Quozl (32 page)

“Calm down. None of those things are going to happen. Because nobody knows anything about the Quozl except what they've seen on television. The government doesn't know the Quozl exist. The rednecks and the televangelists and the xenophobic types don't know the Quozl exist.”

He gaped at her. “I don't want to shatter the neat little illusion you've constructed for yourself, but you've put them right there on Saturday morning television for everyone to see. It's only a matter of time before the dangerous types figure everything out.”

“Really? Before they figure out what, Chad? That a Saturday morning kid show about friendly aliens is based on reality? How are they going to do that? As far as any other human being is concerned, the Quozl are nothing but a product of one writer's imagination. Mine. How many of the shows have you actually sees? Not many, I'll bet, or you would've been here sooner. How many?”

He found himself studying one of the courtyard palms. “Well only one, so far.”

“One. If you'd been watching since the start of the first season you'd know that none of the episodes say anything about a Quozl colony hidden in the Idaho mountains. None of them mention their arrival on Earth. That's one of the beauties of children's television. You put something on the air and it exists as of that moment. There's no need for history or explanation. Even if I had mentioned the actual colony it wouldn't matter because nobody would take it seriously. This is
kidvid
, Chad. Not
Masterpiece Theater
.

“The Quozl in the show live near a small town in Southern California. I used Ojai for my model, but it could be anywhere. They interact freely with kids and act like overgrown adolescents themselves. They're about as much like the real Quozl as the Care Bears or the Smurfs.” She rocked back in her chair.

“They're no more real to this audience, no more betrayed, than if Sylvester and Tweety Pie were thought to be living secret existences in Greenwich Village. They're less real to the kids who watch the show than are Henson's Fraggles. They're not even puppets; they're two-dimensional drawings. As for the adults, the only time they think about Quozl at all is when their kids are bugging them to buy the latest book or action figure or stick-on.”

He stared at her. “You can't believe it's going to stay that way forever.”

“Why not?” Her smile was back. “Chill out, little brother. The Quozl's secret is as secure as it ever was. Nobody suspects their existence now any more than they did twenty years ago. The Quozl are cartoon characters that
I
invented. Nothing more. You're the only human being who knows otherwise, and you're not going to tell. So what are you so worried about?”

“I'll tell you what I'm worried about! I'm worried that …” He stopped in mid-worry. The inescapability of her logic was oppressive.

If he or anyone else was to suggest that the Quozl were anything other than animated fictions they'd find themselves locked up for observation.

“You're not going to get away with this.”

“Of course I am. I've been getting away with it for three years and I'm going to continue to get away with it for as long as the show runs. If we're lucky, five or six years. Then the Quozl will fade away like most other kid shows. It won't matter because by then I'll be an established name in the industry.”

She was perfectly right, of course. There was no way he could stop her, no way he could punish her. “You're not going back to the lake,” he told her lamely. “You're not going to see Runs or any of the others ever again.”

“Of course I am.” Her smile widened. “I need material for the next season. We've already been picked up, by the way. The third year's the key when it comes to residuals. Do you have any idea how much money we're talking about here, little brother?” She leaned toward him and he drew back as if from something covered in spines.

“Look, you've been crawling back and forth to school in that beat-up old junker of yours, running on regular and prayer. That's when it wasn't in the shop and you had to find a bus. Why don't you go buy yourself something new? Pick out whatever you like and have the dealer charge it to me. It's the least I can do. If it hadn't been for you I'd never have found out about the Quozl and there'd be no show. I'd still be trying to sell that stupid novel and magazine articles at a hundred bucks a pop. How about,” she asked him with a twinkle in her eyes, “a nice new Corvette?”

She couldn't have broken his train of thought any more effectively had she shot him. He swallowed.

“That's a thirty-thousand-dollar car.”

“No problem. It'll put a dent in my bank account, but like I said, you deserve it, and with the show already renewed there'll be plenty of money coming in. Those stuffed toys you saw, the game board, the action figures and drink glasses, I've got a piece of all that.”

“As the ‘originator,'” he said sarcastically.

“Yeah, that's right, little brother. I've bought Mom and Dad a few things.”

He nodded. “You sent them on that trip to Europe last year, didn't you?”

“Sure. They could always get places because of Dad's job, but they could never afford to stay in the nice hotels, eat in the good restaurants. This time they could. I took care of that. Why shouldn't I take care of my little brother as well? If you don't want the Corvette, how about a new Taurus or RX-7? You can use the difference to get yourself a new tv, a vcr, or a computer that didn't come out of a cereal box.

“I should have made the offer before, but I was always afraid you'd ask where the money was coming from. No reason for holding back now.”

“You're so altruistic, so thoughtful. I may puke. I'm not taking any of your tainted money, Mindy.”

“Tainted?”

“You're exploiting trust for money.”

She sighed tiredly. “I thought we'd settled that. There's been no betrayal. The secret of the colony is as safe as ever. As for the money, if you don't want it, that's up to you. I can't force you to take what's due you. It'll stay in my own account. Is that more fair?”

“It's not more fair, it's just …” He stopped, confused. His sister had always been so much better with words than he. He'd come into the office with his mind made up and she'd subtly and quietly demolished a number of his certainties.

Several of them had been replaced by the image of himself gliding smoothly through Westwood Village, lowering power windows at a touch and letting the advanced Delco stereo blast across paralleling lanes of traffic while the blonde California girls turned to admire the sleek vehicle and its suave pilot. Not an easy image to toss in the garbage. He saw himself going wherever he wanted to on the weekends without worrying about breaking down every tenth mile or needing money for repairs. Angrily he shook the dream aside.

“I'm not buying a Corvette with that money.”

She shrugged. “Up to you. I can get eight and a quarter, compounded daily.”

