Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (496 page)

(1946– )

My older brother was a big Alan Dean Foster reader and he would pass the books on to me when he was done, so Foster was one of the first science fiction writers who I got to read in depth, and not just whatever books I happened to stumble upon in a used bookstore or library sale. (My book budget was pretty low in those days.) I remember being very impressed by Foster’s range of output, from light to serious, from original series like the Flinx novels to interesting stand-alones to some of the first
Star Trek
and
Star Wars
novels (when novelizations were much rarer and generally done by “name” authors.)

Foster was born in New York City but raised in Los Angeles; he earned a BA in political science in 1968 and MFA in cinema in 1969 (both from UCLA), then went to work as a copywriter for an ad agency until his writing took off. By then he’d already sold his Lovecraftian first story, “Some Notes Concerning A Green Box,” to August Derleth’s magazine
The Arkham Collector
, but the story wasn’t published until three years later, after “With Friends Like These...” had already appeared in
Analog
.

The Tar-Aiym Krang
(1972) was both Foster’s first novel and the first (chronologically) of what would become his Humanx Commonwealth universe—in particular, the part of the series which focused on main character Flinx. Foster’s other main series are the Spellsinger and Amos Malone series.

Foster travels extensively, and has been all throughout French Polynesia, Europe, Asia, the Pacific, Tanzania, Kenya, Peru, Australia, Namibia, the U.S., Brazil, and Papua New Guinea. He lives in Prescott, Arizona, with his wife JoAnn Oxley.

First published in
Star Colonies
, June 2000

It was a beautiful day on Hedris. But then, Bowman reflected as he stood on the little covered porch he and LeCleur had fashioned from packing scrap, every day for the past four months had been beautiful. Not overwhelming like the spectacular mornings on Barabas, or stunningly evocative like the sunsets on New Riviera: just tranquil, temperate, and bursting with the crisp fresh tang of unpolluted air, green growing grasses, and a recognition of the presence of unfettered, unfenced life-force.

In addition to the all-pervasive, piquant musk of millions of muffins, of course.

The muffins, as the two advance agents had come to call them, were by incalculable orders of magnitude the dominant lifeform on Hedris. They swarmed in inconceivable numbers over its endless grassy plains, burrowed deep into its unbelievably rich topsoil, turned streams and rivers brown with their bathing, frolicking bodies. Fortunately for Bowman and LeCleur, the largest of them stood no more than six inches high, not counting the few thicker, lighter-hued bristles that protruded upward and beyond the otherwise concise covering of soft brown fur. A muffin had two eyes, two legs, a short furry blob of a tail, and an oval mouth filled with several eruptions of tooth-like bone designed to make short work of the diverse assortment of foot-high grass in which they lived. They communicated, fought, and cooed to one another via appealing sequences of chirruping, high-pitched peeping sounds.

It was a good thing, Bowman reflected as he inhaled deeply of the fresh air that swept over the benign plains of Hedris, that the local grasses were as fecund as the muffins, or the planet would have been stripped bare of anything edible millions of years ago. Even though a patient observer could actually watch the grass grow, it remained a constant source of amazement to him and his partner that the local vegetation managed to keep well ahead of the perpetually foraging muffins.

The uncountable little balls of brown and beige fur were not the only browsers, of course. On a world as fertile as Hedris, there were always niches to fill. But for every
kodout
,
pangalta
, and slow-moving, thousand-toothed
jerabid
, there were a thousand muffins. No, he corrected himself. Ten thousand, maybe more. Between the higher grass and the deeper burrows it was impossible to get an accurate account, even with the aid of mini-satellite recordings.

With such qualified stats were his and LeCleur’s reports filled. They had another five months in which to refine and perfect their figures, hone their observations, and condense their opinions. The House of Novy Churapcha, the industrial-commercial concern that had set them up on Hedris, was anxious to formulate a bid and stake its claim in front of the Commonwealth concession courts before any of the other great trading Houses or public companies got wind of the new discovery. By keeping their outpost on Hedris tiny and isolated, and without contact for almost a year, the managers hoped to avoid the unwanted attention of curious competitors.

So far the strategy seemed to have worked. In the seven months since the fabrication crew, working around the clock, had erected the outpost, not even a stray communication had come the way of the two agents. That was fine with Bowman. He didn’t mind the isolation. He and LeCleur were trained to deal with it. And they were very well compensated for maintaining their lack of offworld contact.

A few clouds were gathering. There might an afternoon rain shower, he decided. If it materialized it would be gentle, of course, like everything else on Hedris. No dangerous lightning, and just enough distant thunder to be atmospheric. Then the sun would come out, attended by the inevitable rainbow.

