Quozl (19 page)

He did not have to debate which direction to take. He chose the path he did, not because it was inherently any more interesting than any other, but because it enabled him to follow the course of the river which ran above the Burrow. Regardless of what else he might encounter, he would be assured of a constant supply of drinking water.

According to the report filed by a single expedition member more than a year earlier, the river fed a large lake in a sheer-walled valley to the east. The report was never confirmed because the interests of that particular expedition lay elsewhere, but it struck Runs as a useful goal. He would walk to the lake, sample its waters, and return.

Three days out from home he caught his first glimpse of it and experienced the rush of excitement which signified that he was about to cross from Quozl-mapped territory into unknown parts of Shiraz. The slope he was descending was gentle and easy. He could have raced down it at high speed, easily dodging between the widely spaced tall trees, but it was so much more pleasurable to take his time and touch each tree as he passed. Their rough, deeply scarred unQuozlene bark was a constant amazement. He could easily sense the sap moving through xylem as the tree pumped it skyward.

Artists and administrators fought constantly over Shirazian wood. The artists wanted to cut more of it while the administrators worried that such cuttings might be noticed from the air. The philosophers tried to mediate, with the result that only fallen trees and dead wood could be brought back into the Burrows. So the artists continued to fume while the administrators continued to worry.

Runs bent to heft a fallen branch worth a week's meditations to a skilled carver. He tossed it aside with the casualness of the suddenly wealthy. He had around him, as it were, wood to burn.

From his studies he believed that the tall plants which formed a meadow at the western end of the lake would prove not only edible but tasty. The habit of Shirazian vegetation of concentrating metals in their roots and stems added spice to their natural flavor. The forest of succulents he eventually encountered were no exception. They grew in such dense clumps that he was able to leave the shore and walk through the thicket itself. After a while the slope sharpened, the plants fell behind, and water tumbled musically over slick boulders in its rush to reach the lake.

Soon the cold would return to this part of Shiraz and all this beauty would disappear beneath a blanket of frozen water. Then the pace of exploration would slacken and only specially equipped expeditions would dare its frigid surface.

He knelt to examine a seed pod which had fallen from a nearby tree. It was still intact, having not yet been disturbed by the small chisel-toothed quadrupeds that made their homes high in branches and tree hollows. They were not the only ones who found the contents of such pods appealing. As he walked he used his teeth to peel back the thick seed covers, spitting them aside so he could suck out the nourshing nut-meats within. They were a real luxury in the Burrow. Ever since he began his journey he'd gorged himself on such treats. His store of tablets lay untouched in his pack. He was confident the trail of kernels would not be noticed by any passing aircraft.

Not even the Head of Council feasted so well. Only the members of the exploration teams had shared such delights. He ate what he wanted and tossed the remainder aside.

As he followed the river he searched for signs of the peculiar amphibious creatures which inhabited its shores. There was nothing like them in the old records and they had charmed and fascinated expeditionary zoologists. Usually they sat without moving, their throat sacs pulsing, until something disturbed or intrigued them and they leaped into the water. They filled the night air with the most extraordinary chorus.

One particularly fine specimen did not run when he approached, choosing to maintain its perch even when Runs stepped into ankle-deep water. His hands relaxed on his knees as he stared.

The creature flicked a golden eye in his direction, tensed, and hopped off into the reeds. Runs mimicked the posture and hopped right alongside it. As soon as it landed it flung itself into the tall thin growths a second time. Runs heard it splash somewhere up ahead. Automatically he checked his legs. No doubt this tranquil backwater was home to numerous water-borne parasites, but expedition zoologists had yet to identify any that found Quozl flesh palatable. Most could not make their way through dense Quozl fur.

He crouched to follow the amphibian when another sound made him freeze. It was much more frightening and expressive than the mysterious yowl which had momentarily kept him awake that first night.

“Hey, a frog!”

