Bowlby always was a little paranoid, Thaxter thought. “Yes.” Blue, again.
Again the screen flickered. “Ever since you got busted and Ingermann skipped planet I have been expecting something like that. Either the cops would get me or one of the others would move on me with you out of the way. Did you kill me or put out a hit on me?”
“Hell, no!” Thaxter started to sweat. He admitted to himself that he thought about it a time or two, but never carried it out. The globe flickered slightly, then remained blue.
The nozzles retracted into the wall. “Thank you for playing, Leo. You are no longer in danger of being gassed. Please keep your hand on the scanner, though.”
Thaxter put his hand back. In his relief he hadn’t even been aware that he had moved it.
“Do you know who killed me?”
Thaxter had a pretty good idea. “Maybe. I’m not certain, though.” The globe turned a dark shade of purple before it settled back to blue. The veridicator had trouble with guesses and conjectures.
Again the flicker. “Will you attempt to kill this person?”
“Yes.” Thaxter had planned on doing that anyway. The globe remained blue.
“Then the money is yours. Thank you, Leo, and good luck.”
The screen went dark and the wall slid open to reveal a vault door. As Thaxter wondered how to open it, the vault flew open to reveal numerous stacks of cash and twenty safety deposit boxes. Thaxter poked around a bit and found something else that would be useful; the plans for the building with all the secret passages marked in red. The hidden room with the surveillance recorder was behind Bowlby’s old office. The feed was good for a solid year, and then the older data would be replaced with the newer stuff. Thaxter had no idea if Bowlby archived the older feed before it automatically erased. Thaxter followed the secret passages on the building layout and saw he could get to the hidden room without having to go through the office itself.
Good, thought Thaxter. He pulled a device out of his pocket. I’ll be able to set up the relay and get the money out of the building without anybody seeing me.
Thaxter took another glance at the stacks of cash and wondered how he would do on Freya.
“Ivan Bowlby, you had an overdeveloped sense of drama, and you were way too spy crazy, but you were all right with me.”
* * * * * * * * *
Miguel Kourland took great pains to explain to Tuning that he was not to trip up his guest for the evening. That didn’t sit well with Tuning as he liked to get the better of his guests on the show. Kourland explained that the orders came straight from the top and Tuning agreed to play nice.
“You better, or I’ll replace you with a Fuzzy,” Kourland warned.
Tuning remembered how Kourland had replaced Spin Wheeler and nodded before taking his seat behind the interviewer’s desk. Unlike his predecessor, Tuning didn’t do a monologue. He preferred to present his lineup as a news program, not a variety show.
The lights came up and the audience applauded politely. There was none of the yelling and screaming associated with the Spinning Wheels show. Tuning stood up from behind the desk and came around to address the audience.
“Good evening and thank you for tuning in,” Tuning said, with his signature welcome. “Tonight we have Miss Darla Cross who will be telling us about her new family, a pair of adopted Fuzzies, and her upcoming role as Lady Macbeth in the new stage production of Macbeth that opens next week at the McGuire Theater.”
Tuning waited for the polite applause to die down before continuing. “We also have Dr. Hoenveld with us to discuss the newly discovered fossils of giant Fuzzies.” More applause, this time more enthusiastic. “And we have a special guest with Dr. Hoenveld. Stay tuned to see who it is.”
* * * * * * * * *
Up in his penthouse apartment, Victor Grego and Diamond watched the show with interest. It seemed to take forever to get through the Darla Cross interview. The woman was a great actress, but about as interesting to watch in an interview as drying paint. Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler, her newly adopted Fuzzies, were far more entertaining. When her interview was finally over, she moved over to the next chair as Dr. Hoenveld was introduced. With him was a Fuzzy.
* * * * * * * * *
“And who is this fine furry fellow?” Tuning asked.
The Fuzzy, sitting on Hoenveld’s lap, spoke up. “Zorro, Unka Tuning.”
