Quozl

by Alan Dean Foster

  “History makes its own rules. So says the Samizene.”

  A smooth, seven-fingered hand lightly gripped his shoulder. “Now tell me one thing truly, friend Chad.”

  He twitched, startled by the unexpected violation of his Sama. “What?”

  Huge violet eyes gazed deeply into his. “Weren’t you ever curious about it?”

  Beautiful amethyst eyes, he thought. All Quozl had beautiful eyes. Their iris pigmentation was much more intense than that of humans. The corners of her mouth twitched, the closest any Quozl ever came to a recognizable smile.

  “It is impossible, friend Chad, to fear those you can love.”

  He let her lead him through the chamber. Mindy watched curiously as they disappeared into a storage room. As they closed the door behind them, Chad rested a hand on Seams-with-Metal’s fur. It was as soft as the finest chinchilla.

  “You know,” he murmured dazedly, “we might be able to keep up with you scientifically, but I’m not sure about everything else.”

  XXI.

  HUMAN BEINGS ARE highly adaptable creatures. After the initial flurry of jokes died down, a complacency took over which ensured the Quozl’s acceptance. Television crews, reporters, politicians were welcomed into the Quozl Burrows, though at Chad’s suggestion the finest and most extreme examples of Quozl art were initially concealed from visitors’ sight. Acceptance still preceded understanding.

  The corporation which Arlo had providentially established continued to rake in enormous sums on behalf of the colony as the Quozl were compensated for everything from product endorsements to personal appearances. Quozl experts were dispatched to assist foresters from Finland to Ecuador. Inevitably they traveled first-class, conversing freely with their human fellow passengers. Many leaped at the chance, as Runs-red-Talking and High-red-Chanter had done illegally, to see more of their homeworld.

  Nor were they only in demand for commercial purposes. Quozl music became wildly popular, while a serious party simply wasn’t an “A” party without at least one Quozl couple in attendance. They mingled easily, their natural curiosity and famed sensuality making them the center of attention wherever they went. They could eat and enjoy many human foods, though alcohol only made them ill. They preferred fruit-flavored drinks.

  There were some problems with certain religious groups. After all, if God had made man in his own image, where did that put the Quozl, who were clearly at least as intelligent as any human? The debate was not restricted to one side of the relationship, for certain Quozl philosophers had difficulty accepting the fact that not only weren’t the Quozl not the only intelligent creatures in the universe, the other ones were bald giants with tiny eyes and nonexistent ears and feet.

  When the extent of crowding at the Burrows was made known, there was an outpouring of sympathy for the poor, claustrophobically confined Quozl. Offers poured in to set up new Quozl communities elsewhere, offers which the Quozl accepted with honest thanks. Everyone wanted a Quozl community in their town. The result was that the Quozl diaspora took place much more rapidly than anyone, least of all the Quozl themselves, could have foreseen.

  At first the Quozl had trouble filling all the requests, but with access to the surface came a relaxation on birth control, and the fecund aliens were quickly able to plant families everywhere from central Australia to the Swedish taiga. Their presence was always welcomed, never resented. They ate moderately and their agricultural skills enabled them to generate a surplus of food wherever they settled. They were the most productive refugees in history.

  Their ability to tolerate cold made them much in demand as workers in the northernmost climes, and their delicate, seven-fingered hands brought them high wages and great admiration in those industries which required consistent digital skills. Give a Quozl a place to copulate, a little food, access to art, and the company of friends and it would make you rich, so the popular saying went.

  In a surprisingly short time the sight of Quozl in their brilliantly hued bodysuits, trailing chromatic scarves and flashing jewelry, was a common sight. They became honored citizens not only of the United States but of most other countries as well.

  No matter where they went or what they did, they were always unfailingly, sometimes embarrassingly polite.

  They didn’t merely mingle, they melted, acquiring property, prestigious degrees, and credit cards. It became popular to adopt young Quozl. Given the traditionally tenuous nature of the extended Quozl families, this was easy to do. Quozl and human alike delighted in the ease, with which the offspring of both species matured side by side.

  When the occasional cry was raised that the Quozl were going to conquer the world by simply outbreeding their hosts, the Quozl in those sensitive regions immediately and of their own accord reintroduced birth control procedures. They would not expand where they were not wanted. But since growth zoomed wherever the Quozl settled, such complaints were not very much heard. They were the ideal immigrants.

  The paranoia that had existed among Quozl Elders seemed to vanish overnight as they found themselves received with honors wherever they traveled. It was a great relief. Clearly there was plenty of room on Shiraz for two intelligent races, especially when they complimented one another so well. It helped immensely that the Quozl were not clannish. They spread unobtrusively through human society.

  Eventually what had once been a joke became reality and Quozl ran for public office. Their self-control and politeness was everywhere appreciated and admired. Quozl officials were not prejudiced for or against anyone, including fellow Quozl. They were also quite incorruptible, though their decisions were as subject to debate as those of any human.

