IV.
THEY SPENT A restless night, not because of the alien nocturnal noises but because of the thought of what they might see tomorrow. Burden was up before the Shirazian sun, waking his companions and breaking camp.
They marched back to the top of the rise and waited and watched from there until the two scouts were writhing in an agony of impatience. Finally even Stands-while-Sitting had to admit that the place seemed deserted. They had to restrain themselves from running down the opposite slope once she gave permission to advance.
Up close, the structure did not appear nearly so solidly built as it had from a distance, in spite of having been fashioned of that noble material, wood. The base was constructed of rough-hewn stone.
As they cautiously made their way around to the front of the building they were surprised by the presence of several small feathered creatures busily scratching and kicking at the dusty soil. They ignored Stands-while-Sitting as she recorded their activities, even when she came quite close. This behavioral pattern was quite different from that which had been observed among the small inhabitants of the deep forest.
“Tamed,” commented Looks-at-Charts, “but for what purpose? Do you suppose the natives eat them?”
“They certainly don’t maintain them for protection.” Burden-carries-Far gave a desultory flick of his left ear.
To no one’s surprise they discovered that the doorway was sealed. Careful study suggested that the only thing holding the barrier closed was a simple metal lock. This was easily subverted. They entered with Burden in the lead and Looks bringing up the rear, the two younger scouts convoying their Senior.
At first the feeling of alienness was overwhelming, but as they walked around the outer room Looks-at-Charts began to relax. There were structures and artifacts whose purpose was easily divined. A soft mat covering the floor was intended to provide a more comfortable walking surface. There were objects to sit upon, which while not built to Quozl proportions were still usable for that purpose. These creatures, Looks mused, must have very short legs and no feet at all.
When they had completed a quick, cursory inspection of all the rooms in the building and had satisfied themselves that it was unoccupied, they began to examine specific artifacts in more detail. Small switches set in the walls produced light in glass bulbs. Other, larger bulbs contained smelly liquid which Stands-while-Sitting suggested could be ignited to produced additional light.
The food preparation area contained a large metallic structure which kept food cool. Burden-carries-Far was all for sampling some alien edibles, but his intention was firmly vetoed by their xenologist. It was one thing to be adventurous, quite another to act in foolhardy fashion.
“It smells quite palatable,” Burden argued.
“That means nothing. They may contain all kinds of potentially lethal bacteria.” Stands-while-Sitting did consent to letting them drink the water which was provided by a small spigot, as Burden had already sampled some in the wild and had as yet shown no ill effects from the reckless consumption.
They returned to the main room, where Looks let out a sharp whistle at the most important discovery so far. His companions rushed to join him in studying the flat images attached to the back wall.
The means of reproduction used was primitive and two-dimensional, but it was sufficient to give them their first look at the natives of Shiraz.
“They look like us and yet they don’t.” Burden’s gaze moved in slow fascination from one image to the next. He shuddered slightly. “They’re furless. That, or they shave their whole bodies right down to the skin.”
“Look at all that clothing.” Looks pointed to the nearest picture. “Perhaps they only shave their exposed parts and are properly furred underneath.”
“I think Burden is correct,” said Stands. “They may need the extra garments to protect them from the weather if they are naturally hairless on their bodies.” She tapped one glass-covered image. “Yet they have some fur on their heads. Look how long it grows!”
“Perhaps it is a mating attractant,” Looks suggested.
The faces were more alien than the bodies. There were two eyes, true, but they were much smaller than those of the Quozl. Instead of lying close to the face, the nostrils protruded in a long, bony structure and were the same color as the rest of the bare skin. Only the mouths were reasonably similar, though those of the aliens were slightly wider. In several of the images the natives displayed their teeth in hostile gestures.
As for ears, Looks thought the natives possessed none at all. It was left to Stands to identify the tiny, wrinkled structures located (of all places) on the sides of the skull as possible organs of hearing. Looks had thought them simply ornamental fleshy growths. They appeared far too small to serve any useful function.