Tuning was mildly surprised at being addressed as ‘unka’. “Welcome to the show, Zorro. Is Dr. Hoenveld your pappy?”
“Oh, no,” Hoenveld said. “We’re just friends. Zorro here is a fairly unique representative of Fuzzy sapiens zarathustra, which I will elaborate on shortly.”
Darla Cross reached out a hand and ruffled the Fuzzy’s head fur. “He’s so cute I could just eat him up!”
Zorro became alarmed until Hoenveld assured him that he was in no danger of being consumed. Still, he watched the actress carefully and was on his guard every time she tried to pet him. Finally, her own two Fuzzies climbed onto her lap and she satisfied herself with petting them.
“Doctor, I understand that you are in disagreement with an anthropologist who was recently interviewed on another network about those Fuzzy bones discovered in Northern Beta.”
“Yes and no,” Hoenveld said. “I do agree that the fossils represent either the precursors or even another branch of the Fuzzy family tree. The skeletal structure and overall design suggests that they are closely related. However, if we assume Fuzzies follow the same evolutionary path as sapient mammals of other worlds, then I simply can’t support the hypothesis that these remains belonged to a species possessing a high order of intelligence. Notice the shape of the brainpan….”
A screen lowered and the image of a skull appeared side-by-side with a cutaway diagram of the fossil.
“Notice the relatively small region where the frontal lobes would be seated. There is shockingly little space there. Yet, Zorro here possesses frontal lobes that are, to be honest, larger in proportion to his body than that of Homo sapiens terra.”
“Really!” Darla Cross exclaimed. “Does that mean Fuzzies are smarter than humans?”
“It is much too soon to make any assumption of that nature, Miss Cross,” Hoenveld said in, for him, an only slightly condescending tone. “Fuzzies have existed in a primitive culture struggling against an extremely hostile environment for thousands of years. Until they discovered us they had no time to truly develop their intellectual potential. I would say the next generation will give us a better indication of that.”
“They discovered us?” Tuning asked.
“Oh, certainly. Jack Holloway found Little Fuzzy, the first recorded meeting of the two species, in his shower stall. That means Little Fuzzy found Mr. Holloway’s home and investigated it. No doubt he watched from afar before hazarding to enter the cabin. As I see it, Little Fuzzy made the discovery, not Mr. Holloway.”
Tuning conceded the point, then returned to the original topic. “What about the NFMp hormone, Doctor? Doesn’t that suggest the Fuzzies were adapted to conditions on another world? That is what Professor—”
Back in the wings Miguel Kourland swore under his breath. Tuning was supposed to treat Hoenveld with kid gloves and here he was trying to trip him up.
“Oh, please,” the Doctor interrupted. “His absurd conclusions make me doubt his credentials.”
“But he is an anthropologist and paleontologist of some note, Doctor. Are you suggesting he is trying to perpetuate a scientific hoax?”
“You mean like Piltdown Man or the Martian Cave Paintings? No, of course not. I think this is more like the case of Nebraska Man where one thing was mistaken for another. Granted, these fossils are far more suggestive than a mere pig’s tooth; still, he would not be the first scientist to jerk the trigger with a half-baked theory. First of all, there is no way to determine if the fossil Fuzzies possessed the NFMp since there is no DNA available, and secondly, it wouldn’t prove anything even if they did.
&n
bsp; “The production of the hormone could be the result of a negative mutation, like diabetes or lupus in humans. The mutation bred true, unfortunately, entering the genome of the species. The Fuzzies that ate land-prawns were, in fact, self-medicating the condition and therefore able to reproduce, while those that did not simply died out. The surviving Fuzzies would have taught their young the same dietary habits until it became the racial norm. Again, it neither proves nor disproves anything.”
“Excuse me, Doctor, but if the dead Fuzzies in the picture were so big, why are our Fuzzies so small?” Darla Cross asked.
Hoenveld explained that diet and environment could have had a significant effect on Fuzzy development. He then followed-up with the possibility that the fossils may have belonged to a species similar to Terra’s Gigantopithecus, in which case while distantly related, they were not the ancestors of modern Fuzzies.
