medical treatment. There was a pause before the recording resumed, but the journey back to the survey site was all anticlimax.

  When everyone had recovered sufficiently from the initial shock, the encounter sequence was replayed at normal speed, then slowly, and then was rotated to provide as many different perspectives on the action as possible. Only then did Lifts-with-Shout lean toward his pickup and speak.

  “You are certain there were no other natives in the vicinity? That neither you nor the ship was observed?”

  “We cannot be certain of anything,” Looks-at-Charts pointed out, “but we have discussed the matter and believe that except for the single Shirazian we encountered the area was uninhabitated. It was a solitary encounter that took place in a solitary dwelling out of line of hearing and sight of any other Shirazian habitation. In that respect we were fortunate.”

  “What of the world itself?” The Captain’s voice was a grim whisper.

  Stands-while-Sitting rose. “The water is mineral-rich but drinkable. The air is fresh and clean and the proportions conform to measurements made from orbit. As you saw, the smaller native flora and fauna appear harmless enough. The trees are unique, but they are true trees, as true as any on Quozlene. They are soothing to touch and to smell. This is a world worthy of worship. A world meant for Quozl.”

  “Except we didn’t get here first,” muttered Lifts-with-Shout. He stared at Looks-at-Charts. “You didn’t by any chance bring the alien weapon back with you?”

  “No.” Wondering if they’d made a serious mistake, he glanced over and down at Stands-while-Sitting for support. One ear flicked briefly in his direction and he relaxed a little. “We thought it important to leave the native’s dwelling as undisturbed as possible.”

  “It is unlikely that anyone,” Stands-while-Sitting added, “would connect the native’s disappearance with the presence of off world visitors, but we thought it best not to leave reason for speculation.”

  “You did the right thing.” Both of the Landing Supervisor’s ears drooped sadly. “But in this instance I wish you’d done the wrong thing.”

  Looks-at-Charts replied calmly. “I had time to make a thorough inspection of the device. It hurls small metal projectiles with penetrating force. Primitive, but it kills as efficiently as any modern weapon. The devices the natives employ against one another are, I am told by staff, similiar except in scale.”

  “Horrible,” muttered one of the senior staff members.

  “Uncivilized,” sniffed another.

  “Once we called such actions part of our own civilization, until we gained the wisdom of the Samizene and matured.” Stream-cuts-Through surveyed the chamber. “This is the first non-Quozl intelligence that has ever been encountered. Let us try not to judge them by our own standards.” There was silence in the chamber, polite silence as they waited.

  “Obviously there can be no violence. That violence has already occurred is regrettable. Two intelligent beings have been slain.” Looks-at-Charts had already apologized profusely. He did so anew, and the staff waited approvingly until he’d concluded.

  “We cannot fight and we cannot run.” The Captain turned her attention to Flies-by-Tail. “Were you able to tell if you were tracked either on arrival or upon departure?”

  “We observed no natives in our immediate vicinity,” the survey pilot replied, “and none of our sensing devices was activated. That is not proof, but it is encouraging. The area we visited was as isolated
as the ship’s survey staff believed it to be. We came close to no urbanized regions.”

  The Captain gestured with both ears. “Before setdown we need to learn more about their aircraft. Are any extra-atmospheric, what kind of fuel do they utilize, what is their speed and range, and how are they armed? We must ensure that the path to the burrowsite is not normally overflown and that the natives can pose no serious threats to the Sequencer so long as it remains our whole world.”

  A member of Lifts-with-Shout’s landing group rose deferentially. “That can largely be ascertained from orbit, Honored Captain. If they are fighting one another they will have their most advanced weapons in frequent use. We can learn where they are being employed and study them with high-resolution instrumentation.”

  “Do so,” said Stream-cuts-Through curtly. “We will study your findings and make a determination as to how to proceed.” Her gaze rose as she surveyed the tense assembly. “You will all be provided with any new information as it is acquired, and will make yourselves available individually and as groups for short-notice consultation. I will explore actual options with Senses-go-Fade and his philosophers. Proceed we will, but only in accordance with the precepts of the Samizene.” A unified murmur of approval rose from the assembled staff.

  Lifts-with-Shout half stood. “What should be done about preparations for touchdown and inburrowing? The colonists grow anxious. The less they hear, the more concerned they become.”

  “And the more wild the rumors that circulate among them.” The Captain acknowledged the Landing Supervisor’s concerns with wide-spread ears and a double blink of the nictitating membranes that covered her eyes. “First your people can assure everyone that Shiraz does not have an atmosphere of methane and argon, which is one rumor that seems to have circulated widely.” A few amused whistles lightened the air in the chamber.

  “You may as well begin. Emphasize thoroughness, downplay speed. Have everyone take their time to check and recheck. It’s time we’ll need. Commencing preparations will stop some of the rumors and mute the talk. I need hardly remind you that the proceedings of this gathering are not for general dissemination. At no time is it to be discussed with anyone not present.” She flicked her gaze in the direction of Looks-at-Charts and Flies-by-Tail, the youngest Quozl present.

  “Be especially vigilant while coupling. I won’t have any member of my staff precipitating a panic.”

  The two young members of the initial survey team deferentially dropped their eyes and ears.

  They needed more time, of course. No matter how much time they took, Looks-at-Charts knew they would always need more. More knowledge of Shiraz and its mad inhabitants, more time to prepare the colonials, more time to consider the possibility of failure, something which the previous six generations had never had to contemplate. Many items were in short supply aboard the Sequencer after the long journey out from distant Quozlene, but none so precious as time.

  Eventually the majority of ordinary colonists would have to be told, he knew. But the less time they had to reflect on the existence of a hostile non-Quozl intelligence on the world below, the less likelihood there would be of a panic. During touchdown everyone would be far too busy to mull over unworkable alternatives.

