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a pilot? I’m never overconfident.”
    â€œNever? In nothing you do?” Her ears curved in amusement and he read the hidden meaning. He was as adept as any mature Quozl at detecting the standard double entendres.
    â€œIn nothing I do. I know what I’m capable of. A scout has no time for overconfidence, only assurance. When to move ahead, when to retreat.”
    â€œAdvance and retreat, yes.”
    Blessings on this pilot, he mused. They thought alike. Yet strangely enough at that moment he wanted only to talk and relax. Nonetheless, he could not keep himself from eyeing with approval the delicate whorls and designs shaved into her golden brown fur. White streaks ran from her nostrils across her face and down to disappear beneath the top of her jumpsuit. It was a wonder, he knew, that given their unrelenting urges the Quozl had managed to raise any kind of civilization at all.
    The Books of the Samizene had changed all that, with a little assist from first traditional medicine and then modern chemistry.
    He felt confident and content. He’d spent his whole life preparing for the days to come, knew what was expected of him, knew what he had to do and how to go about doing it. His meditation was dense, his coupling regular and precise, and physiologically he’d never been in better shape. Assurance and high self-esteem radiated from every pore of his being.
    So it was a great shock to his system when the whistling shriek filled the recreation chamber, completely drowning out the music and bursting every one of the carefully framed acoustic bubbles.
    Games halted in mid-play. Dancers let their feet fall flat on the floor. Dreamtimers awoke with a start and every viewer collapsed in static.
    One by one they began to react to the piercing signal. It took that long because it was a signal they had all studied as youngsters but had never heard outside their studies.
    It was the General Alarm.
    There were many alarm signals and many drills employing them: alarms in case of loss of hull integrity, alarms for depressurization, alarms for water leaks and accidental dispersion of toxic chemicals. They’d practiced and rehearsed how to deal with these theoretical situations and their respective alarms. But there had never been a drill designed to cope with a general alarm because it would have been disruptive to too many important ship’s functions.
    Which in all likelihood suggested that this was not a drill.
    Hesitation was rapidly giving way to movement and action as those around him abandoned their amusements in the rush to their posts, moving in long, leaping Quozl strides. The few mothers with maturing infants went more slowly, careful of the offspring in their pouches. As they did so the General Alarm segued into a second modulated wail that was even more impossible than its predecessor.
    Battle stations.
    Battle stations? That was an anachronism, an archaic throwback to a primitive past designed to amuse instead of prepare. There was nothing in the universe to battle against. Looks-at-Charts began to slow as new thoughts formed in his head. Consider the situation. They’d just arrived in or close to Shiraz orbit. It was a moment of great import and great release for the majority of the crew, but it was not a game. How better to bring everyone back to reality than by putting an abrupt and shocking damper on their initial enthusiasm?
    Quozl ran and dashed around him, pushing but not shoving. There was plenty of a excitement but no panic, no rudeness. No one was trampled or elbowed aside. Looks-at-Charts began to smile inwardly. If he was wrong he would be late reaching his assigned position. That would mean a reprimand. But if he was right …
    The wailing faded, to be replaced by a calm voice he didn’t recognize. He cheered it anyway because it proceeded to confirm his suspicions. A scout, he told himself proudly as others slowed to listen, must have good instincts and the confidence to