Quozl (7 page)

“Not that weather matters very much since we'll be burrowing,” Looks muttered. “We have one thing in our favor: Shiraz is severely underpopulated. We ought to be able to find an adequate and hidden site without too much difficulty.”

“All that water.” Burden-carries-Far stared at the colored bubbles in his drinking tube. “If only we were river motiles.” He let out a series of short, sharp barks. Listeners would have taken umbrage, but not inside a lounge.

“I wonder how long contact will be delayed,” Looks murmured.

“If they're primitive enough to war among themselves I'd think the Council would try to avoid it as long as possible. Don't fret, my friend. There will be plenty to observe. I don't think we will lack for excitement. A whole new world lies before us, and the flora and fauna can't be very hostile. Not if these natives, primitive as they are, have managed to develop civilization.”

“Not necessarily. Who knows what another sentient race might do, how they might think and act? You are theorizing as a Quozl. Shirazian thought processes might be utterly different. Reason says they should have exterminated themselves by now, not maintained their present level of barbarism.”

He slept only with the aid of heavy meditation tapes. The magnitude of what they were about to do, the responsibility, was beginning to sink in.

In the morning the six members of the initial survey team were shown the drop site. It was located east of the mountains of the war-free northern continent, in high foothills. The land was almost unpopulated and the vast empty mountains would help to conceal the survey vessel's approach as it dropped down over the frozen wastes of the northern polar region. The nearest native population center was an enormous distance away.

Breathes-hard-Out wondered what they would do if their presence was detected by hostile native aircraft. Lifts-with-Shout replied that based on their observations of the ongoing native conflict, the fastest Shirazian craft hardly moved fast enough to stay aloft. As for the drop site itself, the study team would have preferred a couple of years to choose a place. They did not have that time.

The survey ship was small and narrow. Two sets of flexible wings folded tight against the fuselage for extra-atmospheric travel. Flies-by-Tail was already there when the others arrived. She'd been busy with the mechanics all morning, questioning them on the smallest details, making certain the backup systems for the backup systems were in full working order. At the last moment it would be up to her, not Lifts-with-Shout or the Captain or anyone else, to decide whether the team would drop or not.

Everyone wore full scout suits instead of the more comfortable but less attractive onboard jumpsuits. No scarves, but they were permitted a normal complement of jewelry. Looks-at-Charts checked his multiple earrings. They were not expected to do their work completely naked. The full suit was reassuring. He did not entirely trust the study team's assessment of Shiraz's mild climate.

It was also comforting to know that native aircraft had yet to be observed overflying the drop site. It was as remote as it was protected.

Burden-carries-Far looked nervous despite his usual bravado. Looks wondered how the Landing Supervisor and the others perceived him. They kept their opinions to themselves. The six were the best the
Sequencer
could put forward. Now was not the time to show lack of confidence.

He studied his companions for the historic journey. Breathes-hard-Out was tending to her shaving, plucking at contrary follicles to ensure she looked her best. She noticed his stare and ignored him, a sure sign their hormonal suppressants were doing their job. Stands-while-Sitting stood off by herself, silent and composed and slightly regal as befitted the senior member of the landing team. The only one unable to hide his nervousness was Walks-with-Whispers. The geologist was a worrier. It was not severe enough to compromise his brilliance, but Looks made a mental note to ensure that Walks was always assigned a companion, both on board and off. His anxieties could complicate matters in an emergency.

Except that there weren't going to be any emergencies, he reminded himself firmly. The first landing on Shiraz was going to be dull, predictable routine, nothing more.

He had a few words with Walks before they boarded.

“I'm fine,” the geologist assured him. “Just think what we are about to do! I am to be the first of my profession to examine the surface of a new world, a world never before visited by Quozl. It is almost too much!”

Looks-at-Charts kept his reply deliberately low-key. “Why? Aren't rocks the same everywhere?” He was careful to remain clear of Walks's Sama space.

“They are
not
,” said Walks with emphasis. His eyes flicked to the ramp that led into the ship. “No more time for talk, is there? Now is for real.”

