Quozl

by Alan Dean Foster

  “A day?” Chad’s eyes got very wide.

  “Yes.” Clearly Runs was puzzled by his friend’s reaction. “This would be regarded as abnormal by your people?”

  “According to everything I’ve heard, yeah.” He hesitated, asked uncertainly, “Every day?”

  “Except on meditation and rest days when activity would be greater or lesser, according to individual preference.”

  “How do you find the time to do anything else?”

  “The actual activity does not take very long. Two to six minutes, I would say, is average. Time does impose its own constraints.”

  “That makes a little more sense.” For some inexplicable reason Runs thought his friend looked relieved.

  “I am glad. Another difference between us.” As the subject quite clearly made Chad uncomfortable, Runs-red-Talking decided to switch to another. “Tell me your thoughts about war.”

  “That’s a funny thing to want to talk about after discussing sex.”

  “Why? The two are closely connected.”

  “Why do you want to talk about that?”

  “Because we find the existence of an intelligent, technologically advanced species still battling on the tribal level a fascinating contradiction. The Quozl used to fight all the time, with unending ferocity, but that was long ago. It wasn’t until we matured as a race that we discovered other means of controlling our population. Among the Quozl the sublimation of violence is the healthiest of art forms. Your attempts to do likewise are curiously flawed. For example, your television broadcasts show male violence but rarely any blood or actual damage. Hence their therapeutic value is nonexistent. They are worse than useless and in fact encourage serious combat.”

  “Television’s not designed for ‘therapeutic value,’” Chad told him. “It’s designed to entertain and amuse. That’s all.”

  “A tool turned inside out. The more I learn about you the more puzzling and intriguing I find you. This intertribal combat is unhealthy and counterproductive. It retards your growth.”

  “Not to mention the fact that people die,” Chad murmured.

  “That also.” Runs-red-Talking rose and began chucking pebbles into the pool which had nearly claimed his life. He could skip stones better than anyone Chad had ever seen. His extra fingers gave him additional control.

  “You don’t seem to realize an obvious fact of elementary psychology, which is that if sufficient violence is supplied in the form of entertainment in tandem with social disapproval of the actual act, tribal violence will diminish.”

  “I guess people don’t see that.” Chad found himself studying the Quozl’s slim lines, the sleek fur and delicate arms and fingers, the gentle, contemplative face. “It’s hard to imagine you guys fighting all the time. You don’t look like killers, and you certainly don’t act like it.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving. That expression, I believe, is also current among your people.” Whereupon he leaped into the air wearing an expression adopted from a Fourth Imperial mural by the revered artist Hands-over-Sand: eyes bulging, ears pointed straight back, face distorted to the left to display the lower incisors to the maximum. He held his right hand outstretched, fingers crooked to reveal nails that could have been shaped into claws. His other arm was kept back and curled to deliver a follow-up blow as he kicked out sharply with the blunt end of his enormous right foot. All this was done soundlessly, in the accepted manner of combat.

  Chad didn’t react silently. He let out a yelp as the huge foot flew toward his face. It was large and heavy enough to crush his nose if not the cheekbones supporting it. It flashed just past his right eye, the wind of its passing a whisper in his ear. A fraction of a second after, the fingers of the right hand caressed his forehead while the fist that was the left brushed his nostrils.

  Then Runs-red-Talking was standing behind him adjusting his bodysuit at the crotch. His expression was as bland as before.

  At the first instant of attack Chad had stumbled and nearly fallen. Now he straightened and tried to compose himself, aware that if the attack had been for real he’d doubtless be a bleeding, unconscious pile on the ground. He was trembling slightly.

  There was no undertone of satisfaction in Runs-red-Talking’s voice as he executed gestures of apology. “I am sorry beyond measure for startling you. I thought that since my words were not achieving the desired affect, a demonstration would be both more economical and more effective.”

