Quozl

by Alan Dean Foster

She sighed tiredly. “I thought we’d settled that. There’s been no betrayal. The secret of the colony is as safe as ever. As for the money, if you don’t want it, that’s up to you. I can’t force you to take what’s due you. It’ll stay in my own account. Is that more fair?”

  “It’s not more fair, it’s just …” He stopped, confused. His sister had always been so much better with words than he. He’d come into the office with his mind made up and she’d subtly and quietly demolished a number of his certainties.

  Several of them had been replaced by the image of himself gliding smoothly through Westwood Village, lowering power windows at a touch and letting the advanced Delco stereo blast across paralleling lanes of traffic while the blonde California girls turned to admire the sleek vehicle and its suave pilot. Not an easy image to toss in the garbage. He saw himself going wherever he wanted to on the weekends without worrying about breaking down every tenth mile or needing money for repairs. Angrily he shook the dream aside.

  “I’m not buying a Corvette with that money.”

  She shrugged. “Up to you. I can get eight and a quarter, compounded daily.”

  “I think …” Determination flushed out of him in a green flood. “I think I’ll get the Mazda instead.”

  He tried not to look at the sly grin that spread across her face. “That’s my baby brother. Keep some money in the bank for emergencies. Much more sensible. You were always so sensible, Chad. In a pinch I always knew I could rely on that.”

  “I’m only doing this,” he said sharply, “so you can’t use the money.”

  “Naturally. You’ll punish me as much as I’ll let you.”

  Having voluntarily relinquished the moral high ground, he resorted to the only avenue left to him. “Make this year the last one, Mindy. You’ve made a lot of money, you’ve made a name for yourself. You won’t need to do this anymore. It’s got to stop.”

  “It’ll stop, Chad. It’ll stop when the network declines to exercise its option and the products stop selling. Meanwhile no harm’s being done to the Quazl. If you can prove otherwise, do so. If not, then go buy your car. I’ve got work to do.” She turned to face the computer terminal and switched it on, began typing with the ease of long: practice.

  He watched her as her fingers flew over the keyboard. “I just want to say one more time that I think what you’ve dose is terribly wrong. It’s dishonest, it’s immoral, and it’s the greatest betrayal of trust I’ve ever seen.”

  “You’re young,” she replied cryptically without looking up from the screen. “Wait ’til you’ve lost in love a few times. Until then don’t talk to me about betrayal. Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled, turning away. “Do I have the dealer call here or should I call you and leave his number?”

  XV.

  HE’D BEEN IN the complex devoted to surface studies many times before. As the principal intermediary between the natives and the colony his advice was in constant demand by the scientists and researchers who had made humanity their special area of interest. He was more or less at their beck and call.

  He knew many of the senior and junior specialists by name, but not the young technician clad in blue and white who met him at the entrance and escorted him inside. She turned him over to Short-key-Leaps, the startlingly black-striped head of department. While Runs waited curiously, Short concluded what he was doing and then gestured for the younger Quozl to follow as they made their way deeper into the complex. Runs remained a respectful distance behind the Elder, asking no questions, keeping well clear of the other’s Sama.

  Shoit-key-Leaps entered a back room new to Runs that was filled to the point of constriction with gleaming, newly manufactured equipment. A Quozl of his own generation glanced over at them as they entered but did not hold the stare long enough to be guilty of discourtesy. Runs was immediately attracted to her. She did not respond at all. Her tail remained limp behind her, both ears stayed bent forward. It was an expression of noninterest that bordered on the insulting, but he displayed no reaction. There had to be a reason for her unQuozl-like indifference. His thoughts knotted as he came up alongside Short-key-Leaps.

  “Trouble, Honored Senior? Are there humans in the vicinity?” That was the constant concern, that natives other than his friends might unknowingly come into the main valley and somehow stumble across one of the camouflaged entrances or air vents, or encounter a study team caught on the surface.

  “That is not the problem,” the Senior told him, simultaneously informing him that a problem indeed existed.

  Short-key-Leaps wore a wonderful left-balanced necklace matched by the three earrings in his opposite ear, all fashioned of a local wood which Chad had identified as sugar pine. Like anything made of Shirazian timber it was extremely valuable. Great care had been lavished on the carving and polishing.

  As the Senior spoke, the female left her seat and moved to lock the only door. This action was so extraordinary and unexpected Runs could not find the proper words to employ in reference to it. As she returned to her position, Short-key-Leaps whispered to her in passing. She bent an ear by way of acknowledgment, resumed her seat, and nudged contact points on the console in front of her. As a small viewscreen brightened she spoke in an efficient monotone.

  “I am Tries-simple-Glow. It is my task to study native entertainment and information transmissions, which I have been doing for many cycles. It is important work, full of surprises. Just when you think you understand the natives something utterly unexpected occurs to alter your preconceptions.”

  Why was she lecturing him on human habits, he wondered? Him, Runs-red-Talking, of all people! But with a Senior present he dare not interrupt to question her. He wondered idly if she found his attire off-putting.

  Patience, he told himself. Her intent will clarify along with the images.