Runs-red-Talking spun wildly in the water, his ears erect for maximum reception. He was surrounded on three sides by tall reeds whose stems reached no telling how deep into the murky water. The lake itself lay somewhere not far ahead. That left him with two choices: to retreat into the reeds and hope he didn't stumble into water over his head, or to make a dash for the dry land on his right. While he was trying to decide, the decision was made for him.

“Maybe over th—”

Unless his language studies had been for naught, Runs knew that the native had ceased in the midst of an incomplete thought. His first impression was that for a Shirazian it was very small. Even making allowances for its nonexistent ears it appeared unusually tiny. He was struck instantly by the nakedness of the arms and face, made even more grotesque by the unruly knot of fur which adorned the skull. Long strands of the stuff hung down the back of the native's neck.

Its back was distorted by a huge growth, until Runs realized that it was not organic but instead a kind of flexible container not unlike the one slung over his own right shoulder. The legs were tightly bound, a practice which struck Runs as foolishly confining. Perhaps it had something to do with the nakedness of Shirazian skin. It might be ashamed to reveal itself.

Finally there was the typically impossible Shirazian footgear, which not only protected the bottoms of the feet but also completely enclosed them in stiff, unyielding material. It was as impractical a piece of design as could be imagined. They made Runs uncomfortable just to look at.

Both lawbreakers gaped at each other for a long moment before the native made a noise. It was astonishingly loud. Runs's ears folded in response. As it spoke, its naked facial muscles jumped wildly, as out of control as the Shirazian libido.

“Wow! What are
you
?”

Runs-red-Talking had spent many days immersing himself in native language study, usually finishing at or near the top of his study group, but in the shock of the moment his knowledge deserted him. Unable to formulate a sensible response, he settled for familiarity. Reaching out and forward with his right hand, all fingers spread and extended, he penetrated the native's Sama in the vicinity of its face.

He had completely forgotten that it was precisely that gesture which had resulted in the honored scout Burden carries-Far's death at the hands of another native.

“What is your name?” Even as he mouthed the words he felt a chill, wondering if he would be understood or if his response would be dangerously misinterpreted.

In any event, the native did not respond in a hostile fashion. It did not appear to be armed. Taking a moment to reflect on its diminutive size, Runs decided it was either a juvenile or very young adult. Regardless, it reacted eagerly.

“Hey, you can talk!”

Somewhat to his surprise Runs found he could understand the words. They were no different from what he had encountered in his studies.

“Sort of,” he said, wishing the native would moderate its tone.

It looked at him slightly sideways. Perhaps one eye was more efficient than its companion, Runs thought. “You sound weird. Like a cat that's trying to hum.”

The short native promptly emitted a series of rapid barking sounds, issued like its words at deafening volume. Runs winced as he tried to make sense of them. Remember! Why can't I remember?

Then it came to him. The last sounds were not whole thought communication but rather amusement expressed aurally. Instead of indicating laughter normally, via gestures and expression and body language, the Shirazians employed highly individualized variants of the barking sound. Runs was pleased. If the native was amused, it could not be angry. He lowered his right ear to indicate that he understood.

“Hey, that's neat!” How did they stand such loudness, Runs wondered? His ears throbbed as the native continued, pointing with a five-fingered hand. And how did they build anything with only ten fingers? “What else can you do with those?” He fingered one of his own pitiful organs of hearing.

Runs was at once excited and confused. Was the juvenile Shirazian so different from the adult form? This one was openly friendly.

Of course, creatures like that existed on Quozlene itself, as well as Mazna. Species whose grubs or larvae were quiescent when disturbed but whose adult form reacted violently to contact. And like the Shirazians, the adults also varied wildly in size and shape from one another. Diversity gave rise to competition, which implied eternal conflict.

Had he betrayed the colony to such beings? Yet if this one was truly a mere juvenile … He searched the terrain beyond. It appeared to be traveling alone.

That made no sense. Studies proved that Shirazian juveniles stayed close to their parents or in restricted areas. What was this one doing out here by itself?

