Alan Dean Foster - Quozl

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Other Books by Alan Dean Foster

THE LAST STARFIGHTER

SLIPT

GLORY LANE

MAORI

QUOZL

Alan Dean Foster

ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK

An Ace Book/published by arrangement with the author

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without

permission.

For information adress: The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York

10016.

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York

10016.

The name "ACE" and the "A" logo are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

This one's for Susan Allison, who already has a title. With affection.

SOMETHING WAS WRONG.

No one on the Sequencer had been able to tell him exactly what it might be, but he could

sense it. Very unscientific, he reprimanded himself. Contrary to all his training. But whatever it

was, logic failed to vanquish it.

Nor was he alone in his feelings. The uncertainty was there in the recycled air for anyone

with half a nose to sniff, was visible in the posturing of his fellow Quozl.

He asked questions of those who might know something. The directness of some of the

replies, which would have been unthinkably rude under normal circumstances, was confirmation

enough that he was not alone in his unease. The interrogated bristled at his straightforward

inquiries and he fussed and hissed under his breath at their reactions.

There was no way you could dismiss it: everyone on board was on edge.

He checked his attire carefully before leaving his room. The thin, almost fluorescent

plastic slats that formed rings around his thighs and upper arms flashed colorfully in the subdued

light. He was clad in a snug but not constricting one-piece jumpsuit of mild purple with black

speckling. With the seventh finger of his right hand he adjusted the small opening in back,

twitched his short, thick tail to make sure the suit wasn't binding.

A glance in the mirror revealed that one of the four earrings in his right ear was loose.

He tightened it, turned slightly, and raised the ear fully to admire the effect. He adjusted the

bandana around his neck, the two scarves that encircled each upper arm, and lastly the yellow and

pink sash that crossed from shoulder to waist. When going to question senior officials it was

always best to dress in a respectfully subdued fashion.

There was no need to shave again. Two narrow curves revealed by the U-cut neckline of his

jumpsuit marked him as an elite scout. The curlicues and triangles cut from his short black fur

elsewhere were purely decorative. The pair of white stripes that marked him from muzzle to tail

were natural and needed no tonsorial enhancement.

Time to get the blades in his shaver resharpened, he reminded himself. The delicate cuts

on the backs of his hands were becoming harder to maintain. No possibility of replacing the

blades. The ship could not recycle everything forever while maintaining peak efficiency, and there

were items of greater importance that had first demand on the engineering department's resources.

Of course with planetfall due any day now it would only be a matter of time before the

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Sequencer's exhausted reserves could be replenished a hundred times over. The wealth of an entire

new world would be theirs to utilize.

Except there was a problem-or so the rumors claimed.

As he left his room and strode out into the corridor he found himself admiring anew the

paneling that covered walls and ceiling. It was a nearperfect duplication of the wood of the

Tawok. He smiled inwardly. Artists and builders had long shared the same dream; to fashion a

starship entirely from wood. The ideal fusion of the aesthetic and the practical. It worked well

in sculpture but not in equations.

The Sequencer was metal and ceramic and plastic, but its decorators had filled it with

real wood and expert reproductions. The ship's interior was soothing to the eye and reassuring to

the Quozl soul, the next best thing to contemplating a real forest.

As he left the residential area behind he found himself wondering how the Sequencer's

sister ships were faring. Passes-Over-Beyond had left Quozlene orbit a year ahead of the

Sequencer. Races-Lower-Stars was due to have entered underspace half a year after Sequencer. There

was, of course, no way for them to communicate with one another, just as there was no way for them

to communicate with home.

A variable term, home. It lay ahead of them now, not behind.

One settlement ship per year, each directed to a different system determined to contain

habitable worlds. That had been the pattern for some time now. No one talked about what the

inhabitants of a ship would do if the survey turned out wrong and the system they had been

directed to proved to hold no inhabitable planets. Settlement ships could not be sufficiently

equipped for second attempts. Even though this was common knowledge there was no lack of

volunteers from perennially overpopulated Quoziene to fill the ships. It was an honor to spread

the Quozl through the firmament, and a greater one to perhaps perish in the attempt.

