Quozl by Alan Dean Foster

behavior had long ago closed off that course to them. It was no longer how the Quozl lived. They could not do anything like that and still remain Quozl.
    With luck they would manage. He had studied the preliminary images until his eyes blurred and both lids felt like dead weights. There was so much empty land. They could hide, begin the colony in secret. Perhaps the warring natives would exterminate themselves. That would solve the ethical dilemma.
    It would be nice to have friends, though. Nice to know that the burden of maintaining intelligence in the universe no longer fell entirely on Quozl shoulders. Nice to have company—assuming it was friendly and not hostile.
    But how could they have achieved mechanical technology while continuing to war? It was enough to drive an intelligent Quozl insane, and it was doing just that to the members of the native study team. How could supposedly intelligent beings cooperate one moment and then turn to internecine combat the next? Shiraz was a place where reality was proving itself surreal.
    â€œWe must go down.” Lifts-with-Shout was insistent. “We cannot continue to squat in orbit and peer through our scopes like a cycling from its mother’s pouch. Each day the colonists grow more restless and that makes it harder to maintain security. We will not learn what we need to know of this world unless we walk upon it, please all to pardon my sharpness.” His eyes flicked in the direction of Looks-at-Charts. “Our sensitive touchdown personnel will lose their optimal edge if we wait much longer. Their skills will atrophy from disemployment. It is time not to debate but to move .”
    The Supervisor’s forwardness was socially off-putting, but invigorating all the same. Knowing their place, both scouts kept silent. But inwardly they were cheering their superior.
    â€œRemember Mazna.” Sense-go-Fade counseled caution with words and ears. “Full of hostile and dangerous, albeit nonintelligent, creatures. I agree we must move, but carefully.”
    Looks wanted to smash the philosopher’s teeth down his throat, hang him up by his ears, crush his toes. Ancient emotions. He meditated furiously.
    All waited for a pronouncement from Stream-cuts-Through. “I will call a Council of Seven. We will try to arrive at a consensus.”
    Looks-at-Charts spent the following day anxiously awaiting word. His status was too low to involve him in the decision-making process. All he and Burden-carries-Far could do was wait to follow instructions. It was the province of the Captain and the Council to decide whether to wait for additional orbital studies to be completed or to proceed with an actual visitation survey. Hard it was to wait, truly, but harder still, he reminded himself, to make decisions that would affect the future of the entire colony.
    That didn’t stop him from cornering the Landing Supervisor when Lifts-with-Shout emerged from the meeting room.
    â€œProfuse apologies,” the scout stammered, “for while I know it is not my place to inquire, my interest is somewhat aroused. Can you possibly hint, my Senior, as to which way the Council is tending in its deliberations?”
    Lifts-with-Shout glared at him for appearance’s sake. That did not bother Looks-at-Charts. What bothered him was that his Supervisor might choose to say nothing.
    Instead he declared thoughtfully, speaking as though the scout was not present, “The vast empty spaces of Shiraz suggest that we can establish First Burrow safely and in secret. Not all are convinced of this, but most agree that we can linger here too long. You are not the only one who wishes to experience the sensation of standing on solid ground and inhaling fresh instead of recycled atmosphere.
    â€œOnce First Burrow is proclaimed then we can study the natives quietly and at our leisure, learning about them at close hand, as the child matures in the pouch. This feeling is bolstered by the