“Doctor, may I ask why you elected to bring Mr. Zorro in with you?” Tuning asked. Zorro, who had been watching the audience with some fascination, turned at the mention of his name.
Hoenveld smiled. It didn’t seem natural on his face. “I am glad you asked. Zorro here is the first Fuzzy I have ever examined that does not possess the NFMp hormone. He is not dependent on humans or land-prawns to provide him with the titanium based molecule I discovered to help him generate progeny.”
“What does that mean?” the actress asked.
“The mutation giveth and the mutation taketh away,” Tuning suggested.
“Very good, sir,” Hoenveld said. He even tried to smile again, though it still didn’t look right on his face. “I think I will put that on a plaque in my office.”
The interview concluded on a high note and Kourland decided not to hang Tuning by his thumbs. As the guests were leaving he overheard Darla Cross ask Dr. Hoenveld out for dinner. Even more surprising, Hoenveld accepted. As shocking events rated, Space Fuzzies didn’t even make the board in comparison.
XIX
Victor Grego turned off the viewscreen, then stretched. He didn’t watch much television as a rule; he paid others to do that for him and provide him with a semantically correct and concise account when needed. This was too important to miss. Hoenveld did a great job even when it looked like Tuning was going after him. Hopefully it would sway public opinion.
Grego made a note to check-in with Gerd in the morning to see where he was at on the rocket and ask him what he thought of theinterview.
“Diamond, would you like to have a late dinner with Pappy Vic?”
Diamond was all for it. “We have pizza?”
“Only if we leave off the extee-three.”
* * * * * * * * *
The Bitter End was in full swing for the after-dinner rush. The dance floor, always busy at this time regardless of the day of the week,was packed with bodies dancing despite the limited room between them. Tonight was something the new owner called Disco Night. Disco was something dredged up from some dusty archive somewhere, and the music had to be dredged up from the same place.
Affanita sat at the bar thanking Ghu that the directional sonics spared her from the full brunt of what passed for music on the dance floor. Some of it sounded like somebody was strangling a drunken Khooghra while a tribe of Thorans banged away at their primitive drums. If the new owner installed a suggestion box someplace, Affanita was determined to find it and suggest that the music feed be permanently wiped. Even First Century A.E. country music is better than this, she decided. If the musicdidn’t change soon, she was going to finish celebrating elsewhere.
She downed her Thoran brandy and signaled the bartender for a refill. Behind her, the music changed to something softer and easier to stomach. Affanita decided she could survive the noise long enough to ake a table as far from the dance floor as possible and order veldbeest tenderloin. Tonight, hyperspace was the limit. Or, at least sixty thousand and seven hundred and fifty sols worth.
She had made out much better than she thought she would on the bag of sunstones Richard had given her. She banked fifty thousand sols, paid off all of her debts and was splurging for one night before deciding whether to stay on Zarathustra, or go to work as Richard’sshill. Affanita had to admit, at least to herself, that even five to ten percent of another run like the first one would keep her in clover for a good long while. Richard had an interesting and effective sales pitch. She just couldn’t figure what the game was. She checked around after selling the sunstones with other prospectors. She found three others who were given the same pitch and a bag of stones, though none got quite as much as she did.
Like her, they tested the stones and checked around to see if any other prospectors had been robbed or disappeared. None, except for somebody named Bradley Small who had robbed another prospector, so he didn’t count. They all knew a phony stone when they saw one, too. No fakes. So where did the stones come from and why give away so many just to get the shills? It was enough to make her head spin, though the Thoran brandy would manage that on its own.
Affanita asked for a menu, collected her purse and drink, and took a table near the back. She scrolled through the menu on the electronic pad, found the tenderloin and a couple of side dishes, thumbed the SELECT button and set the pad down. While she waited she looked around the room. In the private booth she noticed the new owner, Ricardo La Rue, sitting there sharpening a large Bowie knife. La Rue stopped suddenly and stared at the knife, then quickly put it away. What was that all about?