  “It sure as hell had an effect,” Chad mumbled. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “A brief exhibition of ancient fighting technique, another revered art form among my people. Many centuries ago those blows would have been intended to make contact, not to pass without touching. I would have used this,” and he indicated a small metal tool attached to his workbelt, “to slice you from ear to ear. Once we delighted in bloodshed, until we discovered the elementary immaturity of its physiological underpinnings.”

  “But you don’t fight anymore,” Chad said confusedly.

  “Of such things we make dances and nonverbal communication. Much can be expressed through violent movement, nothing through actual violence. No one actually touches anyone else. Such contact would constitute an unforgivable breach of manners. The achievement lies in the coming close without touching.”

  “What about the guy who gets ‘touched’? How does he react?”

  “With extreme embarrassment for the other person’s predicament. You cannot imagine the suffering of the one who makes contact.”

  “What if I hit you?”

  “You could not, I think. Your reactions are not rapid enough.”

  “Well, when your back was turned, say, and you weren’t paying attention. Would you hit back?”

  “Only if I felt my life in danger. If not, I would simply leave and you would no longer be my friend. I could no longer think of you as civilized. You would make of yourself the kind of representative of your species that most believe is the accurate one.”

  Chad unclenched his fist. “I had a hunch it might go something like that. No wonder your Elders are so frightened of contact. If my government or another decided to fight them, they couldn’t fight back.”

  “Oh, they could, and they would. Remember that I spoke of my reaction being otherwise were my life threatened. But it would be difficult and there could be no final victory. If we lost it would not matter and if we won we could no longer look at ourselves. We would lose our lives or our souls; either way we would lose. That is why the Elders so fear possible hostilities.”

  “You can’t keep yourselves hidden forever.”

  “We’ve done so until now. Life underground is not ideal, but it is sufficiently fulfilling for most. As we expand and add Burrows it becomes better. If what we have suspected and what you have told me about this region is true, we could continue to grow for centuries before any other humans divined our presence. The Council feels we can maintain our secret for as long as is deemed necessary.”

  “Except for me.”

  “Yes. Except for you.”

  “I could tell on you, you know.” Chad studied the river. “I could give away the whole thing.”

  “Yes, you probably could.” As always there was no change in Runs-red-Talking’s expression. It was eerie conversing with someone who never smiled, never frowned. Only those remarkable ears moved constantly, often accompanied by sweeping, intricate gestures of the nimble, long-fingered hands.

  “But you won’t do that.”

  “How do you know? How can you be so sure?”

  Runs-red-Talking gazed at him out of large, melancholy eyes. “Because I know what kind of person you are.”

  “Humans can be unpredictable. We do a lot of stuff on the spur of the moment.”

  “You are not a candidate for self-damnation.”

  “I think not either.” He rose and nodded in the direction of a patch of dense reeds growing beyond the deep pond. “What say we go see if there are still frogs over there?”
<
br />   XI.

  THE MEETINGS BECAME more than a ritual. Time reduced them to the ordinary. Until the year Runs-red-Talking appeared clad in a type of bodysuit Chad had never seen before. Instead of the familiar dull operator’s brown and yellow, the Quozl blazed brightly in garb of emerald green sewn with patches of black and pink. Scarves and earrings matched perfectly, as they always did. As camouflage it was an utter failure, but as an alien fashion statement it was dazzling.

  Nor were the only changes in his attire. New whorls and lines had been shaved into his face and upper arms. An entirely different pattern had been scalloped from his thighs. Even the knuckles of his toes had been carefully worked over by an artist’s razors.

  “Got a hot date?” Chad inquired the first time he set eyes on the new Runs. “You look impressive.”

  Runs extended his right hand to conclude the by-now-familiar human gesture as he greeted his old friend. Then Chad relaxed as the Quozl extended all seven fingers and placed his palm directly over the human’s face, gripping lightly for a moment with the fingertips.

  They ambled over to the campsite where Chad’s tent offered protection from sun and rain.