  By this time it was no longer possible to conceal the true nature of their art and history. Instead of revulsion it provoked curiosity among the general population, which under the guidance of Quozl philosophers began to re-examine its own background in a new light. After all, humans had their own traditional aberrations. Americans insisted on owning handguns, Latin Americans took most of the afternoon off for siesta, and the French revered Jerry Lewis, so who could criticize the Quozl for portraying violence in their art when their actual social behavior was impeccable?

  Integration was finally considered complete when the Quozl, in their own deferential, courteous fashion, began making human jokes in mixed company.

  Instead of feeling threatened by the Quozl, humanity felt protective toward them. They were fast but fragile. And very, very friendly.

  By the time Chad reached middle age the Quozl were no longer a novelty. It was difficult to imagine what the world had been like before their arrival. Unable to work at his chosen profession (and with no need to) he withdrew into the upper level of the Quozl corporation. Arlo remained its nominal chief executive while actually sharing duties with his wife, Mindy. As the first human to make contact with the Quozl, Chad was an international celebrity, too valuable to waste his time shuffling petrie dishes in an obscure laboratory.

  Somewhat reluctantly he wore the mantle the press had woven for him, drove the fancy car and lived in the private compound. Uncomfortable in a crowd, he was compelled to learn how to deliver speeches. Public relations demanded it. His advice was sought constantly by giant corporations and private individuals seeking to do business with the Quozl.

  Small wars stopped. With their understanding of violence the Quozl were able to provide insights which made such conflicts appear foolish to any would-be participants. Combat lost its appeal while interest in sublimated forms of violence soared. Mankind retained its competitive spirit without the companion bloodshed. As the Quozl explained, war was a disease of the individual human psyche, rooted in the imbalance between the sexes. The tendency was inherited, but also curable. By their very existence the Quozl proved that war was not the inevitable consequence of advanced technology.

  Human history showed them that every single conflict could be traced to sexual frustration or motivation, including those originally thought to have been fought over re
ligion. Mankind found such revelations difficult to face, but that is the nature of truth. It is invariably uncomfortable, but far easier to accept with the help of friends.

  XXII.

  STRANGE TO BE back in the Burrows after so many years, Chad thought as he made his way down the corridor. It was a restricted area, but nothing on the planet was off-limits to Chad Collins. Celebrity had its privileges.

  It was equally strange to have white hair and have to walk with a cane because of bursitis, but that was also truth. He didn’t worry about bumping into a Quozl in the dim light. No Quozl lived in these Burrows anymore. They had dwelt underground out of necessity and not by choice. Now they lived in places like Kiev and Rangoon and Vladivostok.

  But the Burrows were not devoid of life. The technicians and curators who maintained it as an entertainment park and museum were always around, busy at their tasks. The colony had been turned into a major tourist attraction that was visited by millions every year, with rides and moving sidewalks and audiovisuals. The economy of Boise, the nearest large city, had boomed, and the tiny town of Bonanza which had long ago played host to a clutch of oddly matched hikers had finally lived up to its name.

  The art which lined the walls and dominated the open places in all their garish, gory glory were reproductions. The original Quozl works had traveled to new homes with the Quozl as they migrated, or else they now reposed in honored niches of the world’s finest museums. The old Burrow workshops were now filled with Quozl artists who churned out decorations for homes, city squares, and private collections. There was a surprisingly large market among humans for the most depraved and bloodthirsty works the artisans could produce. Or perhaps now that the Quozl have helped us to know ourselves it was not so surprising, Chad thought.

  Having initially encountered mankind-at-large in a place called Disneyland, it was not so ironic that the original colony site should end up as a similar sort of facility.

  Within the Burrows, trained Quozl demonstrated ancient Quozl rites and donned archaic costume not only to delight visiting humans but also to instruct their own young, who had been born on Shiraz and knew of a planet called Quozlene only through recordings. To them it seemed a lonely place, a world inhabited by Quozl alone, empty of clumsy, powerful human companions.

  It had all turned out so well, Chad mused as he shuffled along his chosen route. Not at all the way it had been depicted in dozens of old movies and books. Everyone had underestimated the affection two intelligent races could have for one another.

  Not to mention other things not even guessed at.

  Besides serving as a venue for entertainment and education, the old colony had one other purpose, it was often utilized for ceremonial occasions. The Quozl loved ceremony and delighted in re-enacting their colorful if bloody history, rich as it was in ritual and pomp.

  Today would see the investiture of a new Senior Elder. There were only seven of them, a tribute to the old Council of Seven. Though not wholly ceremonial in nature, the office was something of an ultimate honor. It carried no power with it because there was no Quozl nation. Only Quozl history and Quozl art.

  Age was still respected, and the honor of the office lay in the respect paid to it, much as Catholics looked to the Pope and neurotics to their favorite astrologer. Mindy would have enjoyed this, Chad thought to himself. In the old days she’d have fashioned a new script out of it. There was no longer a Quozltime show, of course. In the presence of real Quozl it was not needed. The Quozl were fine actors in their own traditional and in human plays, save for the fact that nothing could induce them to smile.