  Landing Command pored over maps and statistics as they agonized over site selection. The place chosen for First Burrow had to be located in a region where the colony would have access to specific resources without drawing the attention of the Shirazians, and where they would be safely distant from the world-spanning native conflict.

  The hastily assembled philology team distinguished itself by rapidly translating the most important of Shiraz’s bewildering multiplicity of languages. Their reports proved that while the natives might biologically be related to the Quozl, mentally and spiritually they were vastly different.

  Soon it was obvious to anyone with a smattering of elementary mass psychology that they fought among themselves because they had not yet come to terms with something as basic as their individual sex drives. They had no idea how to control them, channel the related energies, make use of the related cerebral aspects, or sublimate their violent tendencies in art, music, and other aspects of civilized behavior. Instead they regularly engaged in physical combat both on an individual level and as organized tribal groupings.

  Even the most imaginative psychologists aboard the Sequencer were astonished. Controlling the sex drive was basic to the establishment of a mature civilization. That the Shirazians had achieved a high level of civilization could not be denied. That it was socially immature was equally unarguable.

  “What is remarkable,” declared a senior philosopher one day, “is not that they continue to war with each other, but that they have somehow managed under these biological circumstances to avoid exterminating themselves.”

  “War is a natural and understandable by-product of their lack of control and understanding of their own hormonal systemology,” said a colleague. “It is the only means left to control the expansion of the population.”

  “It goes deeper than that,” argued his senior. “Is is more basic to their civilization and affects much more than mere population growth. It affects everything about them. It would affect the way they would react to us.”

  The analysts could tell nothing about Shirazian art from the native’s purely aural broadcasts, but they did record many samples of native music. It was clashing and discordant, full of the confusion that lay beneath the rest of their civilization. Such discoveries were discouraging, but there was no talk of giving up. They could not give up. Despite its incessantly warring, wild tribes, Shiraz was to be their home.

  Pressed for a determination, Senses-go-Fade and the xenologists allowed as how if they landed and presented themselves to the natives there was a fifty-fifty chance they would be attacked and exterminated on the spot. The corollary was that there was a fifty-fifty chance they would be accepted and tolerated, if not welcomed with flattened ears. As these odds were not to the Captain’s liking, it was decided to continue as planned. They would select a burrowsite, touch down, secure the colony as best they could, and deal with native contact only if and when it became unavoidable.

  If the colony successfully established itself and throve, staff estimated that preliminary steps to make contact might commence in reasonable safety in one to two hundred of the local years.

  V.

  LIFTS-WITH-SHOUT’S LANDING STAFF’S first choice of a burrowsite was an island. Any island. But the larger ones were all occupied and the smaller provided insufficent resources and space for expansion. Nor for psychological reasons did any Quozl wish to live on a small body of land completely surrounded by water. The ship-born colonists knew of drowning only from texts. That did not mean any wished to experience the sensation in person.

  The few extensive unpopulated regions were equally unpromising. Great tracts of empty tropical forest were not suitable for burrowing and based on the information gleaned from the settlement of Mazna, were the most likely to harbor dangerous diseases and lifeforms. The frozen polar regions were less hospitable still, as were those utterly devoid of vegetation.

  Most promising were several places in the northern hemisphere which, while surrounded by large urban areas, were themselves practically empty. In the end staff settled on a mountainous region not far south in planetary terms from where the survey ship had set down. It had several notable advantages, first and foremost being that it was likely to be similar to the one area already studied firsthand.

  The region contained no lush fertile valleys for the natives to farm. It was cut by deep canyons and wild rivers, and the best instrumentation on the Sequencer could find no evidence of habitation within a predetermined radius of safety.

  A second survey visit was made. Like the first, its arrival and departure passed unnoticed by the natives. A third trip located a site as close to ideal as they were likely to find without far more extensive on-site inspection.

  Several narrow valleys were cut
by streams which emptied into a sizable lake. The valleys were largely indistinguishable from one another, which meant that anyone observing them from above was unlikely to remember individual geological features. One especially steep-sided valley was almost the exact width of the Sequencer, and much deeper. The land through which its watercourse cut was rocky and barren, unable to support tall stands of fur-needled trees which might damage the ship on touchdown. A modest waterfall was located far up the canyon. This distinguishing feature would be moved but not obliterated. Given the region’s isolation it was unlikely anyone passing through would note the slight movement of the waterfall a modest distance to the west. The small river would provide excellent cover for the Sequencer once it was burrowed in.

  For a while the ship would remain their only home, until expansion could begin. It had been designed to serve as such by its builders. The drive would be adjusted to provide power for the new colony. Instead of having to scramble to build dwellings of mud and stone, they would live in the same rooms they had lived in on the long journey outward from Quozlene. The ship was the colony’s security, a bastion of familiarity and a reminder of home they would have no matter how extensive the colony grew. It was a gigantic, space-traversing pouch.

  But once down, it would never be able to lift off again. There would be no second chance. Their first choice had to be the right one.

  Landing Command produced topographic charts in three and four dimensions down to the smallest pebble. Every feature would be precisely reproduced atop the colony once the Sequencer was burrowed in. Artists would work alongside engineers and geologists and excavators.

  Once it was announced that these final preparations for touchdown had begun and that a site had been chosen, the atmosphere on the Sequencer grew more relaxed. Everyone fell to assigned tasks with renewed enthusiasm and determination. Artists argued good-naturedly with the excavators as burrow-in procedures were built up in stages on modeling screens. Looks-at-Charts knew their differences would be settled before touchdown commenced. They had to be. There would be neither time nor room for last-minute improvisation.