Free Quozl by Alan Dean Foster

they pleased.
    It was a wonderful environment, Looks-at-Charts thought. Better than they could have hoped for. No wonder it had nursed intelligent life. The strange furry trees towered around them on all sides, their blood the source of heavy, pungent odors that managed to be simultaneously alien and reassuring.
    It didn’t take long to locate the source of the high whistling sounds they’d heard immediately upon arrival. They issued from small winged creatures that darted between the trees on lithe, dark wings. While the calls of the larger aerials sometimes resembled higher-pitched Quozl speech it was obvious they could not be the dominant species.
    â€œI don’t think anything so small and fragile could develop intelligence,” was Burden-carries-Far’s evaluation. Their opinion was confirmed when they saw a pair of the creatures settle into a mud and stick bowl atop one large branch. It was clear the structure was not the product of advanced technology.
    More impressive than the flitting, mysterious noises that filled the alien woods were the smells. Shiraz was an aromatic paradise. There seemed no attempt by either the flora or fauna to disguise their identifying odors, as there was on Quozlene. Perhaps animals here did not feed as often by smell, or perhaps a different mechanism was at work. That was for Stands-while-Sitting and the scientific teams aboard Sequencer to decide. All he had to do was enjoy it. He almost forgot to monitor his appearance.
    You could suffer sensory overload on Shiraz simply by standing in one place and letting the fragrances and sounds come to you, he decided. But they were instructed to cover as much ground as possible. Looks-at-Charts had chosen this direction for a reason, because of something he thought he’d glimpsed just prior to touchdown. It was a reason Lifts-with-Shout might not have agreed with, but they were out of touch with the Sequencer now and on their own until they returned. Besides, a scout was supposed to employ initiative when he thought the occasion demanded it. That was all he was doing.
    Burden-carries-Far did not comment on his colleague’s choice of direction. Stands-while-Sitting might have overruled him, but she said nothing, apparently quite content to let the two younger scouts take the lead while she immersed herself in examining their extraordinary surroundings.
    Sweet old tail, thought Looks-at-Charts. She’s as anxious to find answers to all our questions as any of us.
    Though their suits contained emergency supplies sufficient to keep them going for several days, Looks had no intention of being away from the scout vessel that long. They would make their preliminary survey and then return. Flies-by-Tail would not be alarmed, however, if they kept out of touch for a while. They were supposed to use their hand communicators to contact her only in an emergency situation.
    He had no intention of studying only trees and flying creatures on this visit. They had to find out more than that, no matter the caution of the Captain or Lifts-with-Shout or the Council of Seven. They had to learn something of what they were up against, of what they might have to deal with if events didn’t proceed as planned. That was what he intended all along. He sensed that Burden-carries-Far would go along with him if the opportunity he hoped for arose. If not there would be a power dance to end all power dances.
    Meanwhile he could delight in their new surroundings, knowing that all immediate decisions were up to Stands-while-Sitting. In a sense, he and Burden were along solely to convoy and protect her, though their own observations would of course also be of inestimable value to those anxiously awaiting their reports back on the Sequencer .
    â€œSee.” Burden-carries-Far knelt to recover a sharp-edged, fist-sized brown object. He pointed to several identical modules hanging from the branches of a nearby tree. “Some type of seed