“That can’t be,” muttered Burden-carries-Far. “How could they hear anything with ears like that?”
“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?
“Barbarians whose technology has exceeded their social maturity,” was Stands-while-Sitting’s opinion. “They have not yet learned how to sublimate their violent tendencies in art and other forms of social discourse as have we. They operate sophisticated machinery with unsophisticated minds. Socially that creates a volatile situation. I wish we could learn something more of their psychology. That will have to wait until the philologists can decipher their language. One thing is clear: their violent tendencies are reflected in their behavioral responses. That’s why they are so loud. The very volume of their speech is an indication of their unrestrained primitiveness.”
“We know so little about them. How can we learn enough to cope without exposing ourselves?”
“Leave that to the experts. All I know is that the Sequencer cannot stay up, therefore it must come down. We are going to have to live here.”
It was growing dark once again, the short Shirazian day springing dusk upon them like a fisher’s net. They found a place to camp beneath one of the largest furred trees. The two-wheeled platform holding the bodies of Burden-carries-Far and the dead native stood outlined against the dimming light, a mobile icon of failure.
“There was no female present at the dwelling,” Looks-at-Charts commented. “How can that be possible? Surely the native was sexually mature?”
“Perhaps their frequency of coupling is somewhat less than ours.” Stands-while-Sitting was contemplating the alien woods, toying with one of the sharp green prongs that served these trees in place of proper leaves. “They might skip a day or two. Possibly that is where the native had been.” She turned sharply to face him. “Speaking of which …”
It struck Looks that because of their preoccupation with the events of the last couple of days neither of them had remembered to take their daily suppressants. The familiar Quozl trill rushed through him unbidden.
There was no need for words in this strange forest. They comforted each other eight times that night. When morning arrived he felt much better than he would have if they’d spent the time reciting Samizene verses to one another.
The shock felt by those who’d remained with the survey ship was as great as if they’d witnessed the double killing in person. Walks-with-Whispers fainted and it required some effort to revive him. Flies-by-Tail and Breathes-hard-Out both needed treatment to settle their digestive systems and steady their respiration. It took some time before any of them could examine the two bodies in person without hyperventilating. Such was the Quozl reaction to the murder of two intelligent beings.
And his companions had all received training, Looks-at-Charts thought. How would an ordinary colonist react? With a cataleptic seizure? Stands-while-Sitting was right. They could not even think of fighting. Even if they managed to win a few fights, the victors would be mentally impaired beyond repair.
Having recovered enough to argue, Walks-with-Whispers insisted, “We can’t return to the ship already. I’ve barely begun my studies.”
“He’s right,” agreed Breathes-hard-Out. “I’ve just begun to chart the basics of atmospheric movements here.”
“None of that matters anymore.” Stands-while-Sitting spoke with the full Elder’s intonation. “We cannot remain here.” She indicated the body of the native. “This individual may be missed by his burrow-mates. While it was not our intention to secure a specimen, events have provided us with one. The facilities for study and preservation exist only on the Sequencer. If we delay returning, this invaluable repository of information will start to decompose.”
Flies-by-Tail wrinkled her black nose. “It’s already begun to decompose.”
“My point exactly. We cannot risk being discovered here and we have already learned more than we expected to. More,” she said solemnly, “than we wanted to. If this native’s reaction to our presence was typical of what can be expected from others of its kind then we are all in danger even as I speak. Our presence on Shiraz is still a secret. Right now preservation of that secrecy is our primary task. We must leave unnoticed while we still have the chance.” She took a moment to preen importantly, underscoring her determination.
The geologist and meteorologist continued to argue against an abrupt departure but it was not a question for serious debate. In an emergency Stands-while-Sitting had command. She was backed up by Looks-at-Charts and Flies-by-Tail. The scientists continued to grumbled even as rapid preparations were made to depart.