  “What have you brought for me to learn this time?” As usual, Runs could hardly contain his excitement at these first meetings of each new summer. To Chad he displayed nothing in the way of emotion.

  “Have a look around. See what you can find.” He didn’t smile. While his Quozl friend understood the human smile, the toothy displays still made him uncomfortable. So Chad did his best to dampen his instinctive reactions.

  Runs found the plastic bags, used his long fingers to swiftly unseal them. Small brown objects tumbled from the first into his waiting palm.

  “What are these?” He lifted the handful to his face. “They smell strongly of other woods.”

  “Mixed nuts. None of them grow around here. You’ve had the peanuts before but the rest will be new to you.”

  The Quozl examined each nut in detail before popping it into his mouth and chewing experimentally. “They’re all delicious,” he said when he’d consumed the entire packet. “But then; everything you have brought me has been delicious. We had hoped to find edible foods on Shiraz. We did not expect to find cuisine.” He expelled air in the form of a high-pitched whistle, which Chad had come to know as a sigh.

  “It’s hard for me to enjoy these delights knowing I can share none of them with my friends.”

  “Hey, you’re not alone. I’ve enjoyed everything you brought for me from the Burrow gardens, but I can’t go spreading the stuff around either. It’s a damn shame. We could do a lot for each other’s agriculture. Not to mention what you guys could do for tree farming. I’ve seen you around trees. It’s weird.”

  “The Quozl have always had a deep spiritual relationship with trees. It was gratifying to learn that those which grow here are no different in that respect from those of home.” He held up a large curved nut. “What did you call this one?”

  “A Brazil nut.”

  He placed it in his mouth and chewed blissfully. “Wondrous.” As he swallowed he tried to peer into the depths of the tent. “Did you bring any more tuna fish this time?”

  “Some.”

  “A few of the engineers have discussed the possibility of constructing a subterranean accessway from Burrow Seven to the river that flows above the colony. If the problems could be solved it would allow us to engage in a limited amount of aquaculture. Expeditions have tested the local fish and found the flesh nutritious and tasteful, as is everything else on this world, though we are not so fond of the flesh of the larger animals. I have tried more than anyone else, thanks to you, and I find this holds true. I do not know why it should be so. But all the fish is excellent, whether saltwater or fresh. It would add great variety to the Burrow diet.

  “We still prefer our plants. I think we are further removed from wholly carnivorous ancestors than are you.”

  “I remember us discussing that before.” Chad opened another bag of food for his friend to sample. “You’ve completely lost any canine teeth, for example.”

  Runs was staring eagerly at the new bag, which was larger than its predecessor. “What have you there?”

  “We call ’em snack foods. You’ve had some before. Potato chips, crackers, pretzels, hapi mix, a nice assortment. My mother got kind of upset with me for opening a whole slew of bags and taking a little of each. She tolerates me, though. Everybody thinks I’m turning into a real eccentric because I’m always going off by myself so much.”

  “Very interesting. I am credited with great spirituality since I spend more time in meditation than anyone except senior philosophers.” Had he adopted the gesture he might have grinned. Instead his ears twitched rapidly in the movement Chad knew to translate as amusement.

  “My companions marvel at how I manage to stay in such excellent physical condition when I spend so much of my time immersed in deep contemplation. They cannot know that my body is being exercised as thoroughly as my mind. Here, I have something to show you. I thought to make it a present.” He swung his own shoulder pack around and placed it on the ground. “I am not sure it is a good thing to do. We can discuss the ramifications.”

  Chad watched and waited while his friend unpacked. Runs-red-Talking was big on ramifications.

  From the interior the Quozl withdrew a handful of interlocked rings. They were fashioned of wood, each a different color and grain, and had been polished until they gleamed like brass. One was umber, another dark brown, a third light brown shot through with golden splinters, while a fourth was a startlingly bright blue. The fifth was black with white spots, the sixth a silvery gray, and the seventh and last an absurd translucent pink.