The sweet smell of muffin on the grill reached him from inside and he turned away from the brightening panorama. It was LeCleur’s week to do the cooking, and his partner had long since mastered different ways of preparing the eminently edible indigene. Not only were the multitudinous muffins harmless, cute beyond words, and easy to catch, their seared flesh was tender and highly palatable, with a sugary, almost honeyed flavor to the whitish flesh that was nothing at all like chicken. Tastewise, it far surpassed anything in their inventory of prepackaged concentrates and dehydrates. There wasn’t a lot of meat on a muffin, but then, neither was there a shortage of the hopping, preoccupied, two-legged creatures.

The slim, diminutive humanoid natives virtually lived on them, and lived well. Only their metabolism kept them thin, Bowman reflected as he closed the front door of the station behind him. Overawed by the much larger humans, the native Akoe were occasional visitors to the outpost. They were invariably polite, courteous, and quietly eager to learn about their extraordinary visitors. Their language was a simple one and with the aid of electronic teaching devices, both experienced agents had soon mastered enough of it to carry on a rudimentary conversation. The Akoe were always welcome at the outpost, though sometimes their quiet staring got on Bowman’s nerves. An amused LeCleur never missed an opportunity to chide him about it.

“How’s it look outside?” LeCleur was almost as tall as Bowman, but not nearly as broad or muscular. “Let me guess: clear and warm, with a chance of a sprinkle later in the day.”

“What are you, psychic?” Grinning, Bowman sat down opposite his friend and partner. The platter of grilled muffin, neatly sliced, sizzled in a warmer in the center, ringed by reconstituted bread, butter, jams, scrambled rehydrated eggs from three different kinds of fowl, and two tall self-chilling pitchers containing juice. Coffee and tea arrived in the form of the self-propelled carafes that followed the men whenever they verbally expressed their individual thirst.

“Thought we might run a predator census between rivers Six EW and Eight NS today.” Having finished his meal, LeCleur was adding sweetener to his mug of hot high-grown tea.

Bowman was amenable to the suggestion. “Maybe we’ll see another
volute
.” They’d only encountered one of the pig-sized, loop-tailed carnivores so far, and that from a distance. He was smearing rehydrated blackberry jam on his toast when the perimeter alarm went off. Neither man was alarmed.

“I’ll get it.” LeCleur rose from his seat. “My turn.”

While Bowman finished the last of his breakfast, LeCleur activated the free-ranging headsup. A cylindrical image appeared in the middle of the room, a perfect floating replica in miniature of a 360º view outside the outpost. A spoken command from LeCleur caused the image to enlarge and focus on the source of the alarm. This was followed by an order to shut down the soft but insistent whine.

The agent chuckled into the ensuing silence as he recognized the slim, standing figure that had set off the alert. Its image looked, as always, slightly bewildered. “It’s only old Malakotee.”

Wiping his mouth, Bowman rose. “Let him in and we’ll see what he wants.” It was always interesting and instructive to observe the elderly native’s reaction to the many miracles the outpost contained. Also fun. He and LeCleur had few enough diversions.

Precisely enunciated directives caused the circumferential viewer to be replaced by a floating command board. In seconds LeCleur had shut down the station’s external defenses, rotated the bridge to cross the excavated ravine that encircled the outpost, and opened the front door. By the time Bowman was finishing up the dishes, the Akoe elder had arrived at the front door.

Old Malakotee was a leader among his people, wizened and much respected. The Akoe were led by not one chief, but a group of chosen seniors. Decisions were made by group vote. All very democratic, LeCleur mused as he greeted the alien in its own language. Malakotee responded in kind, but declined to enter, though he could not keep his eyes from roving. Nor did he accept the offer of one of the chairs that sat invitingly on the porch. His much slighter, smaller body and backside tended to find themselves engulfed by the massive human furniture. Also, he never knew what to do with his tail. It switched back and forth as he chattered, the tuft of kinky black hair at the tip swatting curious flying arthropods away.

Dark, intelligent eyes peered out from beneath smooth brows. The alien’s face was hairless, but the rest of his body was covered with a fine charcoal-gray fuzz. When he opened his mouth, an orifice that was proportionately much wider than that of a comparably sized human, LeCleur could see how the pointed incisors alternated with flattened grinding teeth. In place of a nose was a small trunk with three flexible tips that the Akoe could employ as a third, if very short, hand.

A cloak comprising the skins of many native animals, especially the ubiquitous muffin, was draped elegantly over his slim form. It was decorated with bits of carved bone, hand-made beads of exceptional quality (the two humans had already traded for examples), and shiny bits of cut and worked shell. The Akoe were very dexterous and of reasonable artistic skill. Necklaces hung from Old Malakotee’s throat, and bracelets jangled on his wrists. He leaned on a ceremonial
kotele
staff, the wood elaborately garnished with feathers, beads, and paint.

