They hissed, one after the other, and one of them squeaked. Gurgle-click-cough picked that one up, delicately balanced in her long narrow hand. She reached toward Ofelia, and Ofelia put out both hands to take it. It felt hot, light, perilous. It squirmed the way babies squirmed, the little tail writhing across her wrist. Ofelia almost dropped it, but didn’t, and brought it to her as she would have cuddled a human baby. The eyes opened—they were pale gold, with an even lighter rim around the pupil—and it squeaked at her.
She leaned her cheek to it, and murmured, the way everyone murmured to babies. There, there, there, and easy, it’s all right, everything’s fine, take it easy. It pushed its hard little snout against her breastbone, and she had to giggle. Nothing there for anyone anymore, certainly not an alien that looked far more like a lizard than its mother. Then she felt the touch of that tiny, raspy tongue. Tears stung her eyes. She had always cried when she first held newborns; one corner of her mind was a little surprised that the same reflex worked with these creatures.
Gurgle-click-cough insisted on handing Ofelia each of the young, one at a time, and each of the young licked Ofelia on wrist or hand or chest, as she held it. Bluecloak approved; its throat-sac throbbed softly.
“Click-kaw-keerrr,” it said.
“Click-kaw-keerrr,” Ofelia answered. Of course she wanted to protect these little ones, odd as they were; she could wish them no harm. Hard to believe they could grow into the tall bright adults she knew, but then human babies were red, slimy, squalling little messes right after birth. She supposed an alien would find them every bit as unlikely precursors to adults as these. She looked again at the squirming newborns; she could not tell one from the other, at least not in that dimness.
In the afternoon, at the hottest hour, when Ofelia was stooped over her own kitchen sink washing out the soft cloths which Gurgle-click-cough had used after all, one of the creatures let out a squawk, and bolted into Ofelia’s house. “All right,” she said. She knew what it had to be. The humans had not waited until the next day, as she’d told them. She hadn’t expected them to, but at least they had not interrupted the birth. She glanced out her kitchen door and saw them coming along the lane. The woman she had talked to before, now in cream-colored slacks and shirt, with a big hat on her head, accompanied by another woman and two men in variations of that outfit, and two obviously dangerous men in the dark protective suits, with weapons. The armed men had faces even redder than the others, dripping sweat under their helmets.
Ofelia pulled all the ice trays from her cooler, and emptied them into her largest pitcher. She had already squeezed the juice of lemons and limes; she poured this into the pitcher with water and sugar. Hot humans were grumpy humans; if she could get them comfortable, they might listen to reason.
When she went out the door to invite them in, they were halfway to her house, peering curiously into the houses on either side. She didn’t want them to find Gurgle-click-cough yet; she called out, and they looked at her.
“Come have juice,” she said. They looked at each other doubtfully, then came forward, the armed men making it obvious by their movements and expressions how little they trusted her.
She ignored the armed men, and looked at the others. The woman she had met, Kira. A much younger woman—or a woman who acted younger—who reminded her too much of Linda. The man she had seen, who said he was in charge, and a shorter, stockier man who kept glancing at the younger woman. That kind of thing already! She felt tired before she started.
The two armed men would not come in her house; one stood by either door. She handed them glasses of cold juice, and they stared at her, blank-faced, before finally taking sips. The others crowded the main room, staring around them at her things.
“This is the Falfurrias house,” Kira said to the others. “It’s on the plat Sims furnished.” She leaned into the bedrooms, looking, clearly unconcerned about Ofelia’s privacy.
“Are you sure?” the taller man said. He spoke as if Ofelia were not there, as if she might not know where she was.
“That’s right,” Ofelia said. He glanced at her and away, as if he did not like what he saw. She had changed from the green cape to a shirt with fringed sleeves and bands of color across the front and back. It was too hot for this time of day—for this season, in fact—but she was not comfortable with her bare skin in front of these strangers. It made her angry to be embarrassed again.
“It’s my house,” she went on. “I helped build this house. I am Ofelia Falfurrias.”
“You were supposed to be evacuated,” the man said, without giving his own name. Such rudeness. Ofelia felt her dislike harden, as if it were sap drying in the sun. “None of you were supposed to be here, and this colony’s equipment was supposed to be properly shut down. If it hadn’t been for you—”
“It’s not her fault,” Kira said, again as if Ofelia could not speak for herself. “She’s only an old woman—”
Only. So Kira was as bad as the rest, thinking an old woman of no importance.
“Perhaps we should introduce ourselves,” said the shorter man. He smiled at Ofelia. “I’m Orisan Almarest, a cultural anthropologist, Sera Falfurrias. I’m an anthropologist; I study the way people and their tools work together.”
“Kira Stavi,” the older woman said shortly.
“Vasil Likisi, leader of this team, and designated representative of the government,” said the taller man.
“Bilong,” said the younger woman, with a wide artificial smile. “Just call me Bilong, that’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. She didn’t want to call Bilong anything except what the other women had called Linda. The only one with any manners was the shorter man, Orisan Almarest. That one she recognized with a little nod. “Ser Almarest.” She gestured at the iced juice on the table. “Would you like something cool to drink?”
“Thank you, Sera Falfurrias,” he said. She poured him a glass, and he took it and sipped. “It is very good,” he said.
Ofelia relaxed slightly; this was the ritual she knew. “The fruit is more bitter this year,” she said. “You are too gracious with your thanks.”
“It is delicious on such a hot day,” he said. He smiled at her over the glass as he took a large swallow. The others still stood around like untrained children. Finally the older woman moved.
“Thank you for inviting us in, Sera Falfurrias,” she said.
Ofelia smiled the required smile. “You are welcome in my home,” she said. “Unfortunately, I have only this juice to offer you.”
“Thank you,” said the woman, with a smile as forced as Ofelia’s. She sipped, and her brows lifted. So she had really expected it to be bitter; Ofelia nearly laughed.
“Oh, please may I have some of that?” the younger woman asked, like a child who cannot remember to wait until food is offered.
“Of course,” Ofelia said, pouring it out and handing it to her without other comment, as she would have to a child. The stocky man smiled at her.
“Bilong is our linguist,” he said. “She will study the indigenes’ language.”
“Indigenes?” Ofelia hated herself for asking the moment the unfamiliar word was out of her mouth. All of them but the stocky man smiled in a way that meant they enjoyed her ignorance.
“It’s the academic term for anything native to a place,” said the stocky man. “You and I are not indigenous here, but the creatures who attacked the second colony landing are. At least, we think they are.” He said this in a matter-of-fact voice, as if there were nothing strange in her not knowing. Ofelia appreciated this courtesy even though she didn’t trust him. He went on. “Kira—Sera Stavi—is a xenozoologist; she studies animals alien to human worlds. Of course, that means they are native, or indigenous, where they are. She will study the biology of animals here.”