Quozl (41 page)

“So you're worried about your reception? Let's go with that. Tell me how you feel about that.”

And so it went. The show ran ten minutes over, twenty, half an hour and on into a second full hour of overtime while network programmers frantically tried to clear their schedules to make room for the unprecedented live-action drama. It would be remembered that the first unarguable indication of widespread Quozl acceptance came in the form of women around the country calling their respective stations to protest the preemption of their favorite soaps for those “silly-looking aliens from another world.” As Arlo had predicted and hoped, by presenting the Quozl in this manner to the general public they had passed beyond uniqueness to achieve banality.

Eventually technicians from the CIA arrived and sealed off the studio feed, but by then the Quozl had been on the air for more than two hours. It was too late to pretend they didn't exist.

As he squinted at the upper level of the studio Chad could make out the anxiety and frustration on the faces of the newly arrived government representatives. They were arguing among themselves as they gestured in the direction of the stage.

Meanwhile the host had been informed that the show was no longer going out over the air, though she was not told the reason. Now thoroughly enjoying herself and at last aware of the historic import of the broadcast just concluded, she turned a final time to her audience.

“I'm afraid we've gone over our allotted time, but I know all of you join with me in welcoming our new friends. How about it, America? Do we let our visitors who've nowhere else to go stay here on Earth?”

The roar of approval that resounded from the audience induced the reporters present to scribble and dictate furiously, while the government people could only wince. They hadn't lost control of the situation because thanks to the speed with which the Quozl and their friends had moved, they'd never been in control.

The audience response was heartwarming but not official, as Chad discovered when they attempted to leave the studio only to find themselves surrounded by police and speechless men in gray suits.

“You're going to have to come with us now,” one of them informed him solemnly.

“But we don't want to go with you.” Mindy was equally earnest.

“Lady, do you have any idea what this means?” The man flashed an open billfold at her, tucked it back into his suit.

“I've got an idea, but it doesn't matter. We don't want to go with you.”

As he spoke the man's gaze continuously swept over the rapidly swelling crowd. Word of the Quozl's presence was spreading fast.

“We have to keep you away.”

“Away from what?” Chad demanded to know. “The rest of the people? Why? They
like
the Quozl.”

“This isn't a game,” the man responded. “I've seen the X rays that were taken. These creatures are for real. There are more of them and they said on that damn show that they want to stay here. That's not something you decide by voice vote in a television studio.”

“Why can't we go back to my place?” Mindy inquired. “You can keep just as close a watch on them there as anyplace else.”

“Not necessarily.”

To his alarm, Chad found that the phalanx of government operatives was edging them slowly but surely in a definite direction. He could not have escaped that ring of arms and bodies had he tried. That was when Runs-red-Talking spoke up.

“If you are thinking of taking us to some kind of compound, we'd much rather stay with our friends. Surely you won't try to take us somewhere against our will?”

The man from the agency appeared nonplussed. Obviously he hadn't expected the cute furry aliens to make demands of their own, much less press anything resembling a legal claim.

“Nobody's forcing anybody to do anything against their will,” he mumbled uncomfortably, suddenly wishing someone else was present to give orders.

“That's good,” Arlo chirped, “because otherwise it would look very, very bad in the papers.”

“That's right. It would,” agreed the tall, well-dressed stranger standing close to him.

“Who the hell are you?” the agent demanded to know.

“My name's Akers,” the stranger said.

Chad could see the agent wavering as he recognized the newcomer. Jack Akers was the evening anchor for CBS News. A senator or governor the agent could have handled. They were merely elected. But network anchors were worshiped. Or as his father would have warned him,
You on delicate ground, boy
.

Under the circumstances and given the speed with which events had unfolded, the government had moved fast. Just not quite fast enough. Between the two-hour show and the number of important reporters present, they couldn't take Chad and his sister and Arlo and the two aliens and stick them in a hole in the ground somewhere far away where they could interrogate them at leisure. It was too late to label them state secrets.

While the anchor chatted amiably with Chad and Runs-red-Talking, the agents in charge of the tardy operation conferred among themselves and by radio with superiors. Eventually the taller one confronted Chad. His expression was exquisitely neutral.

“You can go back to your house. But all of you will be under twenty-four-hour surveillance from now on. No more unapproved nocturnal excursions, no more random tv appearances.”

“Fine,” said Mindy, “so long as we stay at my house and not at
your
house.” She and Chad and Arlo pushed their way through the clutch of agents, searching for the Cadillac, Quozl in tow.

As they departed, the agent felt a hand run up the back of his thigh. He jumped, turned to say something, and was startled beyond measure to see Seams-with-Metal sauntering past. As she did so, she turned and gave him a slow, unmistakably sensuous wink.

For an instant he not only forgot why he was there, he forgot who he was. Seams-with-Metal analyzed his reaction, and was pleased.

Perhaps, after all, this was better than being able to have set off the bomb.

XX.

T
HEY FINALLY HAD
to disconnect Mindy's old line, but the government demonstrated its belated efficiency by quickly installing half a dozen new ones. While they were usually tied up by visiting agents and representatives, those living in the house were not forbidden to make use of them. Jack Akers saw to that.

The guard which had originally surrounded the house had to be extended to seal off most of the immediate neighborhood as word of the aliens' presence spread. So dense was the security that it took half a day for Chad and Mindy's parents to make their way through. They had a pleasant visit, tried to return to home and work, only to find themselves deluged with requests for interviews and comments by the swelling army of reporters. At least their father was able to escape. Not even the most powerful news-gathering organization could force an interview in the cockpit Of a 747 at forty thousand feet over the middle of the Pacific. Their mother found sanctuary with relatives.