She gave a little shrug, then looked around some more. Closer to the dance floor she spotted her cabbie from earlier that day along with a woman that had to be his wife. She thought about going over to say hello, then thought better of it. The wife might be the jealous type and jump to the wrong conclusion. Better to not take any chances.
A waiter appeared with her order. After he left Affanita lost all interest in the other patrons and attacked her meal like it could be her last. It had been a long time since she had tenderloin, and even longer since she could afford to get one this good. She tried to make it last but it practically vanished off her plate.
Ghu, that was good!
Affanita picked up the menu pad again and scrolled through the dessert options. After settling on a chocolate mousse she set the pad back on the table and nearly jumped out of her skin. Sitting in the chair across from her was Richard.
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” the geek said with a smile. “I spotted you walking over from the bar and thought I would say hello. Hello.”
“Hiya, Tiger,” Affanita replied with a forced smile. “What’s a guy like you doing in a nice place like this?”
“Oh, celebrating. Like you, I suspect.” Richard waved to a waite rand ordered two drinks. A Freyan ale for him, another Thoran brandy for Affanita. “I guess you decided to take the stones to a dealer. How’d you make out?”
She told him though she shaved a few thousand off the price. Richard let out a low whistle. “Not bad. Not bad at all. So, ready to do business on a regular basis?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Indeed you do. I said it was up to you and it is. I don’t twist arms.” Richard smiled and added, “I suspect you would totally humiliate me in a fight, anyway. No, if you choose to walk away, fine. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that you would be missing out on a very lucrative opportunity. The next bunch would be almost twice as much, and while you would only keep five percent, that’s still a fair amount of money.”
“Twenty percent,” Affanita countered.
“Oh, now, that’s just not realistic,” Richard replied. “Let’s call it six percent.…”
“Make it fifteen. I suspect I am taking some sort of risk, though I haven’t figured out what it is, yet.”
“Tell you what: we both know where this is headed so I’ll take the short cut. Ten percent. Take it or leave it. Offer good until I get my drink. Ah, here comes the waiter, now.”
“Done. When is the next delivery?”
Richard accepted the d
rinks, tipped the waiter ten sols, then turned back to Affanita and pulled a leather pouch out of his jacket. “Right now.”
* * * * * * * * *
Victor Grego washed down two headache pills with a lukewarm coffee and chased it with a fresh cigarette. He mentally counted down from one hundred. By the time he got to fifty, the headache had abated enough that he thought he could deal with the current crisis. He flipped on the viewscreen and set it for the exterior security cameras. There, on the ground level in front of the Zero level entrance, was a mob of people demanding to see the so-called giant Fuzzy bones. There were also acouple of men with clipboards taking signatures.
There was talk of boycotting Company stores if they weren’t allowed access to the bones and rocket. That almost made Grego laugh. Less than two percent of the Company’s annual revenue came from on-planet groceries and goods. It was exports that brought in the big bucks. And the Company was the largest supplier of produce, meat and dairy on Zarathustra. A boycott would only hurt the people doing the boycotting.
Grego leaned back and just stared at the screen. It was a pack of amateur archaeologists and armchair biologists, he guessed, and the usual lookiloos who just plain had too much time on their hands. All because of that damned footage of the skeletons over in Science division. It had to be an employee who took the pictures, of course. He, she or they were probably paid a considerable amount by B.I.N. Grego hoped so, because if he ever found out who, they would need that money to support themselves after he fired their asses.
Grego had a brief thought about asking Johann and some of his gang to go out and scare the bejeezus out of the protestors. It would be in extremely poor taste, but still it was fun to think about. Some of the protestors might even think the bones came to life and grew skin. The altered Freyans might have even enjoyed scaring the hell out of people. Unfortunately, it would result in bad press. There would be enough of that when the sale of Zeta Continent hit the news.
Caveat Fuzzy Page 18