Occasionally Looks-at-Charts worried about his lack of Quozi spirit and would have to

retire to a chosen shrine to meditate. It was his failing to consider living better than dying,

the amount of honor one might accrue in the latter notwithstanding. His advisors tried to comfort

him by pointing out that his failing was one reason why he had been selected for training as a

scout.

You have chosen a difficult profession, they'd told him. One you may not even have the

chance to practice. You will suffer personal and possibly physical anguish as a result.

He turned a corner, wondering when the suffering might begin.

The passageway twisted and turned in simulation of an ancient Quozl tunnel. As he

progressed he passed more and more fellow ship-citizens. Before fifth-generation Elders he lowered

eyes and ears~ Members of the sixth like himself he either ignored or eyed openly, depending on

their sex or status. Youngsters of the seventh generation avoided him lest they receive a

chastising glare or noncontact cuff for appearing too friendly.

He could have taken transport forward but much preferred to walk, delighting in the

shifting smells and sight as Tawok gave way to Rebarl and especially the deep maroon and black

Sasum. Its perfume flared his nostrils, pungent and rich as only honorific polishing and cleaning

could make it.

Art filled the unwood places, occupying the mind's eye when honest grain and color were

absent. Some of it was static, some kinetic. Looks-at-Charts studied it all with equal respect.

Most of it was familiar but occasionally there would be a new piece, rendered by an artist of the

present generation. Those considered to be masterworks he automatically bobbed before. Many had

been carried and cared for lovingly all the way from Quozlene itself, parting gifts from the

homeworld. Though their creators were long dead, their work lived on to inspire new generations of

artists who might choose also to work in paint or sandbark or dyeshot.

He turned the next corner to the music of giggling and whispers. There were two of them

and in his artistic perusing he'd almost run into them. Having interrupted their space rendered

their laughter polite. One was brown-spotted cream color with brown facial and body stripes. Her

companion was pure beige with white striping. Scarves and shaving placed them in food service. Not

of the elite or of his class, but comely for all that. What Quozi female wasn't comely?

They were ready enough. A Quozl was ready most of its waking hours, ready and eager.

Furthermore they appeared to be off-shift. Not much time in the span of a day, ample time in the

span of love. All four green eyes that gazed openly back at him indicated he could have either or

both of them. He wondered how much of their interest was piqued by his posture and how much by his

rank and unusual occupation.

He automatically checked the chronometer on his workbelt. Plenty of time. When it was done

with, all three parted satisfied, he forward, they back to work. As it always did, the encounter

filled him with fresh Quozl purpose. Having noted their names and places of work he fully intended

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to look them up again sometime. Perhaps they could bristle together for several days running. They

had been refreshing individually and in concert, a change from his usual routine.

He did not worry about the slim chance of having sired offspring. In the whole seven-

generation history of the Sequencer there had been only two such incidents. The first had been an

innocent error involving the ingestion of expired oocide. The second had been, insofar as the

court which had judged the case had been able to determine, deliberate, and both parents had been

ejected into interstellar space.

Hard to believe, but true. The records of the third-generation were there for all to

peruse. Two Quozi had violated the onboard edicts restricting procreation. One incident in seven

generations was not a bad record, but you still had to be on your guard, still found yourself

sometimes wondering. If he did sire an unauthorized embryo and was determined to be the father, he

would soon find himself embracing vacuum.

It was the only way. Penalties had to be severe lest chaotic coupling reign. The Quozl

were incredibly fecund. Without restrictions the Sequencer would find itself fatally overpopulated

within a couple of generations. Which was why there were settlement ships in the first place.

Pressure existed on the homeworld to expand despite all the chemical restraints Quozl biologists

had developed. Onboard births were permitted, but only according to strictly enforced quotas.