“Thanking you for offer to come into your hut,” the native explained to LeCleur, having to crane his neck to meet the much taller human’s eyes, “but I not stay long today. Come to tell you my people, they are moving now.”

The agent was openly surprised. Recovering from their initial shock and stupefaction at the humans’ arrival, the Akoe had been a fixture on the shores of river One NS ever since. Calling for his partner to join them, LeCleur queried their visitor.

“The Akoe are moving? But where, and why?”

Raising his primitively florid staff, the elder pointed. “Go north and west soon. Long trek.” Bowman appeared on the porch, wiping his hands against his pants as Malakotee finished, “Find safety in deep caves.”

“Safety?” Bowman made a face. “What’s this about ‘safety’? Safety from what?”

The elder turned solemn eyes to the even bigger human. “From migration, of course. Is time of year. When migration over, Akoe come back to river.”

The two men exchanged a glance. “What migration?” LeCleur asked their pensive visitor. “What’s migrating?” Uncertainly, he scanned the vast, barely undulating plain beyond the outpost’s perimeter.

“The muffins. Is the time of year. Soon now, they migrate.”

A modest herd of less than a hundred thousand of the small brown browsers was clustered in the grass in front of the outpost, grazing peacefully. Their familiar soft peep-peeping filled the morning air. LeCleur watched as several, each no bigger than his closed fist, hopped as close as they dared to the edge of the perpendicular-sided ravine that surrounded the station to graze on the
ninicumb
flowers that were growing there.

“We’ll see you when you come back, then.”

“No, no!” Old Malakotee was surprisingly insistent. “I come warn you.” He gestured emphatically. “You come with Akoe. You big skypeople good folk. Come with us. We keep you safe during migration.”

Bowman smiled condescendingly at the native, whose appearance never failed to put him in mind of an anorexic munchkin. “That’s very kind of you and your people, Malakotee, but Gerard and I are quite comfortable here. We have protections you can’t see and wouldn’t understand if I tried to explain them to you.”

The miniature snout in the center of the Akoe’s face twitched uneasily. “Malakotee know you skypeople got many wondrous things. You show Malakotee plenty. But you no understand. This is ixtex,” he explained, using the native word for the bipedal muffins, “migration!”

“So you’ve told us. I promise you, we’ll be all right. Would you like some tea?” The chemical brew that was Terran tea had been shown to produce interesting, wholly pleasurable reactions within the Akoe body.

Ordinarily, Old Malakotee, like any Akoe, would have jumped at the offer. But not this morning. Starting off the porch, he gestured purposefully with his staff. Beads jangled and bounced against the light-colored, streaky wood.

“I tell you. You come with Akoe, we take care of you. You stay here,” he rendered the Akoe gesture for despair, “no good.” Reaching the ground, he promptly launched into a slow-spinning, head-bending, tail-flicking tribal chant-dance. When he was through, he saluted one final time with his ornamented staff before turning his back on them and striding deliberately away from the outpost.

As LeCleur called forth the headsup and rotated the bridge shut behind the retreating native, Bowman contemplated what they had just seen. “Interesting performance. Wonder if it had any special significance?’

LeCleur, who was more of a xenologist than his partner, banished the command panel display with a word and nodded. “That was the ‘Dance for the Dead’. He was giving us a polite send-off.”

“Oh.” Bowman squinted at the sky. Just another lovely day, as always. “I’ll get the skimmer ready for the census.”

* * * *

The Akoe had been gone for just over a week when LeCleur was bitten. Bowman looked up from his work as his partner entered. The bite was not deep, but the bright blood streak running down the other man’s leg was clearly visible beneath the hem of his field shorts, staining his calf. Plopping himself down in another chair, LeCleur put the first-aid kit on the table and flicked it open. As he applied antiseptic spray and then coagulator, Bowman watched with casual interest.

“Step on something?”

A disgruntled, slightly embarrassed LeCleur finished treating the wound with a dose of color-coded epidermase. “Like hell. A damn muffin bit me.”

His partner grunted. “Like I said; step on something?”

“I did not step on it. I was hunting for burrowing arthropods in the grass in the east quad when I felt something sharp. I looked back, and there was this little furry shitball gnawing on my calf. I had to swat it off. It bounced once, scrambled back onto its feet, and shot off into the grass.” He closed the first-aid kit. “Freakish.”

“An accident, yeah.” Bowman couldn’t keep himself from grinning. “It must have mistaken your leg for the mother of all
casquak
seeds.”

“It wasn’t the incident that was freaky.” LeCleur was not smiling. “It was the muffin. It had sharp teeth.”