By Kain Massin

The panel was slid aside in stages, to allow the animals a chance to get used to the strong light.

Professor Zhao JianGuo spoke with a comforting tone: “Hello, you two, we have arrived.”

Two pairs of eyes peered back, their slit pupils closing down in response to the increased illumination. 

“There, there, my beauties,” he continued to calm them, “soon you’ll be outside in your new home.”

He was greeted by a mildly irritated bleating, but it was short and not repeated. They trusted him and understood that their discomfort was almost over.

“Very good,” Zhao said. “Now, just one more move and you’ll be free.”

“You may lower them,” he said to Sandra Beinke, the CEO of Zoos South Australia. “Please be gentle.”

Beinke smiled up at him. “Tony’s our most experienced driver, Professor. There’s no need to worry.” She looked at the forklift driver and nodded.

The structure was hoisted into the air and the forklift backed away. The container was gently lowered, touching the ground at the tunnel leading into the panda exhibit. 

Zhao nodded approvingly: at no time had he heard even the slightest sound of a scrape or a bump. It was possible the two pandas had barely noticed the move. He climbed down from the truck and walked anxiously over to the crate.

“That was very well done,” he congratulated Tony. 

He reminded himself how important it was to make a favourable impression; much depended on the success of these goodwill missions, and he was definitely in favour of making China look positive. Even his name — JianGuo — meant creating a wonderful and loved country. He looked at the crate. “Now, I must get inside the enclosure and welcome my friends to their new home.”

Zhao entered the enclosure and was mostly pleased with the environment. The one in Beijing was larger and allowed for more opportunities to see the pandas, but this one was nicely set up. 

He walked over to the temporary raceway; through the tunnel, he could see the crate with the first bear — FunFun the Australians had decided to call him — and he signalled to the handlers to proceed. The door was slid up, and FunFun looked at the new circumstances. He made a little querulous bleat, then came up on all fours and sniffed the air. He cautiously moved to the opening, poking his head out and looking at the outside. Realistically, all he saw was the tunnel and Zhao at the end.

“Come on,” Zhao said, bending over and coaxing the bear toward him with a wave.

It took a few moments for FunFun to decide it was safe to come into the alien world. As soon as he was clear of the race, the workers opened the crate’s inner door which had separated the two bears, and HeyHey looked out to her new home. 

She rubbed against him as he offered her a tasty length of sugar cane, the last of the home-grown food that she would get for the next ten years. 

She sat down and busied herself with munching, using her grinding molars to pulp it down. Having a carnivorous architecture, she had canines, but really did not use them: it is generally accepted that, along with many other things that giant panda bears are too lazy to do, they are too lazy to hunt and kill.

“But, you’re not too lazy to listen, are you, my pet?” he asked as he rubbed her ears. He ran a hand over the circular patch of hair on her head. It was growing back just fine and would soon be indistinguishable from the rest of her fur.

She paused her eating to look at him and emit a soft bleat.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” he apologised.

She resumed her eating and he went to the exit. “I will see you in a few years,” he called back, but she was far too intent on her food.

He farewelled FunFun, then headed back to the truck. The two pandas being replaced had already been put in their crates and loaded on the truck. He did not want to disturb them, so he just turned to Sandra Beinke.

“Please look after our two friends,” he said with earnestness. “They mean so much to us and their value is hard to imagine.” 

“Professor, you know we will take FunFun and HeyHey to our hearts. All of Australia loves them.”

***

The sign said: Chinese National Biosecurity Holding Station, and there were two guarded gates. The first was to enter the facility, the second to a small, and separate, building which had no other sign beyond the Only Authorised Persons May Enter.

Zhao showed his pass and was admitted immediately to a control room with monitors and computer workstations. The six technicians stood up and inclined their heads in deference.

Ignoring them, he punched a code in a metal door and walked in. Both pandas were lounging about, eating their first bundles of home-grown cane they had seen in ten years.

They each bleated a welcome when they saw him, then returned their attention to the much-more-compelling food.

“My friends,” he said. 

He walked over; scratched them. Each one had a circular bald spot on their head that had been shaved on arrival. Zhao took a metal cap and strapped it to the head of MumMum.

“How are you, MumMum?” he asked, using the name the Australians had given her ten years ago.

She stopped eating and looked up at him.

Red writing appeared on a monitor.

“I am well, Professor friend. We have not seen you for a long time.”

He sighed and scratched one of her ears.

“I am most sorry,” he said affectionately.

She bleated agreement. The words: “Thank you” scrolled over the monitor.

Zhao turned serious.

“Now then, let us begin with some easy questions. What are the security codes to the Adelaide submarine facility?”

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