Quozl (24 page)

Before either of them realized it they were deep in conversation over the virtues of continuing education.

“To stop learning is to die,” Runs insisted.

“I'm not talking about stopping learning. I'm talking about getting out of school,” Chad shot back.

“To leave school is to leave life.”

They argued and talked away most of the day, until Chad realized that he was really going to have to hoof it to make it back to the cabin before dark. He could have risked remaining out for another night but he knew his mother wanted him back the second day the first time he camped out alone, and he was going to need her goodwill in the weeks to come.

The idea that he was totally dependent on his parents' permission for movement was utterly foreign to Runs-red-Talking. Even at a very young age the Quozl had unrestricted access to all the Burrows. How else was one expected to learn one's surroundings if you were not allowed to explore them? Chad fully agreed, but as he explained, “I'm human, not Quozl.”

They agreed to meet at the same place in a week's time with the understanding that if either did not appear they would try again on each day thereafter. To Chad's surprise it sounded as if his alien friend might have more difficulty making the rendezvous than he, for all his talk of freedom of movement.

The meeting was managed, however, and many subsequent to that, not only that summer but in those to come. When the floatplane began its dive toward the lake each July Chad was hard-pressed to restrain himself. To his parents he seemed more enthusiastic than ever, perhaps due to his growing ability to remain out in the forest for longer and longer periods of time.

“Our city boy's turned into a real woodsman,” his father remarked as he went about his fishing.

Human and Quozl watched each other's growth and maturation with mutual fascination. While at first Runs was taller than Chad, the teenager quickly outpaced him, until he stood a full head higher than his alien friend.

“Our development proceeds differently from yours and does not encompass your unsettling variations. When I was a new youth I knew almost exactly how tall I would be when I reached adulthood. It was very reassuring. Your disparities of size promote competition among you.” An ear dipped in a gesture of consolation. “Were I you I would find it very unfair. You place unsupportable values on mere size.”

“I agree with you, but there's nothing we can do about it.”

These days they had ample time to talk. By now Runs-red-Talking was one of the most respected repair specialists in the Burrows. His work was much in demand. For one who spent so much time engaged in extensive meditation he accomplished a great deal. He was careful not to vary his routine even during the cold season when he never visited the surface. It would not do for someone to observe that his piety was seasonal.

At seventeen Chad no longer needed his parents' permission to camp out for four or five nights at a stretch. They were convinced he planned to climb every mountain in the region. In reality he learned only enough about the land surrounding the lake to answer the occasional question and thus maintain his protective cover.

During their meetings Runs-red-Talking revealed little about himself, and that only gradually even though he'd come to trust his human friend. He knew that had he so desired, Chad could have exposed him many times over the previous cycles. That he had not done so was a source of personal satisfaction to Runs. When he returned to the Burrow he had difficulty containing his amusement at the pontifications of the surface study teams. They had only confusing and sometimes garbled transmissions to work with. Unlike him, they could not seek clarification of some supposition from an actual native.

Despite this he remained humble. One brag would bring him down. But oh, how he longed to correct many of the “experts'” misconceptions!

Chad was told that his friend lived in a Quozl colony, though Runs said nothing about its location or size. Chad accepted his friend's reluctance to disclose additional information with equanimity. He listened intently to what was proferred and forced himself to be content with that, realizing that were he to try and pressure Runs the limited supply of information might cease altogether. For his part Runs sensed his friend's burning curiosity and applauded his restraint. In that respect he was very Quozl.

“If it was known that I had met with you and told you even this much,” he explained one morning, “I might even be killed.”

Chad tucked at the hem of his flannel shirt. “I thought you told me that your people no longer believe in violence.”

“Oh, we believe in violence, but only in the therapeutic, abstract sense. In art and conversation and music. Physical contact, even moving too close to another person, is forbidden. Except during coupling and mutually agreed-upon moments, of course. It would not be regarded as violence, or even as killing, but rather as a cleansing. I do not wish to be cleansed.”

“No shit.” Chad sat thoughtfully. “If they found out how much I knew, would they ‘cleanse' me too?”

“An interesting question.” The position assumed by the Quozl's ears indicated internal debate was taking place. “The philosophical and moral barriers that would have to be surmounted to permit such an act are extensive. They would also realize that you would be missed by your parents, if no one else.”

“Not necessarily. My parents might think I fell into the lake, or off a mountain.”

“But my people would not think that way.”

Chad digested that. “How long do you think your people can keep this up?”

“Keep this up?” Sometimes human language could be as full of unique and incomprehensible similes and analogies as that of the Quozl.

“Keep knowledge of the whole colony secret from the outside world,” Chad explained.

“That is a problem for the Elders and for the Burrow leaders, not for you or me. You are the only human who knows of our existence. No others even suspect. The secret has been kept for nearly half a human century.”

“Why'd you tell me about the colony?”

“I could not keep it from you forever. You are intelligent. Sooner or later you would have divined I could not exist here by myself.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I'd have stayed stupid and believed you if you'd told me you were some kind of interstellar hermit. Maybe,” he said thoughtfully, “you
wanted
to tell me.”

“That question is for the philosophers. Ah, look!”

Chad followed the arm movement. A doe and fawn had come to the stream edge to drink. Now they paused to stare in the direction of the two bipeds. The moment stretched into multiples, the four mammals regarding each other intently. Then there was a faint
crack
from the forest: a pinecone falling or a clumsy burst of speed by an unseen rabbit. The doe whirled with a startled leap, the fawn skittering awkwardly in her wake.

“Deer,” commented Runs-red-Talking. “Female and offspring, also female.”