  “For many cycles it was difficult to pick up native visual transmissions, until the concealed antenna was positioned atop the north ridge and the humans began utilizing satellites to relay their signals. This improved our access to information enormously, but because of the proliferation of such signals it is very difficult to monitor all such transmissions. In past cycles particular transmissions were singled out for especial study. This resulted in the unfortunate concurrent neglect of other transmissions.

  “Those signals were checked and recorded for future examination at less frequent intervals. They consist mainly of harmless entertainments and diversions of much less interest than the information and serious cultural broadcasts.”

  “Sometimes the most innocuous is constructed upon the most critical,” the Senior observed philosophically.

  “One such diversion caught the attention of a beginning researcher. It was checked against possible similar diversions. A match was made. The information was processed for advanced study. This diversion has been my particular area of interest for the past several cycles. It is one of those transmissions which recur at predictable intervals, which makes continued study feasible. It is what the natives refer to as a ‘wild feed’ and was found during a chance emission search. Otherwise we would still be ignorant of its existence.”

  She adjusted a control, bringing the screen to life. Short-key-Leaps stared intently at the viewer. Runs felt it incumbent to do likewise.

  What he saw froze his genitals to his pubic bone.

  Drawings. Moving drawings done in typical native style. Drawings that depicted the Quozl interacting with humans. To his horror he saw one that quite resembled himself. Others looked like scientists he had taken to meet with his friends Chad and Mindy. Still others resembled no Quozl who had ever lived.

  The broadcast was a mix of reality and nightmare, documentary and dream. The drawn Quozl spoke with the deafening volume of humans and employed humanlike gestures and facial expressions. They even “smiled.”

  As he watched, the miniature drama began to take shape and he experienced a second shock. The story being depicted was familiar to him. It was based on the time a nigh
tlight scanner had exploded in the hands of the scientist using it, resulting in a comitragic attempt to render joint human-Quozl first aid.

  The story went on for some time, interrupted periodically by the image chapters humans called commercials, which Chad had explained to him were flashy, fast-moving, expensive sequences designed to convince observers to buy things they did not need at prices they could not afford. Human commerce was as much a mystery to the cooperative Quozl as was human intelligence.

  Eventually, mercifully, the screen went dark. He felt no relief. There was no escape from what he’d seen. The images had burned themselves into his mind.

  Short-key-Leaps and Tries-simple-Glow were both staring at him, without the slightest pretext at courtesy. “I have not told the Head of Council or the Burrow Masters yet,” Short informed him. “No one knows of this except myself and Tries-simple-Glow. They will have to be told eventually, but Tries and I thought it might be instructive to obtain your reaction first.”

  “Can anything be said?” he replied dully. He launched into the most elaborate and lengthy apologia he’d ever attempted. In verbosity and eloquence it far exceeded the speech he made to his peers when his solo surface sojourns had first been discovered.

  Now he understood the formality with which Short-key-Leaps had treated him and the outright coolness of the female. But it wasn’t his fault, he wanted to shout! It made no sense. Chad would never do such a thing. Nor would Mindy. Both had promised. There had to be another explanation.

  If only he could think of one.

  While he wrestled with conscience and memory, Tries-simple-Glow had recalled final images to the screen. One chosen from previous study gleamed brightly, fixed immovably so it could not be ignored. It was a short list of human names.

  Short-key-Leaps pointed to one. “That is the name of one of your two human contacts, is it not? Our semantics program identifies ‘story editor’ as one who supervises the writing of many stories.”

  Runs could read English perfectly. “The name ‘Chad Collins’ is not present?”

  “He is nowhere mentioned,” Tries informed him.

  “Then this outrage,” he said evenly, “is wholly the responsibility of his sibling.”

  “Merely because his name is not mentioned in context does not mean he is blameless,” Short-key-Leaps insisted. “He may have given advice and made suggestions. The fact that his name does not appear means nothing.”

  “It must mean something,” Runs argued, “or it would appear.”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that your humans lied. One of them, at least, if not both.”

  “I cannot believe it.”

  “The proof is recorded for anyone to see.” There was bitterness in Tries-simple-Glow’s voice, much more in the rapid movements of her ears.

  “How widely is this broadcast being viewed?” Runs asked tiredly.

  “We have no way of knowing.” Short gazed thoughtfully at the screen. “But Tries believes it is seen by many. Otherwise the natives would not go to the expense of relaying it to many receiving points via satellite.”

  “How long has it been available for observation?”

  “Quite some time, apparently,” said the female technician.

  “Has there been any recent increase in the number of humans visiting the vicinity of the colony?”

  “For one whose future is precarious you ask many questions.” Short glanced at the technician. “It is something Tries and I have wondered about ever since she made her initial discovery. The answer to your question is no. Surface teams report no unusual native presence in the area of the colony site.”

  “We believe that is because this program is presented as pure entertainment directed at young humans,” Tries said. “None of it is conveyed as fact. Any adult viewing it would have no reason to think of it as anything other than fiction.”

