Quozl (9 page)

“It may be that their hearing and vision are not as acute as ours,” said Stands-while-Sitting.

“Deaf and blind. Maybe dumb as well.” Burden's ears twitched contemptuously. “They certainly don't look dangerous. See, this one is displaying its teeth. The cutting teeth are small and inoffensive. They can't have much biting power.”

“Don't underestimate them,” Stands warned him. “They possess perfectly effective weapons.”

Burden was whistling his disgust. “I don't see how they can chew enough food to survive.”

“Perhaps they don't. Perhaps their metabolisms are slower than ours and they require less nourishment. That would be an advantage.”

A couple of full-length images offered clues to the rest of the natives' physiognomies. Each hand had five digits instead of the Quozl seven, which suggested inferior manipulative capabilities. One could not tell about the feet because in every image these were completely enclosed in some type of covered sandal. Two of the pictures were apparently of females. The Shirazians were truly alien. Instead of being protected inside the pouch, the female nursing organs were located on the chest and in clear view beneath heavy clothing.

“The females have slightly more fur.” Burden examined the frozen images carefully. “The hips are wider, perhaps to allow for a wholly internal pouch.”

With her recorder Stands-while-Sitting made careful copies of all the two-dimensional images. The scouts resumed their inspection of the building and its contents. But it was left to the xenologist to solve the riddle of the large boxy device that stood against the far wall.

Burden and Looks were debating the purpose of a large, vented, cavelike opening in one wall. The floor of its interior was swathed in ashes, but they contended as to whether the opening was intended for cooking or heating.

They were startled out of their argument by the sudden, sharp rasp of alien voices. These issued from the mysterious box. At the first sound Stands had jerked aside, but resumed fiddling with the front-mounted dials positioned beneath a now glowing transparent rectangle as soon as it became clear that the device was harmless. The rectangle was covered with alien squiggles. Some form of primitive writing, perhaps. Turning one dial caused a solid marker to move back and forth between the squiggles.

Looks-at-Charts eyed the box warily. “A communications device of some kind?”

“I don't think so.” Stands-while-Sitting continued to adjust the dials, varying voices and volume. “I have addressed it in several ways and there is no response whatsoever. I think it is simply a machine to listen to.”

They left it on as they continued their inspection. Several times the air in the room was filled with the realistic thunder of explosions, and sounds that were suspiciously like the screams of the injured or dying.

“Viewplays with sound only?” hypothesized Burden, pausing in his work to listen to one particularly tormented sequence.

“Possibly,” murmured Stands. “But remember the orbital observations and resultant analysis. These primitives are warring with one another.” She gestured at the box with an ear. “It may not be a simple simulation.”

They lived with that sobering thought as they continued their work, inspecting, recording, and trying to commit everything in the structure to memory, until Stands-while-Sitting happened to glance out a window. She checked her chronometer.

“The day is ending, a shorter one than we are used to. We must leave.”

The scouts were reluctant to abandon the dwelling. “Perhaps the length of hair is related to social status as opposed to gender,” said Looks.

“No, I think it's the other way around,” Burden-carries-Far argued as he turned toward the entrance. It was dim inside the building now.

“We will try to return tomorrow.” Stands-while-Sitting's voice was thick with reluctance. “There is so much to try and absorb. This was not planned.” She eyed Looks suspiciously as she spoke. “But having found the right tree we would be remiss in not girdling it completely.” Her gaze turned to the talking box. It squawked noisily, imparting vital information they could not comprehend. She wished they could take it with them, but it would be missed, and it was really too heavy and bulky to haul all the way back to the survey ship. She moved to turn it off.

“I agree wholesoully.” Burden started toward the front door.

He was halfway there when it was opened from the other side. Final sunlight poured in and made him shield his eyes.

“I thought I heard …,” roared an intense, painfully loud voice before breaking off in mid-sentence.

