Quofum by Alan Dean Foster
“Mosi, how are you coming with the micropreps?”
Waiting for the machine in front of him to finish filling a cup with tea, her fellow xenologist turned to frown at her. “The micropreps? Tiare…” His voice trailed away as he struggled to find appropriate words to articulate his thoughts. “We’re marooned here. Esra is dead, the shuttle is gone, the ship is gone, and we will never get off this world because as soon as the ship is discovered back home, everyone will assume we’re already somewhere here, dead or alive, and no one will bother to come looking for us here.”
Bustling past him, she started punching her breakfast request into the food preparation unit. “Then we’ll have plenty of time to complete our work.”
A hand reached over to gently touch her arm. Its four digits were as hard and slick as plastic, two of them serving the function of opposable thumbs. Turning to her right, she looked down into Valnadireb’s jewel-like, red-banded, golden compound eyes.
“I believe I divine your intent, Tiare. It is to be commended. I will do my best to do likewise.”
Picking up his cup and its steaming contents, N’kosi added sweetener. “What are you two mumbling about?”
Haviti had a moment before her breakfast was due to appear. “Okay, so we’re trapped here. Like the ancient shipwrecked sailors of Earth’s seas. We can go fetal and become mentally and physically comatose—or we can fight it. Stay active, immerse ourselves in our work, act like humanx.”
N’kosi sipped morosely at his tea. “That might keep us alive awhile longer. It won’t get us rescued.”
“You’re right, the odds aren’t exactly the best,” she agreed. “But if something happens to us our work will live on. And maybe one day a follow-up expedition will cross the camp’s beacon, land here, and find months, years, maybe even decades’ worth of important research already completed, catalogued, and stored, just waiting to be uploaded.”
“‘Decades.’” N’kosi repeated the word as if it was a particularly evil curse. “Do you really think we can survive here for decades? We’ve been here for about a week and nearly found ourselves overrun by the natives. A lapse in judgment, a failure of Security, and the spikers or the hardshells are likely to pick us off. If not them, then some local parasite, or predator, or bad weather, or contracted illness.”
She met his gaze evenly. “There are still three of us, Mosi. Three healthy, experienced, field-savvy researchers. We have a skimmer and the boat available for local transport and study. We have ample supplies, purifiers and synthesizers, multiple regenerative power, and secure living quarters. Not to mention whatever we can scavenge from our surroundings. As long as we watch our step and look out for each other there’s no reason why we can’t last for a long, long time. Who knows? Despite what that bastard Qwarm thinks, maybe even until a second contact expedition arrives, even if it takes years and, yes, decades for Science Central to decide to mount one. Meanwhile it would be a waste of a great scientific opportunity if we chose to spend all that time sitting around camp, doing nothing, and waiting to die.”
Valnadireb gestured assent. “We have much work to do. Specimens to prepare, recordings to index, camp defenses to strengthen. However, I will not commence such work of my own until one other pressing matter has first been attended to.”
She eyed the thranx xenologist uncertainly. “What pressing matter?”
He responded with the soft whistling that was an unmistakable indication of thranx amusement. “Breakfast, of course.”
Initial concerns aside and despite having to pause periodically to raise the dejected N’kosi’s lagging spirits, the days at the camp gradually fell into a routine that at least initially was comforting in its repetitiveness. It certainly was productive. Sending out such a small team demanded that it be comprised of generalists. Though each of the xenologists had their favored specialty, their expertise necessarily overlapped.
So while N’kosi preferred observing his faunal specimens through an assortment of magnification devices, he was not above helping Valnadireb sort out the thranx’s exploding collection of botanicals. Similarly, Valnadireb spent time assisting Haviti in trying to bring some order (and Orders) to the continually expanding list of large animals. They all shared in trying to come up with new ways to contact the local sentients.
Where they threatened to have trouble was with the infrastructure of the camp itself. With the exception of the scientific apparatus, maintenance and upkeep had been the responsibility of Boylan and Araza. With one dead and the other fled, the three scientists spent a good deal of time away from science while devoting themselves to such mundane tasks as making certain the automated waste and recycling gear continued to operate in the efficient self-sanitizing manner promised by its assorted warranties. Equal if not more time was allotted to daily checking and rechecking of the separate systems that supplied the camp with fresh water, scrubbed air, cooled or heated internal atmosphere, food, and all the other components necessary to maintaining a minimal standard of semicivilized living.
While each system was designed to be as self-sustaining as possible, periodic checks were instituted to expose the slightest weak spot. It was critical that minor defects be detected as soon as they occurred. If allowed to become significant, none of the three xenologists possessed the knowledge or ability to fix them.
On the other hand, Haviti reflected one morning as she knelt on the roof of the living quarters module sealing a small leak in one of the condensation collectors, they had plenty of time to get better at such tasks.