There was some discussion about when to leave. It was decided to lift during the darkest part of the night to render visual observation from the surface as difficult as possible. Except they were not leaving, not departing, thought Looks-at-Charts as he secured his harness. They were fleeing with their dead, leaving whatever optimism they’d brought with them in their wake. They were running away to preserve the secrecy of their existence.
It was not how he’d planned to return to the Sequencer. There would be no quiet glory, no solemn triumph. One of his best friends was dead and Shiraz was worse than they’d imagined. He would have a different place in the history texts than he’d envisioned.
If the burrow survived long enough to fashion any history texts, he told himself.
Because of the development of Mazna there was ample information in the texts on how to deal with inimical primitive lifeforms. There was nothing on how to cope with a hostile intelligence, not even theories. They would have to develop a plan as it was implemented, knowing that one wrong move could result in annihilation.
His pride surged along with the hovering jets as Flies-by-Tail lifted them off the moist earth and pivoted the little vessel. They were Quozl. He ought to have more confidence in his seniors, in Stream-cuts-Through and Lifts-with-Shout and the others. They would cope because they had no other choice. He found himself reciting the first part of the Ninth Book as they emerged from the forest and Flies-by-Tail activated the drive, sending them soaring into the night sky.
There is no end.
There is no beginning.
There is only the middle.
For such small favors are we thankful
Now is hard enough to comprehend.
The decon crew that sprayed and checked them for alien bugs were bursting with questions they knew could not be answered. So were the ordinary colonists the survey team encountered in the corridors upon their release from quarantine. Only a few stared impolitely, insultingly. Most managed to keep their eyes on their business and not intrude on the surveyors’ spaces, though there were some uncivil eye contacts. By mutual consent the survey team ignored these. No one wanted to deal with matters of common courtesy now. Other outrages were uppermost in their minds.
There had been communication with the Sequencer on the way back, however, and despite every safeguard it was impossible to keep all that had happened secret. So there was a perception, a feeling among the thousands on board the ship that something on Shiraz was not quite right, that their new home was not a garden world like Azel. No one knew precisely what was wrong. They only sensed that something was.
The worst rumors about Shiraz could not compare to the reality he and his colleagues had encountered, Looks knew. He ignored the soft-voiced queries of the escort that was supposed to shield him from questions as they convoyed him to the conference chamber. The Captain was there, of course, and Lifts-with-Shout, and Senses-go-Fade, and the rest of the command staff.
When it was his turn he delivered his report as unemotionally as possible. It wasn’t easy to ignore the shocked expressions that stole over the faces of his seniors as he described the circumstances of Burden-carries-Far’s death and the subsequent killing in self-defense of the Shirazian. It was with immense relief that he concluded, sat down, and listened dully while Stands-while-Sitting presented her report in concert with the audiovisual recordings she’d made while on the surface. The delight the senior staff would ordinarily have experienced at the sight of the true clear sky, the great fur-needled trees, the fascinating alien flora and fauna, was mitigated by what they had already been told. Thus the perceptible air of apprehension that came over the room when the first images of the native dwelling appeared on the projection wall.
Looks had prepared them as best he knew how, but the room was still filled with uncharacteristic expressions of shock and dismay as the interlude with the native unfurled. Stands-while-Sitting’s recorder had been running constantly since they’d entered the native dwelling, and while the image skewed wildly with her movements, the recorder’s stabilizer still held it steady enough to show the advancing Burden-carries-Far, the explosion at the end of the metal tube, and Looks’s response.
Several of the Seniors required immediate medical treatment. There was a pause before the recording resumed, but the journey back to the survey site was all anticlimax.
When everyone had recovered sufficiently from the initial shock, the encounter sequence was replayed at normal speed, then slowly, and then was rotated to provide as many different perspectives on the action as possible. Only then did Lifts-with-Shout lean toward his pickup and speak.
“You are certain there were no other natives in the vicinity? That neither you nor the ship was observed?”
