Quozl (45 page)

There was no longer any Mindy, either. She had passed away five, no, six years ago. Arlo was in poor health and unable to attend but sent along best wishes anyway. All their differences and initial dislike aside, he'd turned out to be a pretty decent brother-in-law. Chad had never married—been too busy, somehow—but he had several nieces and nephews, who doted on their famous uncle.

The back route led him to the VIP lounge where he was able to watch the investiture surrounded by people and Quozl almost as famous as himself. It was fascinating, violent, and satisfying, as with most things Quozl. It was rich with elaborate chants, mock battles (which originally had not been mock), splendid costumes, and ancient music. All this he was comfortable with.

What he found hard to accept was Runs-red-Talking, who was the object of all the attention. He could only think of the now graying Quozl as he'd first seen him, lying motionless at the bottom of a mountain pool, gazing thoughtfully toward the sky as he slowly drowned.

But he didn't drown, Chad reminded himself. I pulled him out. For this.

He stood down there, the center of attention, ears bent, his enormous feet platformed on the sandals of office. Television crews manned both by humans and Quozl sent images and a running commentary around the world. An investiture of one of the Seven didn't happen every day.

When the ceremony was over, Chad hobbled down with the rest of the dignitaries to pay his respects. He could sense the eyes on him, hear the murmurs as he was recognized and people stood aside so he could pass. It was useful to be famous.

Runs-red-Talking beamed from beneath his formal attire as he spotted his old friend approaching. His ears, while weak, managed to bob by way of greeting. There were many cameras focused on them.

Only when the media began to focus its attention elsewhere did Runs lean close to whisper. “Now that we are done with this nonsense you must spend some time with me.” His voice was still high and Quozl frail.

“It's been a while, hasn't it?” Chad was aware that two premiers and a president were waiting awkwardly in line behind him, anxious to shake the hand of the new Senior Elder.

“Come back tomorrow,” Runs told him. “We'll make a journey. Let's go back to the old river.”

“To the shrine?” Chad asked, referring to the impressive monument that had been raised by the frog pond.

“No. Too many tourists there. Let's go farther upstream, where we used to camp.”

“I'd like that. Worlds change, civilizations rise and fall, but nature is a constant. She knows how to take her time. I fear she's taken most of mine.”

“Mine as well.”

They parted, with Chad agreeing to return the next day. In fact, he ended up visiting for several days, enjoying balmy mornings and hot mountain afternoons in the company of his old friend. Despite the plethora of people anxious to wait on two such famous personages they still managed to find time to themselves, to sit alone by the river and reminisce.

Eventually the last day dawned, as last days inevitably do. Chad would take his private plane back to Los Angeles while Runs would retire to his ceremonial post at La Paz. They did not let sentiment cloud their parting. They were too old and too wise for that.

“It worked out well, didn't it, Chad?” Runs asked.

“Well enough, though unexpectedly so.”

“I wish the original elders could see how things have gone. I wish all the landing crew of the
Sequencer
could see. Death can be such an irritation.”

Chad forgot himself for a moment and smiled, but quickly quashed it. “Time to say goodbye again. I know you will bring respect to your office.” They gripped hands and Runs's ears dipped. The handshake lingered and Chad frowned. “Was there something else?”

For an instant Runs-red-Talking seemed to hesitate. Then he said with conviction, “No. Nothing else. Farewell. Visit down south when you can.”

“I will. I promise.”

Runs-red-Talking watched his old friend limp down the corridor. As if in response to an unvoiced call a young human materialized at the controls of an electric transport. He helped the old man into the passenger seat and whisked him away, along with a cartful of memories.

Runs turned to go, only to find his way blocked by another vehicle. It was small and entirely self-contained. It had to be, because its occupant could no longer walk. The new Senior Elder stared through the dim light. Then he dipped his ears very low, blocking his eyes and offering himself in the ancient posture of complete helplessness. His tone dripped submission, and gladly.

“I am overwhelmed with honor by your presence, distant relation.”

“Uncover your eyes.” The voice was so thin it was almost inaudible, even to another Quozl. “I try never to miss an investiture.”

Runs lifted his ears, straightened proudly. “How may I honor?”

“Talk with me awhile. My days used to be precious. Now the moments are.”

They chatted of inconsequential things, Runs realizing he would remember this conversation for the rest of his life. Eventually he was emboldened to ask a question which had troubled him all his life.

“You could be a Senior Elder. You are due great honor, yet you refuse it and choose to dwell instead in comparative anonymity. The younger generation which would adore you lives largely in ignorance of your very existence. Why? I apologize profusely for my impudence.”

The electric chair whined as its occupant turned to face a large open place. It was in the process of being renovated. Soon it would receive a reproduction of the immense sculpture that had once occupied it, complete with fountains and growing plants. The quiet continued for so long that Runs feared the other might have fallen asleep.

Such was not the case, however. He was merely engaged in silent contemplation.

“I choose not to accept great honor because I do not deserve it.”

“Honored Senior, I plead difference with you.”

“Plead all you like. You won't be the first.” Aged eyes peered searchingly into Runs's own. “How can I accept honor, having once killed an intelligent being?”

“There were reasons. There was justification.” Runs knew the story but felt compelled to make his point nonetheless.

Another drawn-out silence followed before the husk of a voice murmured, “Perhaps. Tell me, Senior Elder, for I have questions of my own: what do you think the reaction will be on Quozlene when the Shirazian ship arrives six or seven generations from now to inform them of the colony's success? When it arrives with a mixed crew?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“Try. And do not take too long. Remember that my moments are precious.”

“It is my hope and that of everyone that they will take to humans as readily as humans took to us.”