“I think …” Determination flushed out of him in a green flood. “I think I'll get the Mazda instead.”

He tried not to look at the sly grin that spread across her face. “That's my baby brother. Keep some money in the bank for emergencies. Much more sensible. You were always so sensible, Chad. In a pinch I always knew I could rely on that.”

“I'm only doing this,” he said sharply, “so you can't use the money.”

“Naturally. You'll punish me as much as I'll let you.”

Having voluntarily relinquished the moral high ground, he resorted to the only avenue left to him. “Make this year the last one, Mindy. You've made a lot of money, you've made a name for yourself. You won't need to do this anymore. It's got to stop.”

“It'll stop, Chad. It'll stop when the network declines to exercise its option and the products stop selling. Meanwhile no harm's being done to the Quazl. If you can prove otherwise, do so. If not, then go buy your car. I've got work to do.” She turned to face the computer terminal and switched it on, began typing with the ease of long: practice.

He watched her as her fingers flew over the keyboard. “I just want to say one more time that I think what you've dose is terribly wrong. It's dishonest, it's immoral, and it's the greatest betrayal of trust I've ever seen.”

“You're young,” she replied cryptically without looking up from the screen. “Wait 'til you've lost in love a few times. Until then don't talk to me about betrayal. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, turning away. “Do I have the dealer call here or should I call you and leave his number?”

XV.

H
E'D BEEN IN
the complex devoted to surface studies many times before. As the principal intermediary between the natives and the colony his advice was in constant demand by the scientists and researchers who had made humanity their special area of interest. He was more or less at their beck and call.

He knew many of the senior and junior specialists by name, but not the young technician clad in blue and white who met him at the entrance and escorted him inside. She turned him over to Short-key-Leaps, the startlingly black-striped head of department. While Runs waited curiously, Short concluded what he was doing and then gestured for the younger Quozl to follow as they made their way deeper into the complex. Runs remained a respectful distance behind the Elder, asking no questions, keeping well clear of the other's Sama.

Shoit-key-Leaps entered a back room new to Runs that was filled to the point of constriction with gleaming, newly manufactured equipment. A Quozl of his own generation glanced over at them as they entered but did not hold the stare long enough to be guilty of discourtesy. Runs was immediately attracted to her. She did not respond at all. Her tail remained limp behind her, both ears stayed bent forward. It was an expression of noninterest that bordered on the insulting, but he displayed no reaction. There had to be a reason for her unQuozl-like indifference. His thoughts knotted as he came up alongside Short-key-Leaps.

“Trouble, Honored Senior? Are there humans in the vicinity?” That was the constant concern, that natives other than his friends might unknowingly come into the main valley and somehow stumble across one of the camouflaged entrances or air vents, or encounter a study team caught on the surface.

“That is not the problem,” the Senior told him, simultaneously informing him that a problem indeed existed.

Short-key-Leaps wore a wonderful left-balanced necklace matched by the three earrings in his opposite ear, all fashioned of a local wood which Chad had identified as sugar pine. Like anything made of Shirazian timber it was extremely valuable. Great care had been lavished on the carving and polishing.

As the Senior spoke, the female left her seat and moved to lock the only door. This action was so extraordinary and unexpected Runs could not find the proper words to employ in reference to it. As she returned to her position, Short-key-Leaps whispered to her in passing. She bent an ear by way of acknowledgment, resumed her seat, and nudged contact points on the console in front of her. As a small viewscreen brightened she spoke in an efficient monotone.

“I am Tries-simple-Glow. It is my task to study native entertainment and information transmissions, which I have been doing for many cycles. It is important work, full of surprises. Just when you think you understand the natives something utterly unexpected occurs to alter your preconceptions.”

Why was she lecturing him on human habits, he wondered? Him, Runs-red-Talking, of all people! But with a Senior present he dare not interrupt to question her. He wondered idly if she found his attire off-putting.

Patience, he told himself. Her intent will clarify along with the images.

“For many cycles it was difficult to pick up native visual transmissions, until the concealed antenna was positioned atop the north ridge and the humans began utilizing satellites to relay their signals. This improved our access to information enormously, but because of the proliferation of such signals it is very difficult to monitor all such transmissions. In past cycles particular transmissions were singled out for especial study. This resulted in the unfortunate concurrent neglect of other transmissions.

“Those signals were checked and recorded for future examination at less frequent intervals. They consist mainly of harmless entertainments and diversions of much less interest than the information and serious cultural broadcasts.”

“Sometimes the most innocuous is constructed upon the most critical,” the Senior observed philosophically.

“One such diversion caught the attention of a beginning researcher. It was checked against possible similar diversions. A match was made. The information was processed for advanced study. This diversion has been my particular area of interest for the past several cycles. It is one of those transmissions which recur at predictable intervals, which makes continued study feasible. It is what the natives refer to as a ‘wild feed' and was found during a chance emission search. Otherwise we would still be ignorant of its existence.”

She adjusted a control, bringing the screen to life. Short-key-Leaps stared intently at the viewer. Runs felt it incumbent to do likewise.

What he saw froze his genitals to his pubic bone.

Drawings. Moving drawings done in typical native style. Drawings that depicted the Quozl interacting with humans. To his horror he saw one that quite resembled himself. Others looked like scientists he had taken to meet with his friends Chad and Mindy. Still others resembled no Quozl who had ever lived.

The broadcast was a mix of reality and nightmare, documentary and dream. The drawn Quozl spoke with the deafening volume of humans and employed humanlike gestures and facial expressions. They even “smiled.”

As he watched, the miniature drama began to take shape and he experienced a second shock. The story being depicted was familiar to him. It was based on the time a nightlight scanner had exploded in the hands of the scientist using it, resulting in a comitragic attempt to render joint human-Quozl first aid.