by H. Robert Schumacher, Jr.

A scintillating waterfall, a mountain pool in a cradle of rock, crisp and cool in the hot summer air treated the frolicking creatures splashing therein. Thirty or more of the lithe, furred animals lounged on the rocks among the scrub or swam in the cool oasis. The sun overhead dappled the retreat with hard shadows and bright hot facets.
Several of the furred creatures stood apart from the rest at various places around the pool. Suddenly one hooted a warning and, as one, the group fled down the narrow ravine beside the pool’s turbulent runoff toward the safety of the trees down below.
Almost immediately a group of ten lizards, twice the size of the furred ones, burst over the rim of the rock cup and began vigorous pursuit. As quick as the furry animals were their progress was slow because the narrow defile was treacherous and mistakes fatal should one misstep and fall into the torrent. Some were sure to be caught by the lizards.
At a very narrow point in the cleft the last furred one stopped and turned baring its teeth, the lizards only seconds away. When they reached their prey the lizards had to stop short because of the narrow space, one of their number went headlong into the rushing water and was swept away.
The lone animal gave a good accounting of itself against the larger lizards, fiercely slashing and biting with its formidable teeth and managing to send two more of the lizards into the froth.
In the end it was overcome but its sacrifice gave the rest of its group more than enough time to reach the safety of the trees.

“You saw that,” Mester said, “right?”
Doc frowned, the large three-nostriled nose planted on his face taking on a reddish tint. “Yes, but it doesn’t prove anything.”
“Aw, Doc, stopping and turning in spite of the flight reflex requires cognition,” Mester said.
“That straggler could have just been scared shitless and didn’t know what else to do. Any number of other explanations could fit that scenario.”
Mester put his tentacled hand up to his mouth and slid it down across his bony chin. “This is the sixth example I’ve put in front of you and you still refuse to admit their potential,” he said. “They deserve a chance that they’ll never get with those lizards ruling the ecology.”
“You’re asking me to wipe out a working ecosystem,”
“That’s just it,” Mester said. “That’s all its doing, it’s not going anywhere. For millions of years the saurian evolution tends towards bigger teeth, stronger haunches, sheer size—no sign of anything higher than natural animal instinct, nothing in the direction of intellect. It’s a dead end and you know it.”
Doc looked aslant at Mester then turned his gaze back to the frozen scene his assistant had left on the holojector, a moment of the valiant defender’s terrible rage. He stared at it for a long time. Mester privately patted himself on the back for choosing that particular scene.
Finally Doc looked at the Cultivator and gravely said, “Okay, you’re right. You may proceed.”
Mester sighed.
“This is Alpha Cultivator One, Mester Xi,” Mester spoke for the official recording, “proceeding to cull and furrow planet 3S, star N-jx5, in our assigned galaxy. Permission and approval given by Farmall Director Dr. Chegron Pi.”
Doc nodded wearily and said, “Signed.”
Mester aligned their ship’s grav benders to the proper coordinates and paused, looking once more at his leader.
The Administrator hung motionless for a second, still gazing at the holo, then said, “Try to hit near the equator.” He looked over at Mester, nodding. “Do it.”