“We cannot be certain of anything,” Looks-at-Charts pointed out, “but we have discussed the matter and believe that except for the single Shirazian we encountered the area was uninhabitated. It was a solitary encounter that took place in a solitary dwelling out of line of hearing and sight of any other Shirazian habitation. In that respect we were fortunate.”
“What of the world itself?” The Captain’s voice was a grim whisper.
Stands-while-Sitting rose. “The water is mineral-rich but drinkable. The air is fresh and clean and the proportions conform to measurements made from orbit. As you saw, the smaller native flora and fauna appear harmless enough. The trees are unique, but they are true trees, as true as any on Quozlene. They are soothing to touch and to smell. This is a world worthy of worship. A world meant for Quozl.”
“Except we didn’t get here first,” muttered Lifts-with-Shout. He stared at Looks-at-Charts. “You didn’t by any chance bring the alien weapon back with you?”
“No.” Wondering if they’d made a serious mistake, he glanced over and down at Stands-while-Sitting for support. One ear flicked briefly in his direction and he relaxed a little. “We thought it important to leave the native’s dwelling as undisturbed as possible.”
“It is unlikely that anyone,” Stands-while-Sitting added, “would connect the native’s disappearance with the presence of off world visitors, but we thought it best not to leave reason for speculation.”
“You did the right thing.” Both of the Landing Supervisor’s ears drooped sadly. “But in this instance I wish you’d done the wrong thing.”
Looks-at-Charts replied calmly. “I had time to make a thorough inspection of the device. It hurls small metal projectiles with penetrating force. Primitive, but it kills as efficiently as any modern weapon. The devices the natives employ against one another are, I am told by staff, similiar except in scale.”
“Horrible,” muttered one of the senior staff members.
“Uncivilized,” sniffed another.
“Once we called such actions part of our own civilization, until we gained the wisdom of the Samizene and matured.” Stream-cuts-Through surveyed the chamber. “This is the first non-Quozl intelligence that has ever been encountered. Let us try not to judge them by our own standards.” There was silence in the chamber, polite silence as they waited.
“Obviously there can be no violence. That violence has already occurred is regrettable. Two intelligent beings have been slain.” Looks-at-Charts had already apologized profusely. He did so anew, and the staff waited approvingly until he’d concluded.
“We cannot fight and we cannot run.” The Captain turned her attention to Flies-by-Tail. “Were you able to tell if you were tracked either on arrival or upon departure?”
“We observed no natives in our immediate vicinity,” the survey pilot replied, “and none of our sensing devices was activated. That is not proof, but it is encouraging. The area we visited was as isolated as the ship’s survey staff believed it to be. We came close to no urbanized regions.”
The Captain gestured with both ears. “Before setdown we need to learn more about their aircraft. Are any extra-atmospheric, what kind of fuel do they utilize, what is their speed and range, and how are they armed? We must ensure that the path to the burrowsite is not normally overflown and that the natives can pose no serious threats to the Sequencer so long as it remains our whole world.”
A member of Lifts-with-Shout’s landing group rose deferentially. “That can largely be ascertained from orbit, Honored Captain. If they are fighting one another they will have their most advanced weapons in frequent use. We can learn where they are being employed and study them with high-resolution instrumentation.”
“Do so,” said Stream-cuts-Through curtly. “We will study your findings and make a determination as to how to proceed.” Her gaze rose as she surveyed the tense assembly. “You will all be provided with any new information as it is acquired, and will make yourselves available individually and as groups for short-notice consultation. I will explore actual options with Senses-go-Fade and his philosophers. Proceed we will, but only in accordance with the precepts of the Samizene.” A unified murmur of approval rose from the assembled staff.
Lifts-with-Shout half stood. “What should be done about preparations for touchdown and inburrowing? The colonists grow anxious. The less they hear, the more concerned they become.”