Despite the drudgery imposed by having to devote time every day to ensure the continued functioning of the camp’s life-support systems, new discoveries were made with giddy frequency. As scientists they found it terribly frustrating to be unable to share their findings with the rest of the Commonwealth and especially with their peers. Someday, Haviti ruminated as she carefully slid yet another tray of unique Quofumian samples into vacuum storage, another expedition would find what she and her friends left behind. The newcomers would marvel at the range of discoveries, at the precision with which they had been documented and logged, and at the skill with which they had been preserved. Her reputation and that of Valnadireb and Moselstrom N’kosi would be ensured.
Better posthumously, she reflected, than not at all.
As she climbed down from the roof, something large enough to cast a sizable shadow momentarily blocked out the sun. Twisting around, she peered upward, relying on the photosensitive lens of her work visor to automatically protect her from the sudden surge in sunlight.
A gravent was passing overhead. N’kosi had named the creature less than a week ago. Another treetop-feeding glider, the eminent gray had a gaping mouth and multiple, charcoal-hued wings. Despite its impressive wingspan, its foamlike internal skeleton allowed it to soar effortlessly on the slightest of breezes. Dissecting a dead one, she and Valnadireb had discovered its unique internal structure; semirigid despite the absence of bones, tendons, or ligaments. Young gravents were neither born live nor hatched from eggs and did not spring from spores or seeds. Extruded from a special organ located on the underside of the adults, they unfolded their wings and took to the pink skies of their inimitable homeworld like so much drifting paste.
The soaring gravents were only one of thousands of unique and frequently unclassifiable life-forms that she and her companions had encountered in the months since Tellenberg’s death and the Qwarm Araza’s departure. From a taxonomic standpoint they could hardly keep up with the new Orders, much less classify and give names to every new plant and animal. To even begin to accomplish what was necessary on a world as diverse as Quofum would require the presence of not three but three thousand full-time xenologists.
Initially it was hard to tell which of the trio threw themselves into the necessary and beckoning scientific work with the most enthusiasm. Freed from the need to think about rescue once they had accepted that as a remote possibility, and also to preserve their sanity, they focused on their
Even the communal meals to which they had hewed religiously for several months had been abandoned in favor of taking individual nourishment. Passing in the corridors, they hardly bothered to acknowledge one another’s presence. In lieu of civilized conversation a grunt was now sufficient, or the flick of an eye. Information was still exchanged verbally, but earlier sociability had gradually been replaced by a lackluster courtesy. There simply seemed no reason to spend time engaged in idle chitchat.
As the only two humans on the planet, it was inevitable that Haviti and N’kosi would enter into a relationship. It lasted awhile, provided a diversion, and then did not so much break up as simply perish of its own accord, guilty of the sin of repetition. There was no shouting involved, no accusations, no yelling and screaming. Given their present circumstances, such typical remonstrations would have seemed childish as well as futile. She and the other xenologist remained close friends, if no longer intimate ones.
For a while it left poor Valnadireb lonelier than ever, though not jealous, of course. He took to making unaccompanied collecting excursions into the forest that surrounded the camp. Despite carrying a communit and sidearm, these solo expeditions were inherently dangerous. On one such outing he was attacked by what recordings suggested was a slow-moving carnivore but which on more detailed analysis turned out to be a predatory mobile plant. It would have cost the thranx a foothand had not N’kosi and Haviti worked tirelessly in tandem with the camp medunit to stanch the flow of blood and see the severed limb properly reattached. After that, a camp rule was established that no one would work outside the perimeter alone. Like many such rules, it was soon broken and forgotten.
One also had to take extra care while working on or conducting observations from the roof, Haviti reflected as she reentered the living quarters module. Not all indigenous fliers were as inoffensive as the gravent. The atmosphere of Quofum was as filled with predators as was its surface. Her alarm had remained silent while she had been carrying out the necessary maintenance work, however. Though huge, the gravent had posed no threat. It boasted neither fang nor claw and, despite its wingspan, weighed less than she did. Had it come too close, she could have pushed it away easily with one hand.
The three survivors were drifting apart. Knowing that, realizing that, did not make the problem any easier to solve. Perhaps it should not be looked at as a problem, she told herself as she strode into the food prep area to get something cold to drink. Which was safer: seeing less and less of each other, or forcing contact for purposes of sham socialization that might inadvertently lead to acrimony and conflict? They spoke with one another when they wanted to, shared knowledge and new discoveries when they had to, went their separate ways when they grew bored or tired of each other’s company.
N’kosi was a good example. On the way to Quofum and for a time after landing, the two of them had been colleagues and good friends. Abandoned, they had eventually become more than just good friends. Now they were friends again. With only three people comprising the totality of their little society, one of them nonhuman, personal interaction was of necessity constrained.
There had been many times when she just wanted to scream. There had been numerous occasions when, locked in her quarters, she had broken down and cried. Neither left her feeling much better. Nowadays…As the months continued to pass without any sign or hope of rescue, she was simply becoming more and more numb. If not for the work that had taken on something of a life of its own, she knew there had been days when she would have chosen to sit down on her bed or a chair in the dining area and done her best to stop breathing.
