The Chasers

By DANIEL F. GALOUYE
Illustrated by Harrington
Civilizations must make sense somehow. But was this one the gaudy, impossible exception?
As the dust drifted clear of the ship's landing skids, at least two things became obvious:
One—although they had missed the city (if that's what it was) by miles, they had nevertheless managed to slam down near one of the numerous rural estates.
Two—the landscape would be crawling with Zaortian Fuzzy Tails for a long while to come. They were still pouring out of hatches sprung open by the crunching impact.
Kent Cassidy untangled himself from the control column and plucked one of the Fuzzy Tails from his neck. The creature scampered around until it found the ruptured hatch, then scurried through to join the squealing zoological exodus.
There goes ten thousand credits' worth of cargo, groaned Gene Mason. His stout form was slumped in dejection before the view port.
Cassidy sniffed the refreshing air that was drifting into the ship. Any idea where we are?
After the directional stabilizer blew, we made three blind jumps, all in the direction of Galactic Center. We could be anywhere between Zaort Seven and the Far Rim.
Hey, look, said Cassidy.
From the hatchway, the sumptuous estate sprawled nearby, its many gabled manor closed off behind a high wire fence. Cassidy squinted, but failed to recognize the bold, flowing architectural style.