Then, I’ve got to start getting the manpower strength up—send John over to Mallorysport and goose up the recruiting office—and beef up my training program with more instructors and cadre sergeants, scrounge up some more uniforms and equipment, and…
Chapter Eight
Victor Grego sat in the lawn chair on his penthouse apartment’s terrace and thought. He leaned back, with his eyes closed, and thought.
To look at him, one would think he was a gentle, heavy-set man who was dozing in the sun on his day off. One would not immediately think that this man was the Manager-in-Chief of the Zarathustra Company or that he was hard at work. One might suppose that running a colonial company which did about a quarter of a billion sols in gross annual business was little more than presiding over luncheon meetings with subordinate executives and reading reports.
That was what one would think if one went to work each day, worked one’s shift, and then went home—conveniently leaving the job at the office.
Victor Grego’s office was inside his head, and he carried it with him night and day.
The meat-packing plants on Delta Continent were working around the clock, now. With all this influx of population, there was a constant and heavy demand for prepared and packaged foodstuffs of all kinds. Not only was that a blessing for the general profit picture, but it kept the supervisors so busy they didn’t have time to worry about the Company losing its charter or to pester the Manager-in-chief with minor problems.
The agreement with Governor Rainsford’s Colonial Government that allowed the Company to mine on that rich sunstone deposit inside the Fuzzy Reservation was going to work out all right, too—no matter if it did cost a hefty royalty for the privilege. The continued input of sunstones owned by the Company would keep the Company in a tough position which virtually amounted to control of sunstone prices. That had been an early horror that haunted Grego right after the Fuzzy Trial; one hundred million sols in the sunstone vault combined with the prospect of a free market in sunstones could have badly eroded the Company’s worth if a gang of prospectors had gotten together and formed a co-operative to sell directly to someone like the Couperin Cartel—who had the money to drive down the buying price and drive up the selling price by controlling inventories.
The private communication screen chimed softly from inside the apartment. Grego’s eyes snapped open and he got to his feet to answer it, casting a glance toward where three Fuzzies were laying out an intricate pattern of colored tiles and plastic rods.
As he suspected, the caller was Colonial Governor Ben Rainsford. Ben had left off his own two Fuzzies, Flora and Fauna, to spend the afternoon with Grego’s Diamond. Diamond was very happy with Pappy Vic, but he did get lonesome for the company of other Fuzzies. Have to do something about that one of these days.
“Of course, Governor,” Grego was saying to the image in the screen—a rumpled little man with bristling red whiskers who still wore bush clothes, even though he was the chief executive of a planetary government. “1730 will be quite convenient. Perhaps you’d care to join me in a cocktail if you can spare the time.”
“I’d be delighted,” Ben Rainsford said. “In fact there’s something I think we should chat about, and this will be a good opportunity to talk.”
Grego bid Rainsford good-day and switched off the screen. He chuckled to himself as he returned to the terrace. How times change, he thought. When Fuzzy business started, Rainsford wanted nothing so much as to nail my skin to the fence and use it for target practice.
He stopped on the terrace, stretched and yawned, then looked down the wide valley below Mallorysport. Clouds were rolling up from the horizon. It looked like rain.
Just as the first large drops of rain splatted down onto the terrace, the doorway chimed and Grego admitted Ben Rainsford. The two men exchanged greetings and some small talk. Then Grego turned toward the terrace and motioned for Rainsford to follow him. “Before the rain really gets going, I want you to take a look at what the kids have been doing,” he said.
As they stepped out into the afternoon light, which was now dimmed by the overcast, a fork of lightning split the sky, followed by the roll of thunder marching up the valley.
The Fuzzies looked up at the sky, decided it was really going to rain, and trotted toward the open terrace doors.
“Come on, Pappy Vic. Do-bizzo,” Diamond said, “Bizzo; fazzu. Get fur all wet.”
“Hokay, Diamond,” Grego said. “So jash-ah; jos Flora or Fauna. I’ll just show Unka Ben this pretty thing.”