So the pair he had coupled with would not become pregnant. In a few hours they would be

ready again and so would he. Without drugs to render them infertile both would surely have

conceived.

It was appropriate that the symbol which adorned each settlement ship represented the

empty female natal pouch.

As he entered the central recreation oval he was able to see the huge, complex sculpture

by the adored artist Grand-cuts-Standover, a priceless gift from the citizens of a dozen large

Quozlene cities to the generations that would crew the Squencer. It dominated the open area,

reaching to the very apex of the dimpled ceiling. The sculpture had been cut from a single massive

Aveltmar tree, the roots and branches having been etched by a Master of Carving. Fountains hung

from its shaped and tooled branches, water collecting in pools scooped from flaring roots. Benches

and lounges were scattered about its base, surrounded by growing plants whose daily needs were

attended to by meticulous gardeners. On the Sequencer those who took care of growing things had

the same status as engineers.

That was only fair, since it was just as important to do that which helped maintain sanity

as to do that which maintained engines. Simpler to care for plastic and metal than minds made of

flesh and blood.

Quozl wandered through the open place or rested and relaxed beneath the massive carved

tree: courting, fighting, or simply staring at the water. Engraved in the center of the thick

Aveltmar trunk was a panoply from Quozi history, fourteenth Anarchic Era. Here a Quozl warrior

clad in ancient armor took a spear in the belly. Blood and intestines spilled from the gaping

wound, all realistically depicted. His companion was in the process of losing his head, his

attacker's sword halfway through the neck, blood gushing in a frozen explosion from the

traumatized veins.

It was much the same everywhere: multiple figufes of Quozl and their

Dermicular mounts fighting and bleeding and dying, crushed or cut to bits.

Crowning the sculpture was a photographic rendering of the Water Clans

General Soft-cries-Nightly trampling several children of the enemy under the hooves of his

Dermicular.

Looks-at-Charts paused for a moment (you couldn't help but pause) to soak up the violent

scene. The reddish wood of the Aveltmar made the blood and torn organs appear so real, lit by the

indirect lights set in the ceiling. It was a powerful reaffirmation of the Quozl spirit, restful

and relaxing to his soul. Refreshed and content, he walked on.

Not far before a figure stepped in front of him. The Quozl's scarves were bright blue and

off-green except for the single yellow and green he wore tight around his right thigh. His

jumpsuit was green with blue slashes crisscrossing the snug material. Like Looks-at-Charts his fur

was dark, though his eyes were blue and not purple like the scout's. A single strap running across

his chest supported an electronic snarp, its strings and switches glinting in the soft light.

Looks-at-Charts couldn't tell at a glance if it was charged for playing, but it was clear

regardless that High-red-Chanter was on his way either to or from work.

"It pains me deeply to interrupt your progress in this manner, but there is a small

insignificant matter that requires mutual attention."

"It's no bother at all," Looks-at-Charts replied appropriately. "I am only sorry you find

it necessary to waste your valuable time on unworthy communication. A brief note to my room would

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surely have sufficed."

"Electronic communication lacks eloquence." High-red-Chanter shifted nervously from one

huge foot to the other. "Though I likewise regret the loss of time, I find it unavoidable."

"Since you have taken the time to interrupt your important schedule, the least I can do is

pause to listen." Looks-at-Charts promptly assumed combat position, selecting the Aki stance, ears

swept safely back behind the head and down, one arm tucked back and ready to block, the other held

forward in preparation for striking. His knees were bent and his toes raised, ready to kick.

High-red-Chanter chose the Omo bracket, both arms held parallel to each other and the

floor. It was less traditional, more daring. Other members of the crew swerved around them,

chatting among themselves and ignoring the two potential combatants.

Looks-at-Charts suffered some embarrassment because of their exposed position in the

middle of the walkway. High-red-Chanter should have confronted him in the park courtyard or off to

one side. Now neither could leave until the confrontation ended.

Wasting no time, he took one step and brought his right leg up in a formal opening kick.

