Quozl by Alan Dean Foster

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