Quozl (14 page)

“You do not understand. We are not allowed to make such judgments. Besides, do none of you see that here we have a biological specimen beyond value?”

“That may be,” another argued, “but it is of no use to us because we have not the means for dragging it back to the Burrow.”

“We must.” Looks-at-Charts was insistent. “Not because of its value to Bioresearch, but because it is a memorial to Sees-while-Dreaming.”

That took them aback. They could argue that trying to move the monstrous bulk was impractical, but Looks had outflanked that argument by tying the recovery of the corpse to the death of its discoverer, the dead zoologist. He'd trapped them. Now he tried to ease their practical concerns.

“We have the one lifter.”

“It might carry that,” agreed the botanist tiredly, “if handled with the skill of an artist.”

“The lifter is full,” another geologist pointed out unnecessarily.

“I know. You will have to dump all your specimens.” He gestured with both ears and a hand in the direction of the floating mass of rock and soil.

The geologists debated the matter among themselves. As a nonscientist, Looks-at-Charts had no vote in the matter. The botanist was in no condition to argue rationally and so excused herself from the argument.

It was finally decided that Looks was correct. The value of the animal outweighed the value of all their specimens. They would salvage the most important of these and carry them in their packs. The lifter would be used solely to support the monster and their unlucky companion.

And most importantly, the deceased zoologist would have a proper memorial. That was the unvoiced but unanimously accepted rationale.

They went about the business of dumping their laboriously gathered specimens and arranging them to blend with the immediate landscape. Then they loaded the monster and struggled to balance its bulk atop the lifter. It took all of them to manage it. One Quozl corpse did not disturb the balance.

Only then did they sing a final song of farewell to their mangled colleague and proceed in the direction of the Burrow.

The biologists' ecstasy at receiving the corpse of the monster was boundless. The colony's chief geologist made certain the origin of the gift was not forgotten in the general excitement.

“We left behind most of ours gains from this journey.”

The head biologist acknowledged the other department's loss. “We will see that you are granted your fair share of our expeditionary time. It will be more than worth it.”

Looks-at-Charts listened with one ear to the polite politico-scientific banter while wondering where Flies-by-Tail was keeping herself. He was about to leave when the chief biologist drew him aside.

“I know how you came by this prize and that it was outside the means and quota set up for regulating the taking of surface specimens, but in this instance I do not think you have to worry.”

“It might have been avoided,” Looks insisted. “I could have run off and returned later. Or I could have driven it away without killing it. I acted in haste.”

“You acted instinctively, to preserve lives. Those of the expedition team as well as your own. You thought you had only driven it away in the first place. You knew nothing of this creature, of its habits or inclinations. Had you fled, it might have pursued, and others might have perished. That's why you are a scout.”

There was admiration as well as reassurance in the Senior's voice, and it helped more than Looks cared to admit.

“Someone sometimes has to make decisions based on rapid analysis of a situation. We cannot always take time for thought and meditation. Soul-searching cannot precede every action. Particularly when one is confronted by incipient death. Tell me, Looks-at-Charts, how much longer do you expect to practice the profession of scout?”

“Not very long, not after this.” Looks-at-Charts spoke ruefully, his ears down over his face. “I know the procedure. There will be a formal hearing. Everyone will agree, just as you have, that I acted correctly and within established parameters. That will do nothing to change what took place, will not resurrect the dead. I will be ‘asked' to retrain for another profession.”

“I will place my influence on your side.” Seeing how downcast the scout was he added, “And I will do something more. I will tell you something we have only recently learned. Only two know of it. As yet it remains only theory. You will be the third to have the opportunity to ponder its meaning, and its potential.

“You are aware that we are finishing up our work with the native specimen you and your companions brought into the colony prior to touchdown cycles ago?”

Looks-at-Charts's ears straightened. “I had heard rumors to that effect.”

The memory of that incident still affected him powerfully, though through meditation and therapy he had learned to cope with it. The dead Shirazian had brought no army of vengeful colleagues to the mountain valley. It was fortunate he had been a member of another tribe.

Through his dissection the Quozl had learned much about native physiology. While the biologists would dearly have loved to have a female specimen to compare with the single male, no one proposed an expedition to acquire one. Unthinkable thought. They would sooner have slain themselves.

What had the chief biologist learned? Something so unique only a select few could be entrusted with the knowledge? Looks-at-Charts scanned the room. No one was paying them the slightest attention. The other scientists were swarming around the huge carcass of the dead carnivore.

“Everything else we have learned from our work with the native male has been made available for study by others,” the biologist was whispering. “This I and the one who first formulated the theory have decided to suppress. It is more than controversial.”

Excitement and anticipation collided inside the scout. As the biologist intended, it helped to mute his despair.

“What is it? Something inconceivable? Do they have unsuspected mental powers, or physical capabilities we have not yet observed? It must be something we have not been able to discover from monitoring their programs or all would know of it.”

“Truth. What is strange is that everyone in the colony is unconsciously aware of it without having considered it. When eventually we make contact with the natives it may prove to be our salvation—or our deaths. It is something we can control only marginally, and the secret itself we cannot control at all. We are helpless. Everything will be determined by how the Shirazians react to the revelation.”

He gestured for Looks-at-Charts to enter his Sama, to come as close as possible without actually making contact. Looks complied, twisting an ear close to the biologist's mouth, all but caressing the fine fur there.

As the biologist spoke Looks realized the theory was like nothing he'd imagined. And yet the scientist was right when he'd declared that everyone in the colony was aware of it unconsciously. Looks listened calmly despite the emotions running through him, careful to betray none of his excitement to the others in the room. When the biologist finished he turned and walked off without a formal farewell, leaving Looks to stand alone with his thoughts. He remained a while longer before departing in search of Flies-by-Tail.