It was delivered with precision, stopping a thumb's length from High-red-Chanter's stomach. The

musician brought his left arm down to block the kick. Foot brushed stomach and forearm grazed leg.

Both Quozl assumed new stances, the initial exchange having been properly met.

Looks-at-Charts had a pretty good idea what this was all about. Simply because every

nonmated male on the ship was available to every nonmated female and vice versa did not mean there

was no such thing as jealousy among shipmates. There was one lustrous-furred supple young thing

who worked in Agriculture who had attracted more than passing attention from both kicking,

punching Quozl. Her name was Tie-grow-Green and though she tried, she could not dispel the

animosity that seemed to erupt of its own accord between scout and musician whenever she was

discussed.

Frankly Looks-at-Charts was surprised that High-red-Chanter hadn't tried to force the

issue before now. The musician was notoriously nervous and unreasonable. Looks-at-Charts drew

inspiration from the unsurpassed sculpted tree that dominated the gathering area. He would not

back down. There was principle at stake here. He struck with a clenched fist.

"I'll see your genitals broiled!" the musician snarled as he leaped and twisted. Looks-at-

Charts could have brought his fist up hard but naturally did not. His fingers extended to flick

the lowermost edge of High-red-Chanter's jumpsuit just as his opponent spun to bring the outside

part of his foot around in a scything arc. The ship sandal kissed the shaven circle on Looksat-

Charts's left cheek.

High-red-Chanter was good, Looks had to admit as he changed position once again. The fight

continued, the two Quozl circling and feinting and striking. The conversation was as important as

the blows they threw. Passing crew avoided them. Rarely were any rude enough to stare. Neither of

the combatants paid them the least attention.

Looks-at-Charts drew his inspiration from the wooden cascade of mutilated and eviscerated

figures that dominated the great wooden artifact nearby, sought strength in the frozen waterfalls

of blood so lovingly rendered from the soul of the tree. High-red-Chanter sang to himself, martial

music both ancient and new. Looks-at-Charts recognized much of it. He appreciated fine art and

High-Red-Chanter was one of the most accomplished young musicians on the ship. Looks had often

admired his work.

He was not as enamored of Tie-grow-Green as the musician was, but a challenge once issued

could not be ignored. If he'd walked away in front of witnesses his status would have suffered. A

scout wasn't supposed to walk away from anything. Lose that and the next female might not be so

interested in coupling. His frequency of intercourse might fall from a normal, healthy four or

five times a day to one or two. Eventually that would impact on his work performance. He had no

choice but to accept High-red-Chanter's invitation.

Because of his scout training, Looks-at-Charts enjoyed advantages in skill and strength,

though High-red-Chanter was more flexible in his movements. As was to be expected from an artist

his language was also more elaborate. Looks appreciated the beauty of it even as he struggled to

parry and thrust. Not that he was unskilled in the use of the spoken insult himself, but he spent

so much time preparing for the day that might not come that his social skills suffered from

neglect. His nouns were rusty and his tenses loose. High-red-Chanter scored repeatedly and Looks

immediately realized that if he was going to emerge victorious from this contest it would have to

be on the physical level.

So evenly matched were they that the contest might have continued until both withdrew from

exhaustion, until High-red-Chanter risked a difficult double kick and flip maneuver. It was harder

than stringing together adjectives to form a spear of vituperation. The complex leap should have

been attempted only by an expert in the form. While willing, High was no specialist.

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Even as he ducked to avoid the blow, Looks-at-Charts admired the determination which had

driven the musician to try it in the restrictive confines of a ship's corridor. High executed the

flip and double kick impressively, but it took all he had simply to accomplish the move. At the

end he didn't have enough to exercise proper control. The claw on his seventh and outside big toe

skimmed Looks-at-Charts's left arm, which was held in the correct defensive position. Unable to

manage the swing, High-red-Chanter could not stop himself from breaking the skin of his opponent,

slicing through the dark fur.