Like himself, he thought with a start.

It had not been wandering aimlessly. He could see it was healthy and well-fed. Nor did it act lost. Though it was difficult to identify juvenile gender since the females were pouchless, he guessed from bearing and hip displacement that the one confronting him was a male.

It made no sense. There had to be adults in the vicinity. He had no wish to sample the mature form's violent propensities. The longer he remained, the greater the chance the adults would put in an appearance and the more ingrained this encounter would become in the juvenile's memory, though studies suggested their attention spans were brief. A few apparently had no memories whatsoever. Occasionally this trait carried over into the adult form. It seemed especially common among important Burrow leaders, who frequently appeared to act from instinct instead of rational thought.

As all this flashed through Runs's mind, the juvenile reached out with unexpected speed and grasped the extended fingers in his own. The breach of courtesy stunned Runs. You never invaded another individual's Sama below the chin line unless you planned to kill or couple. Logic insisted that this native intended neither.

“Hey,” it declared in its booming, painfully loud voice, “you're
warm
. In fact you're really hot. Have you got a fever or something?”

You could tell a lot from visual and aural broadcasts, but one thing you could not learn was body temperature. To Runs-red-Talking the native felt as one dead. Yet it was obviously healthy. Runs realized he'd just made an important if accidental discovery. No one had taken measurements of the single dead native specimen's body temperature until it was too late. Here he stood, clutching one that was alive and well. He wondered if the adults felt equally frigid.

Not that heat was absent. It was simply feeble.

“Don't look so afraid,” the juvenile was saying. “There's nothing here to be frightened of. What's your name? Where did you come from? Not from around here, I'll bet.”

Around here. Runs wrenched his fingers free of the astonishingly powerful grip and turned to flee, his legs animated by sheer panic.

“Hey, don't go! Wait!”

His feet cleared the ground in great, measured strides. He had to get away before adults appeared on the scene. They might want
him
for a specimen. His only chance lay in the hope that the juvenile might forget about the encounter. Native juveniles were wont to do such. What could this one tell its adults anyway? Runs jumped the last rivulet and turned upstream, not pausing to think, not realizing he was making a straight line for the Burrows. He was not the fearless explorer he'd imagined himself to be: only a terrified youngster who'd run into far more than he'd bargained for.

The last words of the native juvenile to reach him were “Boy, can you run!” Then he was beyond hearing range.

He didn't slow down until he reached the crest of the first ridge. Utterly exhausted and out of breath he collapsed and rolled onto his back, trying to recover his strength. He was bruising his tail but paid it no notice. His mind hurt worse than his body, aflame with the knowledge of what he'd gone and done. It didn't even matter that his clothing was an unQuozl mess.

Suddenly it no longer seemed so daring, a mere prank, a challenge from a friend to be casually taken up. The odds had beaten him. He had been the one to actually encounter a native when all the previous expeditions had managed to avoid such contact.

When he could breathe freely again he sat up and stared downslope. He'd covered a lot of ground and there was no sign of the juvenile. How the natives could even balance themselves, much less run, on those narrow, tiny feet was something which continued to amaze Quozl biologists. There had to be some concealed mechanism for maintaining equilibrium they had yet to discover. But they could not run very fast. A quozl infant could outdistance all but the best of them.

Only then did it occur to him that he'd best take a roundabout route back to the colony and pay some attention to obliterating his tracks so that he could not be followed. As he started to do so it struck him that he knew only one way back home, the way he'd come. He knew only a single set of landmarks. He could not take a circuitous route for fear of becoming hopelessly lost in these mountains.

He agonized over his choices for the rest of the day before resignedly starting back the way he'd come, carefully utilizing branches to wipe out any tracks he left, trying to keep to the rocks wherever possible. Where streams presented themselves he deliberately walked along them, forcing himself to suffer the watery chill. It took longer, but by the time he was within a day's hike of the Burrow he was convinced the natives would not be able to follow him.