The vision in the doorway imprinted itself permanently on Looks-at-Charts's mind in the seconds of silence that followed. It was not horrible or frightening, just ugly. Like the two-dimensional images hung on the wall, it had fur growing atop its otherwise bald skull, and very little of it at that. Unlike the pictures they'd examined, it also had a massive mat of tangled hair exploding from its face. It was taller and more massively built than any of them. Looks realized with a start that the images they'd studied had given no ready clue as to the actual size of the natives. If anything, the design of the furniture seemed to indicate they were shorter, so the actual appearance of the native was quite a shock. They had no feet, as suspected, but their legs were longer than he'd imagined, and their torsos unconventionally large.

He and Stands instinctively held their ground while Burden reacted. Not knowing what else to do, he assumed a formal greeting posture, ears down and hands at his side. When the native did not respond, the scout attempted to make him feel welcome. With his right hand he reached for the native's face with all seven fingers, to demonstrate acceptance and friendship.

Instead of complementing the gesture by reaching for Burden's face with his five-fingered paw, the native raised the metal tube he was carrying and let out a deafening shout.

“Christ! Martians!”

A puff of smoke enveloped the end of the tube and the room was filled with the echo of an impressive explosion. Everything happened very quickly after that.

Burden-carries-Far halted with his still welcoming hand an arm's length from the native's face. He retreated a couple of steps and stopped, staring down at himself. Blood was leaking from a hole in his chest. Touching himself with the hand that had been extended in greeting, he let out a piercing, high-pitched squeal.

This upset the Shirazian visibly. Looks-at-Charts saw him start to bring the metal tube around to point at Stands-while-Sitting, who stood paralyzed next to one of the native chairs. As a scout he was instructed to act and leave thinking to those better qualified. In any event there was no time to think.

Drawing his side arm, he aimed at the native and fired. The weapon hummed softly and the Shirazian stumbled. As he did so he emitted a much feebler noise than had Burden-carries-Far. Directing his attention at Looks, he tried to point his metal tube with shaking hands. Incredulous, Looks fired again. The metal tube
boomed
and something flew to pieces behind the scout, who had to fire three more times before the native finally keeled over.

Some kind of natural shielding, Looks thought as he stood breathing hard and cautiously eyeing the fallen Shirazian. Or else their nervous systems differ from ours.

Closer inspection revealed that the native was no longer breathing. Only when Looks was certain that the threat had been dealt with did he allow himself to join Stands-while-Sitting in examining Burden's body.

He and Looks-at-Charts had practically grown up together since leaving their mother's pouches. They'd studied and played together, had gone through similar study years together, had coupled in parallel. He'd always been the bolder of the two. Now, in his eagerness to make contact, he'd done something terribly wrong. Precisely what they would have to wait to find out.

That didn't matter now. What mattered was that none of their medical training could bring him back to life.

“The hole passes completely through him,” Stands murmured as she put down her scanner. “It penetrated his heart. I am sorry. He would have been a strong coupler.”

“The strongest. The most elegant.” Looks could hardly muster a whisper. He rose and began the ceremony of passing only to find he could not go through with it. Burden had been too close to him.

He left it for Stands-while-Sitting to complete while he stood guard outside. But in the gathering darkness no more of the ferocious natives appeared. When she'd finished she rejoined him. Together they stared at the rising circle of Shiraz's moon.

“Perhaps this native dwelt here alone,” she finally said.

Looks turned on her. “Without a female?”

“We know nothing of their sexual habits.” She looked back through the open doorway. “We must take Burden-carries-Far with us. We cannot leave him here for some wandering native to find. All trace of our visit must be erased.”

Looks-at-Charts considered. “That means we must remove the body of the native as well, since he was,” he found himself choking on the word as the enormity of what he'd done began to sink in, “killed by a Quozl weapon that is certainly different from the one the native utilized.”

“Can you carry it? I can manage Burden.”

“I'll carry it,” Looks-at-Charts assured her. “I have no choice.”