As for Arlo, he was in heaven, fielding an unending stream of requests for endorsements, personal appearances, movie and book rights, and all manner of promotions aimed not only at the Quozl but at Chad and Mindy as well. The figures being thrown at him usually existed only in the realm of fiction. His only regret was that none of it could be conducted in privacy, since everything coming into or going out of the house was intercepted and screened.

Excerpts from the tv interview appeared on every broadcast, sometimes exhaustively analyzed by hastily engaged “experts.” Magazines and newspapers competed to see who could put out the most special editions. A repeat television appearance, if it could be arranged, would certainly be the most viewed broadcast in the history of the medium.

Runs-red-Talking and Seams-with-Metal handled all of it gracefully. All those years of contact with Chad and Mindy, of monitoring television transmissions, had served the Quozl well. Not only could they respond smoothly to any question, their English was superior to that of the majority of their interviewers.

These consisted largely of government specialists. Chad and Mindy were subjected to their share. As Arlo was new to contact and hardly knew the Quozl, he was largely left alone, which gave him plenty of time to make and sign deals.

Within two weeks the colony was wealthier, at least on paper, than any enclave in the United States.

As soon as one cluster of investigators concluded their work another arrived to take its place. The President made it on day four, shaking hands all around while a compact boom-box hastily blared “Hail to the Chief” in the background for the benefit of a carefully screened group of reporters. Showing that he'd done his homework he even made an attempt at the traditional Quozl greeting. Seams-with-Metal gently showed him the correct way to place his fingers.

It made for terrific television.

Chad took his turn somewhat dazedly, though it was evident the President's smile was not for him or his sister but for the visitors.

“Interesting, shaking hands with someone who has seven fingers,” he said jovially to Runs-red-Talking.

“Interesting,” the Quozl replied, “shaking hands with someone whose hands are furless.”

The President laughed heartily, a familiar, reassuring laugh. “I haven't as much time as I'd like. I have other things to do. I just wanted to tell you that on behalf of the American people you're welcome to stay here as long as you want, that as a free country with a tradition of accepting refugees regardless of race, creed, color, or point of origin you are welcome to apply to become citizens like anyone else.”

“They're not refugees, Mr. President,” an aide whispered, but the President ignored him. He was in his element, the camera lights intense on all sides, and thoroughly enjoying himself.

“In fact, I intend to suggest that a bill be entered in Congress to waive the usual waiting period so that you may apply immediately for American citizenship.”

“Wait a minute. They aren't sure they want to stay here. They might want to move now that they don't have to hide themselves anymore.”

The instant Chad spoke, it struck him that he was admonishing the President of the United States and that as a third-string research biologist for a mid-range biotechnology firm he might be somewhat overstepping his bounds.

Arlo winked at him, which helped a little.

“Well, I am sure, Chad,” the President replied without sacrificing one scintilla of that brilliant smile, “that our new friends will examine all the alternatives carefully before making any final decisions. I merely wanted to let them know how welcome they are.” He turned back to the Quozl. “You do like it here, don't you?”

“Yes,” said Runs politely. “I understand that there are also some pleasantly cool empty regions in your neighboring tribe the Soviet Union.”

Chad turned pale, but that was nothing compared to the reaction among several of the President's aides. Then he noticed the position of the Quozl's ears.

“Just kidding, Mr. President. Did not anyone inform you that we Quozl have a well-developed sense of humor?”

Color returned to the President's face. Someone laughed nervously. It spread, and even the Chief Executive was not immune. Runs-red-Talking and Seams-with-Metal looked on quietly, observing.

“I didn't have time for more than a quick briefing.” The President wiped at his eyes. “We're certainly in for some interesting days ahead, aren't we?”

“I hope so,” said Runs. “Several of our Burrow Masters would very much like to meet with you.”

“Ah yes, your colony leaders.
That
much I was told. Amazing how you manage to keep in touch with them with that tiny communicator of yours. But we can talk about such things another time.

“Meanwhile surely there must be something we can do to make you feel more comfortable.”

“Our thanks to you, Honored Elder,” Seams replied, “but right now we are doing well enough and require nothing special in the way of assistance.”

“But the process that will lead to the establishment of a Department for Quozl Affairs is already in motion. Preliminary funding has been approved by both Houses. Surely you could use just a billion or two?”

Both of Runs's ears dipped forward. “Your thoughtfulness is greatly appreciated, Mr. President, but we really are able to manage on our own. Hopefully in the future we can take advantage of your generosity of spirit. We do not wish to become a burden to your people.”

The Chief Executive was mollified. What charming little folk, he mused.

One of the men standing close to him addressed the silence. “By the way, you haven't been too clear as to your exact numbers.” Chad recognized the Secretary of State. Or maybe it was Interior; he wasn't sure. “Are there several dozen of you here? Several hundred?”

This time Runs looked not to Seams-with-Metal for advice but to Chad, who shrugged tiredly. “You can't hide anything much longer, Runs.”

The Quozl bent an ear toward the official who'd posed the question. “As of last counting the Burrows were home to approximately sixty-three thousand, four hundred and twelve Quozl, including infants in pouch.”

A stunned silence settled over the room. Chad wasn't immune to the effects of the pronouncement. Come to think of it, he never had asked Runs just how many Quozl there were in the colony.

“That many.” The Secretary's mind was churning. “And all underground.”

“We have managed adequately,” Seams-with-Metal commented.

“I should say so. My, my.” The President did not look as shocked as his aides. Perhaps, Chad mused, he was thinking of future Quozl votes. After all, if they became full-fledged citizens … It was not beyond the realm of possibility. At this point, nothing was beyond the realm of possibility.

He recalled times when Runs-red-Talking had spoken of the rigorous Quozl approach to population control. If such control resulted in an underground population of sixty-three thousand, what would happen when such controls were removed?