Quozl (6 page)

Stream-cuts-Through and the Command section were much more concerned with the technological progress the natives might make under the impetus of war. That had happened on Quozlene. If the natives followed a similar developmental pattern then they might at any time discover how to send weapons beyond the limits of their atmosphere and gravity and thereby threaten the
Sequencer
. It would be far better to establish the First Burrow and proceed in relative safety than to wait for that to happen.

It explained Command's initial reaction. Battle stations had not been a joke. It was only after the survey teams discovered the technological limits of the natives that it had been rescinded. But those limits might change at any time. Before that happened the colonists had to make a move.

It was incredibly frustrating to have crossed so much space only to find themselves thwarted, however momentarily, on the brink of triumph. Looks-at-Charts could not hide all his frustration. His friends noted it and he was forced to seek therapy and spend additional time in meditation. He had plenty of company. Fortunately the crew involved was either isolated from the general ship population or widely scattered among them, so no one not in on the secret became overly suspicious and security was preserved. The great majority of colonists went about the routine of preparing for touchdown unaware of the continuing crisis. There was no panic and security was preserved.

But the longer touchdown was delayed, the longer the
Sequencer
remained in orbit, the harder it became to conceal the knowledge that their new home was already tenanted.

III.

“E
VENTUALLY WE MUST
persuade these warlike natives to share their world with us.” Senses-go-Fade had their undivided attention. The ship's philosopher did not speak often, and when he did he was often ignored. Not today, however.

“Despite the predominance of the oceans there is ample uninhabited land which the natives either cannot or choose not to make use of. Quozl can make a home anywhere. There are vast tracts devoid of the marks of agriculture or urbanization. The other possibility is that this race is still in its infancy and therefore its population is still immature. Regardless of the reason there is ample room for settlement.”

“What we need at this point,” said Stream-cuts-Through from her central chair in the tiny meeting room, “is not knowledge about Shiraz but about its inhabitants. We have decided that the natives cannot be like us mentally. But the Quozl once fought as they do. Might they not resemble us physically? The biologists tell me that intelligence is unlikely to develop a second time, as it has here, in a radically different physical form. However, just because we might look like one another does not mean they would necessarily welcome us with open arms. We would still be foreign to them. Another tribe to fight, much as the tribes below are in conflict.

“All this is hypothesis. They might also greet us with open arms and unprotected pouches.”

“That's likely,” said Lifts-with-Shout with a grunt. The Landing Supervisor was not an optimist.

“Precisely our problem.” The Captain gestured with one ear in appreciation of the Supervisor's position. “We cannot afford to make a move based solely on guesswork, however admirable that guesswork might be. What hard information we have been able to assemble is taken wholly from long-range, extra-atmospheric study. We need more intimate knowledge.”

Looks-at-Charts felt a thrill of excitement race through him but of course said nothing. His status did not permit it.

“There are ethical questions involved as well,” said Senses-go-Fade. “While our technology appears to be superior, the
Sequencer
carries only small arms and few of those at that. We cannot simply push intelligent natives off the best settlement sites nor would we if we had the wherewithal to do so. Since we cannot fight them we have two choices left to us: we can cooperate with them, or we can avoid them altogether. Presently it seems only the last option is open to us. I regret this but see the necessity of it.”

It would have been different with the ancient, immature Quozl, Looks-at-Charts knew. They would have landed, massacred the locals, taken their land and foodstocks. Civilized behavior had long ago closed off that course to them. It was no longer how the Quozl lived. They could not do anything like that and still remain Quozl.

With luck they would manage. He had studied the preliminary images until his eyes blurred and both lids felt like dead weights. There was so much empty land. They could hide, begin the colony in secret. Perhaps the warring natives would exterminate themselves. That would solve the ethical dilemma.

It would be nice to have friends, though. Nice to know that the burden of maintaining intelligence in the universe no longer fell entirely on Quozl shoulders. Nice to have company—assuming it was friendly and not hostile.

But how could they have achieved mechanical technology while continuing to war? It was enough to drive an intelligent Quozl insane, and it was doing just that to the members of the native study team. How could supposedly intelligent beings cooperate one moment and then turn to internecine combat the next? Shiraz was a place where reality was proving itself surreal.

“We must go down.” Lifts-with-Shout was insistent. “We cannot continue to squat in orbit and peer through our scopes like a cycling from its mother's pouch. Each day the colonists grow more restless and that makes it harder to maintain security. We will not learn what we need to know of this world unless we walk upon it, please all to pardon my sharpness.” His eyes flicked in the direction of Looks-at-Charts. “Our sensitive touchdown personnel will lose their optimal edge if we wait much longer. Their skills will atrophy from disemployment. It is time not to debate but to
move
.”

The Supervisor's forwardness was socially off-putting, but invigorating all the same. Knowing their place, both scouts kept silent. But inwardly they were cheering their superior.

“Remember Mazna.” Sense-go-Fade counseled caution with words and ears. “Full of hostile and dangerous, albeit nonintelligent, creatures. I agree we must move, but carefully.”

Looks wanted to smash the philosopher's teeth down his throat, hang him up by his ears, crush his toes. Ancient emotions. He meditated furiously.

All waited for a pronouncement from Stream-cuts-Through. “I will call a Council of Seven. We will try to arrive at a consensus.”

Looks-at-Charts spent the following day anxiously awaiting word. His status was too low to involve him in the decision-making process. All he and Burden-carries-Far could do was wait to follow instructions. It was the province of the Captain and the Council to decide whether to wait for additional orbital studies to be completed or to proceed with an actual visitation survey. Hard it was to wait, truly, but harder still, he reminded himself, to make decisions that would affect the future of the entire colony.

That didn't stop him from cornering the Landing Supervisor when Lifts-with-Shout emerged from the meeting room.