“And the more wild the rumors that circulate among them.” The Captain acknowledged the Landing Supervisor’s concerns with wide-spread ears and a double blink of the nictitating membranes that covered her eyes. “First your people can assure everyone that Shiraz does not have an atmosphere of methane and argon, which is one rumor that seems to have circulated widely.” A few amused whistles lightened the air in the chamber.
“You may as well begin. Emphasize thoroughness, downplay speed. Have everyone take their time to check and recheck. It’s time we’ll need. Commencing preparations will stop some of the rumors and mute the talk. I need hardly remind you that the proceedings of this gathering are not for general dissemination. At no time is it to be discussed with anyone not present.” She flicked her gaze in the direction of Looks-at-Charts and Flies-by-Tail, the youngest Quozl present.
“Be especially vigilant while coupling. I won’t have any member of my staff precipitating a panic.”
The two young members of the initial survey team deferentially dropped their eyes and ears.
They needed more time, of course. No matter how much time they took, Looks-at-Charts knew they would always need more. More knowledge of Shiraz and its mad inhabitants, more time to prepare the colonials, more time to consider the possibility of failure, something which the previous six generations had never had to contemplate. Many items were in short supply aboard the Sequencer after the long journey out from distant Quozlene, but none so precious as time.
Eventually the majority of ordinary colonists would have to be told, he knew. But the less time they had to reflect on the existence of a hostile non-Quozl intelligence on the world below, the less likelihood there would be of a panic. During touchdown everyone would be far too busy to mull over unworkable alternatives.
Landing Command pored over maps and statistics as they agonized over site selection. The place chosen for First Burrow had to be located in a region where the colony would have access to specific resources without drawing the attention of the Shirazians, and where they would be safely distant from the world-spanning native conflict.
The hastily assembled philology team distinguished itself by rapidly translating the most important of Shiraz’s bewildering multiplicity of languages. Their reports proved that while the natives might biologically be related to the Quozl, mentally and spiritually they were vastly different.
Soon it was obvious to anyone with a smattering of elementary mass psychology that they fought among themselves because they had not yet come to terms with something as basic as their individual sex drives. They had no idea how to control them, channel the related energies, make use of the related cerebral aspects, or sublimate their violent tendencies in art, music, and other aspects of civilized behavior. Instead they regularly engaged in physical combat both on an individual level and as organized tribal groupings.
Even the most imaginative psychologists aboard the Sequencer were astonished. Controlling the sex drive was basic to the establishment of a mature civilization. That the Shirazians had achieved a high level of civilization could not be denied. That it was socially immature was equally unarguable.
“What is remarkable,” declared a senior philosopher one day, “is not that they continue to war with each other, but that they have somehow managed under these biological circumstances to avoid exterminating themselves.”
“War is a natural and understandable by-product of their lack of control and understanding of their own hormonal systemology,” said a colleague. “It is the only means left to control the expansion of the population.”
“It goes deeper than that,” argued his senior. “Is is more basic to their civilization and affects much more than mere population growth. It affects everything about them. It would affect the way they would react to us.”
The analysts could tell nothing about Shirazian art from the native’s purely aural broadcasts, but they did record many samples of native music. It was clashing and discordant, full of the confusion that lay beneath the rest of their civilization. Such discoveries were discouraging, but there was no talk of giving up. They could not give up. Despite its incessantly warring, wild tribes, Shiraz was to be their home.
Pressed for a determination, Senses-go-Fade and the xenologists allowed as how if they landed and presented themselves to the natives there was a fifty-fifty chance they would be attacked and exterminated on the spot. The corollary was that there was a fifty-fifty chance they would be accepted and tolerated, if not welcomed with flattened ears. As these odds were not to the Captain’s liking, it was decided to continue as planned. They would select a burrowsite, touch down, secure the colony as best they could, and deal with native contact only if and when it became unavoidable.
If the colony successfully established itself and throve, staff estimated that preliminary steps to make contact might commence in reasonable safety in one to two hundred of the local years.