Looks-at-Charts did not blink, did not wince. He saw the bright red blood foaming up

through the bristles. A red mist formed over his eyes, indicating the onset of the fury which

every Quozl is taught from birth to deny. He forced himself to recite the first line of the

ancient First Book of the Samizene. Peace returned to blanket his emotions, the mist faded, the

ages receded.

Landing on both feet and stumbling only slightly, the musician assumed a stance

preparatory to throwing a choke hold. "The veins in your throat will grow stiff as the branches of

a Samum, your blood will become as water. . .

He stopped as he watched blood run down his opponent's arm. Looks-atCharts adopted a

defensive posture even as he quickly raised a scarf to try and hide the wound. He was too late.

High-red-Chanter had seen the blood. His expression tensed, lips held firmly shut over clenched

teeth, then assumed a submissive position: head bowed, ears front and down, elbows out, and all

fourteen fingers interlocked to show contrition. He was barely able to control the anger in his

voice.

"I have drawn blood and broken flesh. I stand ashamed before you." He knelt on one knee,

resting his backside on the protruding heel of a long foot. "Defeat comes to me like a bad dream

in the night."

Having won, Looks-at-Charts felt terrible. "I rain apologies on you for this accident."

Because of the embarrassment he knew that High-red-Chanter would be impossible to interact with

for days to come.

Looks-at-Charts's apology would only make it worse for the musician, but there was no

other way to handle it. His clumsiness had cost him and he would have to live with that.

"This is not over," High-red-Chanter mumbled. "I will challenge you for her again."

"It was nothing of importance. You magnify everything. And you were winning. I wish it

could have been otherwise."

"No, the miss was mine, as was the challenge." The musician rose, having held the

submissive position just long enough. He was unable to meet his opponent's gaze. "I was not

skilled in that maneuver and should not have tried it. I let my ambition and anger get the better

of me. That will not happen again."

"Yes, another time things may go differently." While Looks-at-Charts's voice was full of

sympathy, his stance indicated his true feelings.

"It is thoughtful of you to say so." Anger burning within, High-red-Chanter spun and

stomped off into the recreation area.

Looks-at-Charts waited until his rival had been swallowed by the crowd, then resumed his

walk forward. It was fortunate that the musician had drawn blood because on the verbal level, at

least, he had been winning handily.

Hundreds of years ago there would have been no attempt to score status with a near miss, a

passing strike. Then each blow would have landed and more than blood would have been drawn. Eyes

would have been gouged, genitals crushed, bones broken. That was the old way of the Quozl, the way

of the ancients. The way depicted in so much Quozl art. It had been the only way of coping with

the phenomenal Quozl fecundity. Nature had tried disease and famine but in the end it was the

Quozi themselves who were the only ones able to limit their population. They had chosen war.

Centuries of it.

Then had come artificial methods of birth control, and the Books of the Samizene to show

the Quozl a new way, and the teachings of Over-beAround and the great philosophers.

You could still fight, but combat became a ritualized art form instead of organized

murder. You won by almost disabling, almost killing, almost cut-

ring. To actually make contact more than fur-deep was to lose, both in status and in the fight

itself. Hence High-red-Chanter's embarrassment at having drawn blood.

A poor fighter might try to win by deliberately courting contact, but a skilled opponent

could always dodge and adjust. Fighting became a matter of control. It was necessary therapy for

the calmest Quozl. One could draw solace from the violence that flowed through most Quozl art. All

the old, dangerous, primitive tendencies had been subliminated. What could be studied did not have

to be acted out, what could be seen did not have to be repeated.

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Such fight-dancing was frequent. Had it been otherwise the ship's psychologists would have

become concerned.

One simultaneously fought with words. That had been High-red-Chanter's strength and Looks-

at-Chart's weakness. He had fought back as best he could, however, confident that the emotional

musician would eventually make a mistake. Which was exactly what had happened.