“And forever,” Looks finished solemnly for him. “Don't worry. Everything will go smoothly.”

“I know that,” said the geologist as he turned to board, “but I wish there were no natives. No, that's not true. I wish they were
civilized
.”

“Maybe they'll surprise us.”

“I doubt it.” Walks-with-Whispers started up the ramp, his sandaled splay feet slapping on the plastic.

The formal ceremony of departure was brief and affecting. Stream-cuts-Through was not present. She was in the command center overseeing every aspect of the drop.

Since the native's transmission-interception capabilities were still a matter for hypothesis it had been decided to limit contact between the
Sequencer
and the survey team. They would talk only as absolutely necessary until they returned. Then there would be ample time for conversation.

Looks-at-Charts had ridden the simulators hundreds of times to the surfaces of as many imaginary worlds, but despite the simulator's accuracy he discovered it was not the same. He heard Flies-by-Tail's voice, watched her delicate fingers touch the few critical instruments not controlled by the ship's brain, but it was different. Different because it was not a simulation. Reality, he thought, has its own flavor.

Then they were floating free, clear of the
Sequencer
's artificial gravity, falling without seeming to fall toward the blue-white curve not so very far below. Burden-carries-Far sat on his right, unnaturally silent and introspective.

Both scouts were qualified pilots, but that was not their specialty. Both knew they could not have managed the descent nearly so well as Flies-by-Tail, and they admired her skill as the little vessel was swallowed by air. The trio of scientists were secured in back, each in a private room-lab, watching the drop on monitors. Looks felt sorry for them. It was not the same as being here, in forward command, watching Shiraz rise rapidly toward you.

Their new home was a vast gemstone awash in spilt milk, a water-filled pouch dotted with land. The
Sequencer
, the only home any of them had ever known, was reduced to a simple schematic on a small monitor screen.

Looks inhaled deeply, reflectively. The children of Quozlene were leaving the Pouch. How fortunate Shiraz would be to have them.

They bumped and slewed as they fell through the gratifyingly thick atmosphere, the four wings taking the buffeting efficiently, the counterdrive howling as it fought to reduce their velocity. Anyone watching their descent would see only a falling meteorite, he knew.

They could see the surface now. The instrumentation which had been hastily installed to alert them to the caress of a locating beam or transmission remained mute. No one was observing their approaching with anything more advanced then the naked eye.

Suddenly he was aware of the painful tension in his body. He'd been sitting so stiffy his muscles ached. He recited the relaxing exercises and concentrated on Flies-by-Tail as she brought them down. Thanks to the suppressants coursing through his system he was able to admire the smooth curve of her shoulders, the lean nape of her neck, and the delicate arch of her ears without anxiety. He focused on the top half of a particularly complex whorl shaved into the fur of her upper left shoulder where it peeked out from beneath the seal of her dirty suit.

They were coming down too fast, toying with the safety margin, cutting across snow-clad peaks and the crest of a vast green forest. His Quozl soul leaped.
Real
trees. Hard-grained wood. He tried to isolate details among the green and brown blur beneath them.

He could feel his weight again. Gravity slightly less than that of the
Sequencer
and Quozlene. A noticeable but not significant difference.

Then they were down, hardly a bump or jolt as Flies-by-Tail coasted on the landing skids to a halt opposite the nearest trees. Through the port Looks-at-Charts saw they were tall and straight and nearly identical, but at that point their resemblance to the trees of Quozlene ended. Instead of leaves these growths were clad in some kind of green fur. It was difficult to be certain at a distance but they looked like nothing in any of the botany texts. Nor were they visibly kin to any of the growths discovered on the three colony worlds. Yet trees they surely were, however alien.

At least Burden-carries-Far kept his mind on his work. “We can't stay here. We're too exposed.” He gestured forward with an ear. “There's an opening large enough to admit the ship.”

Flies-by-Tail acknowledged and the little vessel rose on hovering jets as she maneuvered them toward the green wall. Dust accompanied the passage of the ship.

