nativeâs transmission-interception capabilities were still a matter for hypothesis it had been decided to limit contact between the Sequencer and the survey team. They would talk only as absolutely necessary until they returned. Then there would be ample time for conversation.
Looks-at-Charts had ridden the simulators hundreds of times to the surfaces of as many imaginary worlds, but despite the simulatorâs accuracy he discovered it was not the same. He heard Flies-by-Tailâs voice, watched her delicate fingers touch the few critical instruments not controlled by the shipâs brain, but it was different. Different because it was not a simulation. Reality, he thought, has its own flavor.
Then they were floating free, clear of the Sequencer âs artificial gravity, falling without seeming to fall toward the blue-white curve not so very far below. Burden-carries-Far sat on his right, unnaturally silent and introspective.
Both scouts were qualified pilots, but that was not their specialty. Both knew they could not have managed the descent nearly so well as Flies-by-Tail, and they admired her skill as the little vessel was swallowed by air. The trio of scientists were secured in back, each in a private room-lab, watching the drop on monitors. Looks felt sorry for them. It was not the same as being here, in forward command, watching Shiraz rise rapidly toward you.
Their new home was a vast gemstone awash in spilt milk, a water-filled pouch dotted with land. The Sequencer , the only home any of them had ever known, was reduced to a simple schematic on a small monitor screen.
Looks inhaled deeply, reflectively. The children of Quozlene were leaving the Pouch. How fortunate Shiraz would be to have them.
They bumped and slewed as they fell through the gratifyingly thick atmosphere, the four wings taking the buffeting efficiently, the counterdrive howling as it fought to reduce their velocity. Anyone watching their descent would see only a falling meteorite, he knew.
They could see the surface now. The instrumentation which had been hastily installed to alert them to the caress of a locating beam or transmission remained mute. No one was observing their approaching with anything more advanced then the naked eye.
Suddenly he was aware of the painful tension in his body. Heâd been sitting so stiffy his muscles ached. He recited the relaxing exercises and concentrated on Flies-by-Tail as she brought them down. Thanks to the suppressants coursing through his system he was able to admire the smooth curve of her shoulders, the lean nape of her neck, and the delicate arch of her ears without anxiety. He focused on the top half of a particularly complex whorl shaved into the fur of her upper left shoulder where it peeked out from beneath the seal of her dirty suit.
They were coming down too fast, toying with the safety margin, cutting across snow-clad peaks and the crest of a vast green forest. His Quozl soul leaped. Real trees. Hard-grained wood. He tried to isolate details among the green and brown blur beneath them.
He could feel his weight again. Gravity slightly less than that of the Sequencer and Quozlene. A noticeable but not significant difference.
Then they were down, hardly a bump or jolt as Flies-by-Tail coasted on the landing skids to a halt opposite the nearest trees. Through the port Looks-at-Charts saw they were tall and straight and nearly identical, but at that point their resemblance to the trees of Quozlene ended. Instead of leaves these growths were clad in some kind of green fur. It was difficult to be certain at a distance but they looked like nothing in any of the botany texts. Nor were they visibly kin to any of the growths discovered on the three colony worlds. Yet trees they surely were, however alien.
At least Burden-carries-Far kept his mind on his work. âWe canât stay here. Weâre too exposed.â He gestured forward with an ear. âThereâs an opening large
Looks-at-Charts had ridden the simulators hundreds of times to the surfaces of as many imaginary worlds, but despite the simulatorâs accuracy he discovered it was not the same. He heard Flies-by-Tailâs voice, watched her delicate fingers touch the few critical instruments not controlled by the shipâs brain, but it was different. Different because it was not a simulation. Reality, he thought, has its own flavor.
Then they were floating free, clear of the Sequencer âs artificial gravity, falling without seeming to fall toward the blue-white curve not so very far below. Burden-carries-Far sat on his right, unnaturally silent and introspective.
Both scouts were qualified pilots, but that was not their specialty. Both knew they could not have managed the descent nearly so well as Flies-by-Tail, and they admired her skill as the little vessel was swallowed by air. The trio of scientists were secured in back, each in a private room-lab, watching the drop on monitors. Looks felt sorry for them. It was not the same as being here, in forward command, watching Shiraz rise rapidly toward you.
Their new home was a vast gemstone awash in spilt milk, a water-filled pouch dotted with land. The Sequencer , the only home any of them had ever known, was reduced to a simple schematic on a small monitor screen.
Looks inhaled deeply, reflectively. The children of Quozlene were leaving the Pouch. How fortunate Shiraz would be to have them.
They bumped and slewed as they fell through the gratifyingly thick atmosphere, the four wings taking the buffeting efficiently, the counterdrive howling as it fought to reduce their velocity. Anyone watching their descent would see only a falling meteorite, he knew.
They could see the surface now. The instrumentation which had been hastily installed to alert them to the caress of a locating beam or transmission remained mute. No one was observing their approaching with anything more advanced then the naked eye.
Suddenly he was aware of the painful tension in his body. Heâd been sitting so stiffy his muscles ached. He recited the relaxing exercises and concentrated on Flies-by-Tail as she brought them down. Thanks to the suppressants coursing through his system he was able to admire the smooth curve of her shoulders, the lean nape of her neck, and the delicate arch of her ears without anxiety. He focused on the top half of a particularly complex whorl shaved into the fur of her upper left shoulder where it peeked out from beneath the seal of her dirty suit.
They were coming down too fast, toying with the safety margin, cutting across snow-clad peaks and the crest of a vast green forest. His Quozl soul leaped. Real trees. Hard-grained wood. He tried to isolate details among the green and brown blur beneath them.
He could feel his weight again. Gravity slightly less than that of the Sequencer and Quozlene. A noticeable but not significant difference.
Then they were down, hardly a bump or jolt as Flies-by-Tail coasted on the landing skids to a halt opposite the nearest trees. Through the port Looks-at-Charts saw they were tall and straight and nearly identical, but at that point their resemblance to the trees of Quozlene ended. Instead of leaves these growths were clad in some kind of green fur. It was difficult to be certain at a distance but they looked like nothing in any of the botany texts. Nor were they visibly kin to any of the growths discovered on the three colony worlds. Yet trees they surely were, however alien.
At least Burden-carries-Far kept his mind on his work. âWe canât stay here. Weâre too exposed.â He gestured forward with an ear. âThereâs an opening large
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