Rainsford stooped to get a better look at the design which the three Fuzzies had created, paying no attention to the big raindrops which were making dark spots on his khaki jacket.
“Well?” he said to Grego. He spread his hands, then put them back on his knees. “What’s unusual about it?”
“Nothing,” Grego said, “except that I’ve noticed the spiral design seems to be a favorite of Fuzzies, but I can’t imagine where they’ve seen it before. You’re the expert xeno-naturalist. What’s the answer?”
“The first answer,” Rainsford said as he shuddered under the increasing rain, “is to get in out of the wet. Let’s have that drink.”
Both men moved briskly across the terrace, into the living room, and Grego closed the doors just as another clap of thunder boomed.
The Fuzzies had already drifted into the Fuzzy-room, just off the kitchen, and were watching a screenplay. They knew quite well that this was the time of day when the Big Ones drank tosh-ld-waji—bad-tasting water—and made Big One talk.
“Thank you, Victor,” Colonial Governor Rainsford said, accepting a glass, then settled back on the couch.
Grego dropped into his favorite chair. “Well, Bennett,” he began, “where do they get that spiral design?”
“Why, from nature, I suppose,” Rainsford said. “All manner of spiral-shaped things in nature—flower stamens, snail shells, rams’ horns, seed pods—that sort of thing.”
“Not on Zarathustra,” Grego said.
Rainsford looked at him with a quick movement of his head. “What?”
“The Mother Nature who drew the plans for Zarathustra,” Grego replied, “favored the concentric circle design over the spiral design. Featherleaf tree, pool-ball fruit, tandavine beans—all manner of plants grow in layered round shapes.”
Rainsford stared at him, as if to say, who’s the scientist here, you or me?
Grego smiled disarmingly. “I got curious and looked it up. I just thought you might have an idea about it.”
Rainsford sipped his drink, then shook his head. “I don’t know, Victor. Science for me has been something of a luxury—a luxury I can’t afford—ever since Alex Napier stuck this Governor job onto me. You’ll have to ask the Fuzzyologists about that one.”
Grego waved a hand. “I noticed that the first day I took Diamond to the office with me. He got into the computer room and rearranged all the lights on the input board; the pattern he made was a spiral one, kind of like a nebula.” Grego chuckled as he recalled the panic which had followed until Joe Verganno had restored the Executive One and Two computers to their normal functioning. “It was sort of pretty, too, except there was hell to pay for a couple of hours.”
Another flash of lightning glared through the premature twilight and the thunderclap rattled the terrace doors.
The Fuzzies peeped bashfully around the door jamb, then decided all the noise wasn’t Pappy Vic and Pappy Ben fighting and went back to their communication screen.
“That’s something else I’ve been wondering about,” Grego said, nodding toward the Fuzzies.
“Whazzat?” Rainsford said absently.
“For a people of low paleolithic development, the Fuzzies don’t seem to have the slightest fear of natural events. Consider the Thorans, for example. With all their intelligence and absolute fearless courage, whenever there’s a thunderstorm they drop to the ground like stones and start praying to Great Ghu the Grandfather God like the end of the world is coming in five min
utes.”
Rainsford rubbed his chin and nodded agreement.
“That’s another thing,” Grego said, warming to his subject. “Fuzzies don’t seem to have any primitive nature-gods or religious myths about the creation of the world and so forth. What do you make of that, Bennett?”
“Hmmmf,” Rainsford said. “Next thing, you’ll be applying to the Institute of Xeno-Sciences for a fellowship.”
Grego reddened slightly.
“The first thing a xeno-naturalist learns about extrasolar creatures is to find the yardstick,” Rainsford said, “instead of trying to make existing yardsticks apply. Comparisons, yes. Circular reasoning, no.”
“Well, then,” Grego said. “There are nine sapient races besides Terrans. They all react the same to loud noises, don’t they? With the exception of Fuzzies, that is.”
“Yes,” Rainsford snapped, “and they can all be driven insane. Fuzzies are totally sane and can’t be driven insane. Maybe that’s the difference. There is always some difference. Non-Terran psychology is not all whittled from the same stick.”