They were crossing a small meadow, water and green growing things dancing beneath the hovering jets. Then over a narrow stream which emptied into a small lake. On the far side of the lake was a reasonably flat open place bordered by a number of fallen trees whose roots had been undermined by an ancient flood. Flies-by-Tail managed to back the survey ship halfway under the largest. There was a bump as she struck wood, then a sigh as she cut the hovering jets. They settled to the ground beneath the natural lean-to.

The hardest thing Looks-at-Charts had ever done was to restrain himself while the necessary preliminary checks were run. Long-range measurements and estimates had to be confirmed, new tests done. Though it seemed to take an eternity, the first results appeared on the ship's instrumentation in rapid succession.

The air was breathable, the temperature tolerable. They would not have to wear cumbersome equipment. Flies-by-Tail looked longingly at the lake, wondering what the water of Shiraz might taste like—and what potentially upsetting microorganisms it might harbor.

The second disappointment was personal. As had been prearranged, he and Burden-carries-Far spun a random-numbers disc, and Looks lost. He did his best to conceal his unhappiness, congratulating his colleague, who was appropriately apologetic for having won. Burden offered the honor to Looks, who formally declined, whereupon the joyful Burden sorrowfully prepared to open the hatch door and be the first to set foot on the Shirazian surface.

They donned side arms, a necessary precaution which had been learned the hard way on hostile Mazna. Such fears and worries as they held, however, vanished the moment the hatch was opened and the descent ramp extended itself.

The air was thick and warm, full of the scent of living things. They had to paused lest it overwhelm them, like a dozen rich desserts consumed without pause. The air was alive with whistling sounds, not akin to the noise the Quozl made among themselves but sweeter. Clicks and burrps came from deep within the high green plants that lined the sides of the lake. Looks-at-Charts studied the stream which ran almost directly beneath the descent ramp.

“Water. Fresh, not recycled.”

“Water is water, I guess.” Burden-carries-Far marched unceremoniously down the ramp and into the shallow stream, letting it flow over his sandaled feet and soak his fur. “Cold,” he informed them, promptly violating every procedure in the texts by bending to scoop up a handful and conveying it to his mouth.

Looks heard Walks-with-Whispers gasp behind him, felt Stands-while-Sitting push against his back. “Don't do that!”

The scout flung droplets from his fingers and eyed her amusedly. “Nice taste.” He turned and jumped the rest of the stream. “Let's get moving.”

Looks-at-Charts hurried down the ramp, followed by Stands-while-Sitting. Flies-by-Tail watched enviously from the pilot's chair. She could not leave the ship until the scouts declared the immediate vicinity secured. Breathes-hard-Out would remain aboard to continue her atmospheric studies.

Walks-with-Whispers was a different matter. Neither scout particularly desired the geologist's company while they made their initial observations, but since there was no visible danger they could not insist he remain on board. After a good deal of verbal posturing and feinting it was decided that he could come and go as he required so long as he stayed within view of the pilot's chair. He agreed reluctantly but was soon so busy gathering rock and soil samples he'd completely forgotten the disagreement.

That left the two scouts and their senior xenologist free to tramp through the forest as they pleased.

It was a wonderful environment, Looks-at-Charts thought. Better than they could have hoped for. No wonder it had nursed intelligent life. The strange furry trees towered around them on all sides, their blood the source of heavy, pungent odors that managed to be simultaneously alien and reassuring.

It didn't take long to locate the source of the high whistling sounds they'd heard immediately upon arrival. They issued from small winged creatures that darted between the trees on lithe, dark wings. While the calls of the larger aerials sometimes resembled higher-pitched Quozl speech it was obvious they could not be the dominant species.

“I don't think anything so small and fragile could develop intelligence,” was Burden-carries-Far's evaluation. Their opinion was confirmed when they saw a pair of the creatures settle into a mud and stick bowl atop one large branch. It was clear the structure was not the product of advanced technology.