Be not too proud, he told himself. His special training had stood him in good stead, but

he had not received it to gain status among his peers. Fill a pouch too full and it will burst. He

had learned more control than most Quozl because one day he might have to demonstrate that control

under unimaginable circumstances.

He turned up the corridor that would eventually lead him back to his room, wondering

whether to look for a coupling or simply some rest. The two techs from Agriculture had given him

good and he wouldn't be ready to go again until he'd had something to eat. Proof arrived in the

shape of an attractive colonial with black fur and yellow eyes whom he deliberately avoided. Fuel

first. The fight had taken a lot out of him.

He considered watching a viewplay, perhaps an amusement or something similar requiring

little mental effort. He could study the Samizene or simply sleep awhile. As a scout there was

little for him to do except study.

Soon it would be different, he told himself. It was all but assured. What was hard to do

was to maintain the proper air of indifference, to show control when sheer anticipation threatened

to put you in the infirmary from exhaustion.

He was quite at peace with himself as he entered his residence, though he still felt some

regret at the manner in which High-red-Chanter had lost the fight. Sprawling on the bed-lounge he

idly called up recent work on his viewer. They were too familiar to him by now to hold his

interest. He'd memorized them years ago: theoretical geography, adaptive botany, field survival,

and basic surveying, all information based on facts provided by the citizens of the three worlds

the Quozl had first settled. Many settlement ships had been sent out since, but thus far only the

inhabitants of Azel,

Mazna, and Moszine had progressed far enough to build ships capable of making the return journey

to Quozlene.

As he scanned the statistics he was as amazed as ever at the variations that could exist

within a single star system. A scout had to be ready to deal with all of them in addition to the

unexpected. Three worlds plus Quozlene itself did not seem sufficient background to draw upon.

There would be surprises. There could not be too much preparation. He and his colleagues Flies-by-

Tail and Breeds-cloud-Out had committed everything available to memory.

The device could also synthesize scenarios by extrapolating upon known facts. For example,

it could assume slightly less oxygen and more methane in an atmosphere and postulate the resultant

vegetation accordingly. Such syntheses were amusing but insufficient. A mockup by its very nature

must ignore certain important factors.

Such ignorance caused Looks-at-Charts to feel the weight of responsibility more than ever.

It was going to be up to him and his associates to help decide where the Sequencer should land,

where the colony would try to establish itself on the new world. Someone had to be first. Not that

he wanted it any other way. In temperament and intelligence he was perfectly suited to the task

he'd chosen and for which he'd studied so hard. His whole life had been aimed toward the moment

that was fast approaching.

Stares-down-Canyons had died a cycle ago without having the chance to fulfill his dream.

He had been fifth generation and Looks-at-Charts's mentor, drilling him in his studies while

knowing all the while that unless the original calculations proved wrong he would never set foot

on the new world, never have the chance to exercise the skills he had mastered. His patience and

good humor had made the impossible seem attainable to the young Looks.

Stares should be here, Looks-at-Charts thought sadly. Not I. He recited several phrases

from the Fifth Book which dealt with feelings of inadequacy and immediately felt better.

Landscapes and climates flashed across the viewer box, mirrored in his eyes. Bored, he

switched to information on Mazna, always more interesting than statistics from Azel or Moszine

because unlike them, Mazna had turned out to harbor hostile lifeforms. The first two colonies had

been established with comparative ease. In contrast, Mazna had been a fight.

Details were so few, he mused in frustration. By now there must be dozens of other Quozl

colonies scattered across the firmament, but none save the first three had advanced enough to

return a vessel to Quoziene with helpful information. For all he knew, half a dozen such ships had

arrived home subsequent to the Sequencer's departure. Any one of them might hold the solution to a

forthcoming problem. It was a solution he would never see. Communication between worlds traveled

no faster than a settlement ship

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itself, though here were always stories and rumors of new scientific developments. It was

intolerable.