  There was no longer any Mindy, either. She had passed away five, no, six years ago. Arlo was in poor health and unable to attend but sent along best wishes anyway. All their differences and initial dislike aside, he’d turned out to be a pretty decent brother-in-law. Chad had never married—been too busy, somehow—but he had several nieces and nephews, who doted on their famous uncle.

  The back route led him to the VIP lounge where he was able to watch the investiture surrounded by people and Quozl almost as famous as himself. It was fascinating, violent, and satisfying, as with most things Quozl. It was rich with elaborate chants, mock battles (which originally had not been mock), splendid costumes, and ancient music. All this he was comfortable with.

  What he found hard to accept was Runs-red-Talking, who was the object of all the attention. He could only think of the now graying Quozl as he’d first seen him, lying motionless at the bottom of a mountain pool, gazing thoughtfully toward the sky as he slowly drowned.

  But he didn’t drown, Chad reminded himself. I pulled him out. For this.

  He stood down there, the center of attention, ears bent, his enormous feet platformed on the sandals of office. Television crews manned both by humans and Quozl sent images and a running commentary around the world. An investiture of one of the Seven didn’t happen every day.

  When the ceremony was over, Chad hobbled down with the rest of the dignitaries to pay his respects. He could sense the eyes on him, hear the murmurs as he was recognized and people stood aside so he could pass. It was useful to be famous.

  Runs-red-Talking beamed from beneath his formal attire as he spotted his old friend approaching. His ears, while weak, managed to bob by way of greeting. There were many cameras focused on them.

  Only when the media began to focus its attention elsewhere did Runs lean close to whisper. “Now that we are done with this nonsense you must spend some time with me.” His voice was still high and Quozl frail.

  “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Chad was aware that two premiers and a president were waiting awkwardly in line behind him, anxious to shake the hand of the new Senior Elder.

  “Come back tomorrow,” Runs told him. “We’ll make a journey. Let’s go back to the old river.”

  “To the shrine?” Chad asked, referring to the impressive monument that had been raised by the frog pond.

  “No. Too many tourists there. Let’s go farther upstream, where we used to camp.”

  “I’d like that. Worlds change, civilizations rise and fall, but nature is a constant. She knows how to take her time. I fear she’s taken most of mine.”

  “Mine as well.”

  They parted, with Chad agreeing to return the next day. In fact, he ended up visiting for several days, enjoying balmy mornings and hot mountain afternoons in the company of his old friend. Despite the plethora of people anxious to wait on two such famous personages they still managed to find time to themselves, to sit alone by the river and reminisce.

  Eventually the last day dawned, as last days inevitably do. Chad would take his private plane back to Los Angeles while Runs would retire to his ceremonial post at La Paz. They did not let sentiment cloud their parting. They were too old and too wise for that.

  “It worked out well, didn’t it, Chad?” Runs asked.

  “Well enough, though unexpectedly so.”

  “I wish the original elders could see how things have gone. I wish all the landing crew of the Sequencer could see. Death can be such an irritation.”

  Chad forgot himself for a moment and smiled, but quickly quashed it. “Time to say goodbye again. I know you will bring respect to your office.” They gripped hands and Runs’s ears dipped. The handshake lingered and Chad frowned. “Was there something else?”

  For an instant Runs-red-Talking seemed to hesitate. Then he said with conviction, “No. Nothing else. Farewell. Visit down south when you can.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Runs-red-Talking watched his old friend limp down the corridor. As if in response to an unvoiced call a young human materialized at the controls of an electric transport. He helped the old man into the passenger seat and whisked him away, along with a cartful of memories.

  Runs turned to go, only to find his way blocked by another vehicle. It was small and entirely self-contained. It had to be, because its occupant could no longer walk. The new Senior Elder stared through the dim light.
Then he dipped his ears very low, blocking his eyes and offering himself in the ancient posture of complete helplessness. His tone dripped submission, and gladly.

  “I am overwhelmed with honor by your presence, distant relation.”

  “Uncover your eyes.” The voice was so thin it was almost inaudible, even to another Quozl. “I try never to miss an investiture.”

  Runs lifted his ears, straightened proudly. “How may I honor?”

  “Talk with me awhile. My days used to be precious. Now the moments are.”

  They chatted of inconsequential things, Runs realizing he would remember this conversation for the rest of his life. Eventually he was emboldened to ask a question which had troubled him all his life.

  “You could be a Senior Elder. You are due great honor, yet you refuse it and choose to dwell instead in comparative anonymity. The younger generation which would adore you lives largely in ignorance of your very existence. Why? I apologize profusely for my impudence.”

  The electric chair whined as its occupant turned to face a large open place. It was in the process of being renovated. Soon it would receive a reproduction of the immense sculpture that had once occupied it, complete with fountains and growing plants. The quiet continued for so long that Runs feared the other might have fallen asleep.

  Such was not the case, however. He was merely engaged in silent contemplation.

  “I choose not to accept great honor because I do not deserve it.”

  “Honored Senior, I plead difference with you.”

  “Plead all you like. You won’t be the first.” Aged eyes peered searchingly into Runs’s own. “How can I accept honor, having once killed an intelligent being?”