“I guess.” Chad eyed the woods dubiously. “How can you tell the fawn's sex at this distance?”

“It is something we are predisposed to recognize.” He turned back to Chad. “We have never yet discussed coupling.”

“Coupling?”

“Sex. Intercourse. The reproductive process. Though we have learned much about you this is one subject your broadcasts deal with only inconclusively. Tell me please, Chad, how many times a day do you normally couple?”

His friend looked elsewhere. With interest Runs noted the startling and unexpected shift in facial skin tone. “Have I offended you?”

“No. It's just that, well, I never actually have.”

“Have what?”

“Coupled, dammit!”

“Ah, I have offended. You appear sexually mature for your species. Have you an injury?”

“You people are real subtle, aren't you? No, I don't have an injury. We just mature differently than Quozl, I guess. I mean, physically everything's there and ready, but emotionally it's different with us. Not to mention socially. I can tell that much. How many times do
you
do it?” he finished aggressively.

“It depends on one's work schedule. A normal frequency for someone of my age and position would be nine or ten times.”

“A day?” Chad's eyes got very wide.

“Yes.” Clearly Runs was puzzled by his friend's reaction. “This would be regarded as abnormal by your people?”

“According to everything I've heard, yeah.” He hesitated, asked uncertainly, “
Every
day?”

“Except on meditation and rest days when activity would be greater or lesser, according to individual preference.”

“How do you find the time to do anything else?”

“The actual activity does not take very long. Two to six minutes, I would say, is average. Time does impose its own constraints.”

“That makes a little more sense.” For some inexplicable reason Runs thought his friend looked relieved.

“I am glad. Another difference between us.” As the subject quite clearly made Chad uncomfortable, Runs-red-Talking decided to switch to another. “Tell me your thoughts about war.”

“That's a funny thing to want to talk about after discussing sex.”

“Why? The two are closely connected.”

“Why do you want to talk about that?”

“Because we find the existence of an intelligent, technologically advanced species still battling on the tribal level a fascinating contradiction. The Quozl used to fight all the time, with unending ferocity, but that was long ago. It wasn't until we matured as a race that we discovered other means of controlling our population. Among the Quozl the sublimation of violence is the healthiest of art forms. Your attempts to do likewise are curiously flawed. For example, your television broadcasts show male violence but rarely any blood or actual damage. Hence their therapeutic value is nonexistent. They are worse than useless and in fact encourage serious combat.”

“Television's not designed for ‘therapeutic value,'” Chad told him. “It's designed to entertain and amuse. That's all.”

“A tool turned inside out. The more I learn about you the more puzzling and intriguing I find you. This intertribal combat is unhealthy and counterproductive. It retards your growth.”

“Not to mention the fact that people die,” Chad murmured.

“That also.” Runs-red-Talking rose and began chucking pebbles into the pool which had nearly claimed his life. He could skip stones better than anyone Chad had ever seen. His extra fingers gave him additional control.

“You don't seem to realize an obvious fact of elementary psychology, which is that if sufficient violence is supplied in the form of entertainment in tandem with social disapproval of the actual act, tribal violence will diminish.”

“I guess people don't see that.” Chad found himself studying the Quozl's slim lines, the sleek fur and delicate arms and fingers, the gentle, contemplative face. “It's hard to imagine you guys fighting all the time. You don't look like killers, and you certainly don't act like it.”

“Appearances can be deceiving. That expression, I believe, is also current among your people.” Whereupon he leaped into the air wearing an expression adopted from a Fourth Imperial mural by the revered artist Hands-over-Sand: eyes bulging, ears pointed straight back, face distorted to the left to display the lower incisors to the maximum. He held his right hand outstretched, fingers crooked to reveal nails that could have been shaped into claws. His other arm was kept back and curled to deliver a follow-up blow as he kicked out sharply with the blunt end of his enormous right foot. All this was done soundlessly, in the accepted manner of combat.

Chad didn't react silently. He let out a yelp as the huge foot flew toward his face. It was large and heavy enough to crush his nose if not the cheekbones supporting it. It flashed just past his right eye, the wind of its passing a whisper in his ear. A fraction of a second after, the fingers of the right hand caressed his forehead while the fist that was the left brushed his nostrils.

Then Runs-red-Talking was standing behind him adjusting his bodysuit at the crotch. His expression was as bland as before.

At the first instant of attack Chad had stumbled and nearly fallen. Now he straightened and tried to compose himself, aware that if the attack had been for real he'd doubtless be a bleeding, unconscious pile on the ground. He was trembling slightly.

There was no undertone of satisfaction in Runs-red-Talking's voice as he executed gestures of apology. “I am sorry beyond measure for startling you. I thought that since my words were not achieving the desired affect, a demonstration would be both more economical and more effective.”

“It sure as hell had an effect,” Chad mumbled. “What the hell was that all about?”

“A brief exhibition of ancient fighting technique, another revered art form among my people. Many centuries ago those blows would have been intended to make contact, not to pass without touching. I would have used this,” and he indicated a small metal tool attached to his workbelt, “to slice you from ear to ear. Once we delighted in bloodshed, until we discovered the elementary immaturity of its physiological underpinnings.”

“But you don't fight anymore,” Chad said confusedly.

“Of such things we make dances and nonverbal communication. Much can be expressed through violent movement, nothing through actual violence. No one actually touches anyone else. Such contact would constitute an unforgivable breach of manners. The achievement lies in the coming close
without
touching.”

“What about the guy who gets ‘touched'? How does he react?”

“With extreme embarrassment for the other person's predicament. You cannot imagine the suffering of the one who makes contact.”

“What if I hit you?”

“You could not, I think. Your reactions are not rapid enough.”