“Profuse apologies,” the scout stammered, “for while I know it is not my place to inquire, my interest is somewhat aroused. Can you possibly hint, my Senior, as to which way the Council is tending in its deliberations?”

Lifts-with-Shout glared at him for appearance's sake. That did not bother Looks-at-Charts. What bothered him was that his Supervisor might choose to say nothing.

Instead he declared thoughtfully, speaking as though the scout was not present, “The vast empty spaces of Shiraz suggest that we can establish First Burrow safely and in secret. Not all are convinced of this, but most agree that we can linger here too long. You are not the only one who wishes to experience the sensation of standing on solid ground and inhaling fresh instead of recycled atmosphere.

“Once First Burrow is proclaimed then we can study the natives quietly and at our leisure, learning about them at close hand, as the child matures in the pouch. This feeling is bolstered by the realization that we have no other choice.” The burly Supervisor carefully adjusted a leg scarf.

Looks-at-Charts waited a properly deferential moment. “Do we anticipate violence?” As a sign of respect he adjusted a scarf of his own.

“We do not. We
can
not. If contact proves unavoidable, violence must be abjured, regardless of the consequences. The damage to the Quozl psyche would be worse than anything the natives could do. You and your colleagues must keep that always in mind when you go down.”

Looks-at-Charts forgot all his other questions. “Go down? It has been decided, then?”

The Supervisor looked back at the closed door. “Not yet, but it will come soon. They must decide that way. There is no other choice.”

Looks-at-Charts breathed deeply but hid it from his Senior lest he be considered impolite. “When?”

“Perhaps as soon as tomorrow. One ship. You, Burden-carries-Far, others to be determined. A full complement.”

It made perfect sense, Looks-at-Charts knew. One ship first, in case of hostilities or unforeseen complications. Survey would take longer, but this way there would be insurance. For those on the
Sequencer
. Not for those who went down first. He reminded himself to lay out his finest attire.

The Landing Supervisor was checking his chronometer. “Who would you take?” he asked unexpectedly.

Looks-at-Charts thought quickly.

“Flies-by-Tail scores highest in simulations. She's quick and sure.”

“What about the scientific complement?”

Looks-at-Charts dropped eyes and ears deferentially. “I am not so certain I am qualified to choose among experts not in my field.”

“Don't be so modest. You all know each other. Come, I'm asking your advice.”

“Since you ask, I would take Breathes-hard-Out as meteorologist and Walks-with-Whispers for geology. I beg indulgence for my poor selections.”

“You need a xenologist.”

Looks-at-Charts considered. The xenologist would have to be female, since the idea of taking an unbalanced crew was unthinkable. He didn't have to think long.

“Stands-while-Sitting.”

Lifts-with-Shout was clearly surprised. “She is fifth generation. I applaud your respect but beg additional explanation.”

“I know, but she's still active sexually and anyway, mating considerations and compatability should not be foremost in these determinations. The science group will need internal direction and she'll be senior to the others.”

“Some say she is actually fourth generation.”

“I don't care. I've met her several times and wouldn't mind mating with her myself. She'll be a steadying influence on the entire sextet, especially if the unforeseen happens and we stumble into any of the natives. I'd like to have her knowledge and experience with us.”

“As you wish. I commend your choice, but make certain everyone takes the proper coupling suppressants prior to departure.”

Looks-at-Charts acknowledged strongly. “Time enough for that later if everything goes well. We don't want to be dealing with hormonal distractions on the surface of Shiraz.”

“No, we don't,” the Landing Supervisor agreed. “I disagree with none of your choices, and I'm certain the Captain will concur.”

It was all going smoothly enough, Looks thought to himself. They would land, engage in a flurry of studies, select a burrow-site, and bring down the
Sequencer
, all while avoiding contact with the combative natives. Glory without conflict. Their names would fill entire history texts. He was wholly optimistic. He had to be. They all had to be because there was nowhere else for them to go.

Lifts-with-Shout turned to leave but the scout begged a last question. “Are we positive the natives have no means of detecting the
Sequencer
while we remain in orbit?”

“The group analyzing surface emissions is not positive of anything, but they are relatively certain. We will have to content ourselves with that. Another reason for making haste in securing a burrowsite.” He hesitated and became for only a moment something less than a Landing Supervisor and more than a friend.

“That doesn't mean we want the survey team indulging in unnecessary risks. You and Burden-carries-Far are the two highest-rated scouts we have trained. It would be catastrophic if the ship were to lose you both. I would also be personally distressed.” And he turned and hurried off before Looks could say anything.

It was a comforting thought to carry with him as he walked off to find his colleague. They had much to talk about before tomorrow.

“Who could have anticipated such a thing? Who could have imagined it?” Burden-carries-Far was sipping from a tube, lying on his back with his feet propped comfortably in the air. The lounge was nearly empty except for the two scouts. Everyone else was on duty.
Their
work would start tomorrow. “What do you think they'll be like?”

“It's not our job to find out. It's our job to secure the immediate landing site and protect the scientific team.”

“I know what our job is.” Burden stared languorously at the ceiling. The contents of the tube were affecting him. “They might have cold blood and external skeletons.”

“Not according to the techs co-opted for the native studies group. They say they'll probably look a lot like us.”

“That lot of spring humpers?” Burden made a derisive noise. “I wouldn't place much reliance on their ravings. If only their broadcasts contained visuals!”

“Apparently their technology hasn't advanced that far, and we can't wait for them to develop visual to accommodate our curiosity. We must get down and in quickly. We don't even know what their climate will be like for certain.”

“So you don't trust these long-range approximations either. I thought as much.” Burden was clearly amused. “Me, I'm not making any evaluations until I breathe the stuff personally.”