The scout was stability and calm outside, utter turmoil and astonishment within. He could hardly walk straight for the wonder that filled him. That, and a surging curiosity he had not expected and could not put aside. It was a curiosity that could never be satisfied, which made it all the more frustrating to contemplate.

If he was fortunate to live long enough, then someday he might at least see the knowledge become common among the colony. He wondered what they would make of it, even as he wondered how the natives would react to the revelation. Assuming the work of the biologist who'd made the discovery was accurate, of course.

He hoped that it was, and hoped that it wasn't, and saw why the chief biologist had decided to withhold the discovery from the colony at large.

It was sufficient to tear it apart.

There was no such thing as a patrol. It was unthinkable, for example, that anyone might try to sneak out of the Burrow in contravention of every colony law and regulation. Only the privileged few were permitted access to the outside. The rest of the colony lived and loved and meditated within the buried body of the
Sequencer
and the network of tunnels and sub-burrows that the engineers were constantly pushing out in all directions from the ship itself.

The settlers seemed content. After all, their lot was an improvement on that of their ancestors. They accepted the need for remaining concealed and went about their business, secure in the knowledge that their Seniors would make the best decisions about their future.

Not only did they have the spacious
Sequencer
for a home, they now also had tunnels and new excavated chambers to explore, with more to come. They did not miss the sun and the sky because neither they nor their parents had ever known such things. They could view the recordings brought back by the surface expeditionary teams and perhaps fantasize, but they would never consider breaking the law to see for themselves the wonders of the surface.

For education as well as amusement and an entirely different view of the world above they could watch the broadcasts of the humans, as the Shirazians called themselves. Detail study of these transmissions was a part of every young Quozl's education. When contact was finally made, the Quozl would be familiar with their hosts' society.

Contrary to his expectations, Looks-at-Charts was not stripped of his privileges nor shorn of his duties. It was not his fault that his team had wandered into a valley that was home to monsters, nor was he responsible for the two members of his team who had strayed from their assigned work location. He was still allowed to visit the surface as escort and guide.

Flies-by-Tail never accompanied him. She was not qualified and her abilities were in demand elsewhere.

Having explored the valley to the north of the colony site, Looks-at-Charts determined to lead the first expedition to the next one to the south. Another river flowed through the gap in the mountains before emptying into a small lake.

Only three accompanied him. Looks preferred small groups so he could keep his eye on all of them. Oftentimes the scientists were like cubs, oblivious to the world around them, interested only in their play. They expected him to look after them.

The botanist and zoologist could hardly restrain themselves. Little research had been down so far on Shirazian aquatic lifeforms, yet human broadcasts indicated life existed in abundance in lakes and other large bodies of water. They anticipated a plethora of discoveries.

The hike over the intervening ridge was not difficult. Once down the opposite slope they found an easy descent the rest of the way to a healthy, roaring stream.

The last thing any of them expected to hear as they made their way downriver was music.

But music it was, and familiar at that: a brash, martial piping. Looks-at-Charts gestured for his charges to wait in a clearing while he reconnoitered, since he was the only one carrying a side arm.

As he advanced he wondered at the source of the music. Perhaps it was some kind of Shirazian animal skilled in mimicry, which was repeating music it had overheard played by a member of another expedition.

The sounds led him through the trees and up a steep slope, until he found himself staring at a small, natural amphitheater. The acoustics were excellent, the notes bouncing off the smooth granite. It explained how he and his companions were able to hear the melodies so clearly.

Two Quozl occupied the center of the formation. While one played the slute, the other pirouetted and leaped gracefully, dancing patterns in the sand that had been deposited by the spring runoff. In the warm growing season the amphitheater was probably filled with water instead of music.

He didn't recognize the female. She was half white, brown fur being confined to her legs, arms, and muzzle. As if her natural coloring wasn't pale enough, she had shaved more than a third of her body. She wore scarves and jewelry on the left side of her body only, an unorthodox arrangement the significance of which puzzled the fascinated scout.

The male manipulating the slute Looks-at-Charts did recognize. He was shorn as radically as his female companion. He wore no scarves at all, only earrings and other jewelry. The music he made was traditional, devoid of contemporary embellishment.

There was no danger here. Only disobedience.

Leaving his weapon holstered, Looks-at-Charts picked a path down into the basin. “High-red-Chanter!” His voice echoed through the amphitheater. “I hope you have permission to perform outside.”

The dancer halted in mid-pirouette. The tremolo of the slute stilled as both performers turned to confront the intruder. High-red-Chanter removed the mouthpiece of the instrument from his teeth. Neither of them bolted, which was an encouraging sign.

But what in all underspace were they doing out on the surface, unescorted, unarmed, and so far from the nearest Burrow entrance.

“I do have permission.” High-red-Chanter recognized his old rival. “It is nothing to cause you embarrassment, scout.”

“Your reassurance consoles me.” Looks leaped the last body length to the sandy surface and approached the pair. The female stood slightly to one side, watching him warily. High glanced at her, his ears moving eloquently.

“Thinks-of-Grim, this is the scout Looks-at-Charts. But you probably recognize the first Quozl to kill on the surface of Shiraz.”

Looks stiffened but did not respond to the challenge. He'd anticipated something other than a hearty welcome from the musician. Old humiliations were hard to keep buried.

Beneath the single hostile sally, High-red-Chanter and his companion wore an air of stolid indifference. It was as if anything their visitor cared to say was of no consequence. Under the circumstances that might be construed as a kind of madness, but Looks knew it was premature to affix labels to the performance he'd just witnessed and the subsequent attitudes displayed by the performers.