Useless it was, and stressful, to sulk over such things. For all practical purposes

Quozlene, Azel, and the rest did not exist. Nothing existed except the Sequencer and those aboard

her. The ship was a ponderous giant, a slowly moving island of intelligence and life making its

way through a dumb, ferocious cosmos. Isolation was their pouch, not Quozlene. Not for the past

six generations. Sometime in the far future his great-great-great-offspring might succeed in

building a ship to return with news of the colony's success, but he would not know of it, nor

would any of his contemporaries.

More out of frustration than need he shifted the viewer from the education lines to the

primary entertainment line. He found himself watching a depiction of the epic Fourth Dynastic War

which pitted the Northern and Eastern United Clans of ancient Quozlene against the Southern. The

depiction required days of nonstop viewing and he had yet to watch it all the way through. It was

full of the kind of sweep and spectacle which entralled the colonists who had been born on the

ship, and which for thousands of cycles had made Quozlene a living hell.

Within a short time he had witnessed less than half a dozen disembowelings and as many

beheadings, interspersed with scenes of ritual torture and dismemberment, but he was not

disappointed. Even in an epic some time had to be reserved for necessary explication. Some of the

performers were legends or so the accompanying history of the making of the epic insisted. They

were dead now, but their images lived and breathed and drifted within the depths of the viewer.

They had achieved electronic immortality.

He found himself nodding off, the curved sides of his bed-lounge enclosing him pouchlike,

the false wood walls arching overhead and the viewer humming softly high above his feet as it

disgorged shrunken depictions of ancient massacres.

His mind's eye was filled with dreams of the new world. In them he was the first to stand

on its rich soil, to survey a paradise compared to which Azel was a desert. A second Quozl stood

beside him, sleek of fur and bright of eye, the most beautiful he'd ever seen. They coupled

repeatedly while his communicator frantically asked for details.

Though he was not yet of age and had yet to qualify according to the standards set for

procreation, he dreamed also of siring offspring, of fulfilling the central Quozl purpose of

replication, of watching youngsters moving inside their mothers' pouches. Soon it would no longer

be a fantasy, With a whole new world to fill, the chemical inhibitors everyone ingested in their

daily meals would be removed and impregnation could commence unrestrained.

Unless their new home turned out to be another Mazna, hostile and

threatening. In that case he, Looks-at-Charts, would show the way, beating back the flora and

fauna until the colony was safely established. Nothing could stop him, nothing could hold him

back.

They would raise a memorial to him. His offspring and his children's offspring would do

him homage as the first to set foot on the new world. Looks-at-Charts the Great. Looks-at-Charts

the Honored. Looks-at-Charts the Unsurpassed.

They would admire him as one whose taste was unequaled.

He could hear the acclaim, feel the roar of adulation wash over him, and he accepted it as

his due even though he knew he couldn't really be hearing it because he was asleep, asleep and

then he wasn't and it wasn't the whistling from thousands of throats that brought him awake but

rather the insistent whine of his viewer.

Absent the epic and in its place a disapproving face staring back at him. Tell-no-Fury was

addressing him in appropriately honorific terms, but he was not wasting time. That befitted the

senior member of the Landing Preparation staff. Looks-at-Charts blinked double lids and sat up

fast, his future glory a rapidly fading memory.

"I am terribly sorry to have interrupted your rest. Please forgive me," said Tell-no-Fury.

Looks-at-Charts was properly ashamed for not having been available to respond. Technically he was

on duty.

"It was unforgivable and I can't find a proper excuse."

"There is no need for excuses." What Tell-no-Fury was actually saying was that he was good

and mad but that he didn't have the time to waste on bawling the young scout out because he had

something more important on his mind. As if this wasn't sufficiently apparent in his tone, both

ears were turned down and forward.

"The meeting," he explained quietly.

Meeting. . . . Look-at-Charts checked his chronometer and his eyes squeezed shut in shock.

The meeting. His encounter with High-red-Chanter had caused him to forget. No wonder Tell-no-Fury

was so upset!

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Alan Dean Foster - Quozl

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