  “This mitigates but does not eliminate the danger this severe breach of security poses. We must decide how to present it to the Burrow Masters and what steps to take.” Short-key-Leaps was watching Runs closely.

  Those “steps” would surely involve his future, Runs knew, wondering if he would ever see his friend Chad again. He still thought of him as his friend until proven otherwise. Of his sibling Mindy, Runs was less certain. The broadcast had identified her as a participant in the treason.

  He could not find out what had happened without talking to them, and he feared greatly that necessary meeting would not be permitted.

  It was a very small, intimate gathering. Short-key-Leaps was there together with Tries-simple-Glow. There were two researchers from the surface studies team and the Masters of Burrows Four and One.

  Next time it might be only two: himself and his executioner.

  “So what are we to do now?” Burrow Master One wasted no time. “The humans know of our existence and our secret is no more.”

  “Not necessarily, Honored Elder.” Short-key-Leaps gestured with an ear in Tries’s direction. She rose to explain.

  “It is clear,” she said by way of conclusion, “that the humans consider these images and stories pure imagination. I have carefully reviewed more than twenty of them, and the location of the colony is nowhere mentioned. In addition, they are directed solely at preadolescent natives. It would appear that adults are involved only to the degree necessary to create the episodes and advertise”—she had to explain the uniquely human term—“products, primarily toys and nonnutritional foods.”

  The Master for Burrow Four spoke up. “Can we do anything to stop it?”

  “It is possible to interrupt the transmission,” Short-key-Leaps informed them, “or with time destroy the satellite relay. However, as I am sure you can see, this would only result in the humans moving the transmission to another relay and rapidly working to locate the source of the disruption. I believe such an action is out of the question.

  “It would solve nothing, since so many broadcasts have already been seen. We cannot repeal what has gone before.” Short-key-Leaps glanced for support in the direction of the two senior researchers who had accompanied him to the meeting. Both sets of ears responded affirmatively to his wordless inquiry.

  “Furthermore, I am informed that at this point it might be in our interest to see that these broadcasts continue.”

  The two Burrow Masters relieved themselves of their confusion; Four with gestures, not all of them polite, and One with words. “That assertion requires more than simple explanation, Honored Mind.”

  “I request elaboration from my colleague Places-peers-Cleansing.”

  Short resumed his seat while another elderly Quozl rose. Runs thought his use of wire strips to line his right ear particularly modern.

  “My associate and I have recently been granted access to the research materials accumulated by Tries-simple-Glow. We have been examining them intensively, studying their contents and debating their meaning.

  “Our conclusions are, somewhat to our own surprise, unrelentingly positive. These fictional Quozl are portrayed as friendly, peaceful, affectionate, and helpful. They are also shown to be clumsy, comical, foolish, childish, and incapable of complex speech or thought. Lest one feel insulted, the young humans are often similarly pictured. To be brief, Quozl are shown to be not only harmless but positively benign. In our minds this far outweighs the many other inaccuracies.

  “This is the image of the Quozl that is being presented weekly to millions of young natives. While it may not be true, it is useful. Eventually we must make contact with the natives. Open contact, not furtive and limited as now exists. It had been hoped this could be put off for another two hundred cycles. However, it is clear that events,” and he glanced in Runs-red-Talking’s direction, “have rapidly outpaced our desires. We must therefore adapt as best we can to developments over which we can exercise no control.

  “As these broadcasts are presented as fiction and as they are directed at children and since they are unremittingly positive in tone, my associate and I
believe we should do nothing to try and curtail their dissemination. When wider contact comes it may be with adults who spent their maturing time believing the Quozl to be clumsy, harmless clowns.

  “If this course of reaction is accepted by the authorities, it is further recommended that we attempt to take a forceful role in additional developments.”

  Runs could hardly believe his ears, which for a Quozl was tantamount to a confession of unconsciousness. The Burrow Masters were no less dumbfounded.

  “You are saying,” muttered One, “that we should provide additional information to assist our betrayer?”

  “Where revelation is concerned, we have lost the initiative.” The Elder spoke forcefully. “If we cannot stop it, let us at least try to steer it in those directions which may prove most salutary to us. Screened information can be supplied to the two humans through our,” and he all but choked on the word, “ambassador.”

  Instead of feeling flattered, Runs-red-Talking wished desperately for a deep, warm pouch to crawl into. He was to be raised to the status of ambassador. How wonderful. It explained why he felt vilified, despised, and universally disliked by everyone in the room.

  He tried to find some solace in the knowledge that contact between himself and his friends would not be cut off. When the next warm cycle began he would be able to find out exactly how this terrible thing had happened. Only, several respected Elders did not necessarily believe it was so terrible.

  In fact, they seemed to think that all the deceit, lies, and lawbreaking on the part of him and his friends might ultimately result in developments beneficial to the colony. If so it would be the result of remarkable good luck rather than careful planning.

  How long would that luck hold? How long before the next betrayal, the next unintentional revelation resulted in something harmful to himself and his fellow Quozl? He would have to have a very long talk indeed with Chad and Mindy. Long and intense.

  If one kept throwing triangles, sooner or later they would start to show up points-down.