N’kosi was already in the dining area, having worked his way through half a joyless meal. Valnadireb was just coming in. The thranx entered from the opposite direction, from outside. Despite the forest’s constant heat and humidity he was not covered in perspiration. For one thing, thranx thrived in heat and humidity. For another, they did not sweat. That did not mean that the insectoid xenologist was buoyant. He was as subdued as both of his human colleagues.
No one said anything. No greetings were exchanged. They had moved beyond that. They had merged to become three parts of a single scientific organism whose individual elements communicated only when it was necessary to ensure mutual survival.
Haviti drew a drink from one of three available dispensing spigots. She did not bother to request the device’s name for today’s synthesized juice. It was cold and wet, which was all she was interested in.
“I’m going out.” Her tone was muted, her words precise. “I’m taking the skimmer. I thought I’d run up the coast a ways. Take a few days, see some totally new territory. I’ll keep the onboard monitors running around the clock, of course.”
N’kosi spoke without looking up from his meal. Using his fork he rearranged some reconstituted julienned potatoes, to no particular end. “Want company?”
She did not look in his direction. Among the three of them eye contact was no longer necessary or expected. “Not particularly. You can come if you like.”
N’kosi hesitated. “I’m finally getting the Order organized for those trees with the crystalline shoots. I think I’ll stay here.”
She did not reply. There was no need to do so. Having divested himself of his abdomen pack and other field gear, Valnadireb was ambling toward the main food processor. His antennae did not incline in her direction.
“Keep in touch,” the thranx told her. “Once in a while, anyway.”
“Sure, why not?” she replied impassively. She finished the last of her juice. “I’d do that, of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed as he punched in a sequence of requests specifying a favored range of nourishment.
When she left the following morning neither of her colleagues came to see her off. What would be the point? She knew they wished her well, just as she wished them well in their own daily research and maintenance duties. That her absence for an unspecified length of time would mean that her portion of the allotted upkeep work would have to be shared between those who remained behind caused no friction. Such responsibilities were minimal. Except for the first of a few small equipment breakdowns that were expected and had been successfully dealt with, the camp largely sustained itself. And if she perished somewhere off to the north, beyond hope of timely help from her companions, well, the inevitability of death was a consequence with which they had all long since made their peace.
She had stocked the skimmer with supplies sufficient for a couple of weeks. That was about as long as it could travel without a recharge anyway. One week to explore, one week to return. She had no idea what she might see, encounter, or learn. Prior to touchdown, survey from orbit had been pretty minimal—just enough to find a landing site that was safe and interesting. A larger original or follow-up expedition would have been equipped to place relay and reconnaissance satellites in orbit. She and her colleagues had no such ancillary orbital tools to aid them in their work. A minimal first contact team like theirs was designed to get in, perform a quick preliminary survey, and get out. It was not designed to accommodate leisurely or long-range investigations.
The morning of her departure had dawned lightly overcast; a watercolorist’s gray wash tinged with pink. Based on what it had learned of local climatological conditions in the limited time since it had being erected on the planet’s surface, the camp’s meteorological station predicted only a slight chance of light rain along the coast, with the possibility of heavier afternoon showers soaking the interior. She planned her route northward accordingly.
Responding to her commands, the compact, plexalloy-domed vehicle rose high enough to clear the camp’s charged
Skimming along just above the wave-caressed beaches she encountered one new species after another. She rarely bothered to pause long enough for the craft’s instruments to make proper recordings. Quofum was a nonstop cornucopia of biological riches, a bottomless pit of often seemingly unrelated species that was extensive enough to populate not one but many worlds.
Her reaction to the unending parade was unexpected. Over the course of the preceding months something had happened to her that she could never have predicted. Something that as a young, enthusiastic xenologist she would have bet all she owned would never have come to pass.
She had grown bored with discovery.
That did not mean she ignored the stream of new flora and fauna she encountered. She simply took note of it, species by species, hoped the skimmer’s automated recording equipment was doing its job, and moved on. Just being away from the camp for more than a day was a breath of fresh air. The change was mildly rejuvenating, if not exactly exciting.
She lingered for a moment to have a look at the village of the fuzzies. The inhabitants had restored many of the simple structures that had been destroyed in the attack by the combined forces of the spikers and the hardshells. Interestingly, there was no sign of the stick-jellies. It was possible that the latter only sided with the fuzzies in times of warfare and that their alliance did not extend to the more mundane and more time-consuming process of reconstruction. Once her presence was noted, a few clubs and spears were flung in her direction. Those that reached the low-flying skimmer bounced off its composite sides and did no damage. This exhibition of unprovoked hostility did not cause her to judge the natives. As both a scientist and a human being, she knew she did not have enough information to do so. She resumed her journey northward.