  Placing the rings between them he proceeded to demonstrate how you could create different sculptural shapes by twisting and locking the rings into position. Or they could be worn as jewelry. At a gesture, Chad picked them up.

  “Are these as expensive as they are pretty? Hey!”

  He nearly dropped the ring set as the black loop began to quiver slightly in his hand. None of the others vibrated but each exhibited a distinctive tactile quality. Runs tried to explain as he named each of the rings in turn.

  They had been brought all the way through underspace from distant Quozlene.

  “I’d like you to have it.”

  Chad was overcome. “I couldn’t possibly.” The look and feel of the alien wood held most of his attention. It was difficult to turn them, to feel them slip through his fingers, and concentrate on what his friend was saying.

  “The problem I have is that someone else might see them. Your parents, or your sister, or your friends.”

  “None of them are botanists. They’d think it was just an interesting puzzle I’d picked up in a store somewhere. Unless I let them spend time with something like this.” He caressed the black ring, feeling it jump slightly under his fingertip.

  “Can you guarantee that will not happen?”

  Chad slumped slightly. “No, of course not.” He extended his arm. “Here. You’d better take ’em back. They’re beautiful and I’d love to have them and I appreciate the thought, but it’s an unnecessary risk.”

  “I thought you might say that.” Runs turned the taking back into a ritual that lasted several minutes. Then he indulged himself in the snack foods Chad had brought for him to try.

  Not all were appealing. While the term “snack” seemed appropriate, in several instances the word “food” did not apply at all. He much preferred the mixed nuts.

  “Tell me about the fancy suit. Is it some special occasion? Talk about risks: if anyone was looking in your direction they’d be able to spot that getup halfway across a valley.”

  Runs looked down at himself. “I thought it safe enough to emerge without changing. The weather is cloudy and there have been no recent atmospheric overflights. I did not believe there would be anyone about to see me.”

  “I was thinking about your own people, the expeditions
you’re always sending out. You’re right about the woods, though. They seem empty.” He pointed to the black circles and cutouts. “What about the patches? I haven’t seen any of them before. Are they significant of something?”

  “Indeed. I have sired.”

  “Sired? You mean you had a kid? You?”

  “With an old friend and mate. We were finally given permission to conceive. You know how carefully we limit our population.”

  “Yeah, I remember you talking about that. A kid’s a real privilege. You must be pretty proud.”

  “I am. You should see him, nesting in his mother’s pouch, hardly bigger than your thumb. He will grow rapidly, much more rapidly than a human child which is of course born in a more advanced state of maturity.” He blinked. “You have not yet sired?”

  Chad raised both hands. “I’m not even going steady right now.”

  “Well, then, how is your coupling frequency?”

  Chad looked away. “You’ve got to understand about that. We just don’t do it as often as Quozl. We’re not designed for it. We don’t talk about it as freely, either.”

  “I did not mean to offend.”

  “You didn’t offend.” Runs’s habit of apologizing for everything was difficult to get used to, Chad reflected. “You are not responsible for your biology, I’m not responsible for mine.”

  “I know, but it still seems rather a shame.”

  “You think it’s a shame!”

  While they argued Mindy crouched in the bushes opposite the tent, hardly daring to breathe. She’d lost her brother’s trail once but had managed to find him again by hurrying to higher ground. He hadn’t traveled half as far as she’d expected.

  Two days he’d spent camped by the shore of the river, sitting near his tent and peering up the canyon without straying. That behavior was strange enough, but she hadn’t begun to observe strangeness. That arrived in the leaping shape of something short, gray-white, and furry, a big-footed whisk brush clad in opium green. Trailing brightly hued scarves and tinkling earrings it shook hands with her ingenuous brother, whereupon he began feeding it nuts and pretzels as the two of them sat down to immerse themselves in nonstop conversation.