With water from the food processing area and chemicals from their packs they obliterated all traces of Shirazian and Quozl blood from the room. Stands went through the entire dwelling to ensure everything was placed as they'd first found it. Then they left. Not as they'd arrived, in light and hope, but in darkness and despair.

It was one thing to insist he would carry the body of the Shirazian, quite another to actually attempt it. They'd gone no farther than a few steps when Looks had to halt and lower his burden.

“It's impossible,” he wheezed. “It weighs as much as any two Quozl.”

Stands-while-Sitting surveyed their surroundings. The large moon provided ample light to see by. “Let us look around and see what we may find.”

What they finally found was a large platform mounted on two wheels. A pair of metal handgrips protruded from one end. They placed the native on the platform and Burden-carries-Far atop him. Then each of them hefted one of the handles, raising the platform off the ground at an angle and resting the majority of the dead weight on the two wheels. Using this device they were able to wrestle their grisly cargo up the gentle hill and into the plowed fields that led toward the woods. At regular intervals they paused to retrace their steps and obliterate their tracks and those of the platform's wheels.

The fence which had been so easily avoided proved a major obstacle on their return. They had to wrestle one body at a time over the wire, then the platform, and lastly themselves, being careful as always not to leave any torn fragments of clothing on the wire or any trace of their passage. It was morning before they reached the edge of the forest.

It was harder to push the overburdened platform through the forest, but they felt safer beneath the cover of the furred trees. Though the task before them required most of their energy and concentration both still found time to replay the disastrous events of the previous evening over and over in their minds.

The native had responded to Burden's gesture of welcome with instant death, without trying to communicate or ascertain what the Quozl scout was attempting to do. He'd killed instinctively. And Burden's side arm had been pouched at the time. Stands-while-Sitting theorized that the native had been startled by their unexpected presence in its dwelling, but that didn't excuse the magnitude and incivility of its overreaction. It should at least have waited to see what they might do in response to its arrival.

Unless this particular native was an aberration, a mental defective, it meant that Shiraz was a deceptive paradise. How could they make contact, make peace with creatures so murderously uncivilized? Who still warred among themselves and slew friendship-seeking strangers on sight? These were not encouraging thoughts to contemplate on the long march back to the survey ship.

Would it always be like this, Looks-at-Charts wondered? Violence and death upon confrontation? He voiced his concerns to Stands-while-Sitting.

“It cannot be. There are only a few thousand of us. You saw the lights of the native urban areas from orbit. They must number in the many millions, perhaps in the billions. Our weapons may be more advanced but they are designed only to cope with hostile unintelligent fauna. Though primitive, the projectile device the native used to kill Burden-carries-Far was perfectly effective. And you saw how difficult it was to put down. Any conflict with the Shirazians would surely result in our annihilation. Even if we succeeded in fighting back, the psychological damage to our own people would be as devastating as their deaths.” She eyed him curiously. “How are you coping?”

“With difficulty. I put it out of my mind as best I can, but it isn't easy. And I have had specialized training. I understand your concerns. What can we do? We are stuck with Shiraz and its insane inhabitants.”

“It is not for you and me to decide.”

It might have been the most calming thing the xenologist could have said. Looks-at-Charts relaxed as he realized that the limits of his personal responsibility in this matter were finite. Final decisions would be up to the Captain and Lifts-with-Shout and the Council of Seven. All he and Stands-while-Sitting had to do was make their respective reports. Then he could turn himself in for treatment.

He had slain another intelligent being. The fact that it was not Quozl did not diminish the magnitude of the act. Right now he had no time to think. When he did he knew that his sanity would be at stake. The ethical conflict might do him in. Stands-while-Sitting's concern for his health was not misplaced.

There was also the shock of having seen his friend killed. There'd been no reason for it, no reason at all. It was significant that the native had been equipped with a killing device. Did they all carry such weapons with them wherever they went, much as he was never without scarves and earrings? Death as decoration? Who ever heard of carrying a weapon into one's own dwelling place?