“That is how I believe. That is how I must believe.” A vast sigh filled the corridor and for an instant Runs-red-Talking was afraid. But the voice came again. “Sometimes I think intelligence counts for nothing, luck for everything. It is good to know we are not alone, even if our only friends are barbaric potential killers.”

“It can be unsettling,” Runs admitted, “but also useful. There have been many discussions: among scientific staffs, among Burrow Masters. Where humans can evolve there may also be other intelligences, less tractable, more belligerent still. If such a thing can be imagined.”

“Yes, and those colony ships which never reported back to Quozlene may have run afoul of them. I am familiar with the arguments.”

“We will find out, but now we can do something about such cases, should it be proved they exist. Because while we cannot fight, we now have friends who can and will on our behalf.”

“That is the critical question,” whispered the voice from the chair. “Will they?”

“I can only speak from my own observation, my own life and experiences. I am confident that they will.”

An ear might have bobbed in agreement, but the movement was so slight Runs could not be certain he'd seen it.

“It was all worthwhile, then. Everything that happened. Even the way it happened. A different individual here, another reaction somewhere else, and Shiraz might have turned out tragically. This is still very much the humans' world, though we are more secure now than ever. It is best to let them think they are still in complete control. Their primitive pride requires it. They cannot cooperate unless they believe themselves to be in command. So be it. We have grown beyond such pettiness. It is the result that matters.”

“We have the Samizene,” Runs pointed out.

“Truth. They are improving, though they still allow their unbalanced sexual natures to dictate to their minds. At least now they can envision a common destiny. We have helped put an end to their silly tribal conflicts.

“In ten to twenty cycles the first Shirazian generation ship will enter underspace with a full complement of human and Quozl. They believe that we are helping to spread them through the galaxy. They do not see that it is the other way around, that this is how it must be. They cannot help the fact that they are human and not Quozl. But with time and tutelage they will improve.”

“It is a hard thing, to deceive one's friends,” Runs murmured.

“They have secrets of their own they choose to keep from us. There can be fairness in mutual deception. What matters is that they think they are in control. It is the safest way. The Quozl do not need to stand on the top of the mountain. We are far too busy taking its measure. Simpler to let friends do the hard climbing and tell us what lies at the peak.

“We live where they grant us permission, which is more than ample. In return for their aid and friendship we give them knowledge, therapy, sympathy, and interstellar travel. They will go with us to found a grand galactic union in which they may declare paramountcy, if they so desire. We will stand aside and let them bare their teeth, ever courteous, ever polite. That is the way of the Quozl.”

“If they knew this there are those humans who would fight us.”

“Fight what? The great majority would not permit it. They like us too much. It is far better to be cute, cuddly, and lovable than to wield a bigger gun or sharper sword. We obey their laws and hew to their restrictions, we leave all major decisions to them—while we advise quietly and deferentially. We do exactly as they command, which is just what we want.”

Runs-red-Talking had not become a Senior Elder through lack of understanding. He knew what the other was talking about, comprehended fully. It was all there for anyone to see, in the Samizene, and in Quozl history. It all made sense.

It made so much sense he even understood when the old scout broke out in a wide, glistening grin.

A Biography of Alan Dean Foster

Alan Dean Foster (b. 1946) is the bestselling author of more than one hundred science fiction and fantasy novels. His prolific output and accessible style have made him one of the nation's foremost speculative fiction writers.

Born in New York City in 1946, Foster was raised in Los Angeles and attended filmmaking school at the University of California, Los Angeles, in the 1960s. There he befriended George Lucas, with whom he would later collaborate. Rather than trying to break into Hollywood, however, Foster took a job writing copy for an advertising firm in Studio City, California, where he remained for two years, honing the craft that he would soon put to use when writing novels.

His first break came when the
Arkham Collector
, a small horror magazine, bought a letter Foster had written in the style of suspense legend H. P. Lovecraft. Encouraged by this sale, Foster began work on his first novel,
The Tar-Aiym Krang
(1972), which introduced the Humanx Commonwealth, his most enduring creation. He went on to set more than twenty novels in the Humanx universe; of these,
Midworld
(1975) is among his most acclaimed works.

The Tar-Aiym Krang
was also the first of the Pip and Flinx series. The hero, Flinx, is an orphan thief whose telepathic powers hold the key to finding his parents and understanding his identity. Foster has chronicled the adventures of Flinx, and his acid-breathing sidekick Pip, in fourteen novels, and has explored their universe in fourteen other stand-alone works.

In 1983, Foster began the eight-book Spellsinger series, about a college student trapped in a magical dimension. He also wrote the Icerigger trilogy, published between 1974 and 1987. In 1990, his stand-alone novel
Cyber Way
received the Southwest Book Award for Fiction, making Foster the first science fiction writer to win this prize. Foster has also found success writing novelizations of Hollywood films, including the Alien trilogy,
Star Wars: A New Hope
(in which he expanded Lucas's idea into an entire universe), and the 2009
Star Trek
movie.

In addition to creating imaginary planets, Foster travels extensively throughout our world. After finishing college, he spent a summer in the South Pacific, camping in French Polynesia and living with a family of Tahitian policemen. He has scuba dived on unexplored reefs, pan-fried piranha in the “green hell” of Peru's jungle, and captured film footage of great white sharks' feeding frenzies in Australia—which was used by a BBC documentary series. These and other adventures are the basis of his travel memoir
Predators I Have Known
(2011).

Foster is an avid athlete who hikes, bodysurfs, and once studied karate with Chuck Norris. Since taking up powerlifting—at the age sixty-one—he has won numerous world and regional titles. He and his wife, JoAnn Oxley, live in Prescott, Arizona, in a home built of brick salvaged from a turn-of-the-century miner's brothel.