Grego raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. Can’t argue with that line of reasoning, he thought.
“Even the Yggsdrasil Khooghra,” Rainsford went on, “with the lowest mentation of any sapient race, can be driven nuts.”
“I see your point,” Grego said. “I’ve been pondering some of these things. I was interested in your opinion.”
“Thank you,” Rainsford said. “There is something else I wanted to ask you about, though, and I’m getting a bit pressed for time.”
“So, you see, “Rainsford concluded, “we’ve got a damn-thing by the tail here with no way to let go unless we stay strictly on top of the situation. With our budget situation being what it is, we can’t hope for law enforcement organizations to grow fast enough to meet the requirements of this damned population boom.”
Grego nodded. “I know, Bennett. Nine years ago, before you came to Zarathustra, we had an immigration boom. If it hadn’t gone bust, there would have been a Nifflheim of a law enforcement problem come out of it—at least for a while.”
“Well, we can’t allow it,” Rainsford said. “We’ve got to get the most we can out of available manpower with the least possible waste motion.”
Grego smiled. Spoken like a true manager, he thought. “You have some ideas, then, I take it?” he said.
Rainsford knocked the heel out of his pipe. “Indeed,” he said. “We’ve got a helluva lot of overlap, here.” He ticked the agencies off on his fingers. “There’s Ian Ferguson’s Colonial Constabulary, the Mallorysport City P.D., the ZNPF, Harry Steefer’s rather sizeable mob of Company Police for your own company, and almost a hundred Marines on loan for various peace-keeping chores.” That used up all the fingers on one hand, and Rainsford waved it in the air. “Besides that, there’s the Colonial Marshal’s office, and it’s not unusual for Max Fane to send one of his men all the way over to Delta Continent just to serve papers on someone.”
Grego nodded.
“The way I see it,” Rainsford continued, “We should establish a central records and dispatch agency right here in Mallorysport—a Colonial Investigation Bureau—and put all our law enforcement records and mission requests through it. That way, if the CZC swears out a warrant for some veldbeest herder who stole a company aircar on Beta, you won’t have to send your own men on a ten-hour round trip to get them where the crook is. The Bureau can just put out a want on him to the local agency—Constabulary, ZNPF, whatever. Someone can bring the miscreant along when they come over to Alpha Continent on other business. You see?”
“And,” Grego said, nodding agreement, “if someone holds up a planter or a prospector on Beta, then hightails it for Junktown, the Constabulary can have our people here pick him up and hold him. Yes, I can see where that would be more efficient—now that we have law enforcement almost everywhere on the planet.”
“Exactly,” Rainsford said. “But it won’t work unless all the agencies involved agree to cooperate. The big advantage, as I see it, will be to get the officers who are fooling around in offices out of administrative work and into the field. Why, that ought to give us a twenty percent increase right there in people who are actually out chasing crooks— without hiring any more people or paying any more salaries.”
“I’m convinced,” Grego said. “What do you want me to do about this, Bennett?”
Rainsford snatched his pipe and tobacco pouch from his jacket pocket and reared back on the couch. “Why, talk to Harry Steefer about it—see what he thinks. I’ve talked to Colonel Ferguson, and I’ll talk to George Lunt when I’m over on Beta in a week or so. I’ve already talked to Captain Khadra about it. It was his idea, by the way. We’ll set up a meeting with all the force commandants. Ought to have Gus Brannhard in on it, too, I suppose.”
“Luncheon would be a good time,” Grego said. “I’d like to attend, myself, if that’s all right.”
“Why, of course, Victor,” Rainsford said. “I was hoping you’d say that. I may be the Colonial Governor General, but that’s only been for a year. If both of us tell all of them it’s a good idea, I’m sure they’ll all go for it.”
After Ben Rainsford had left with Flora and Fauna, Diamond yawned and stretched in the foyer, then climbed up into Grego’s lap. “What you talk with Unka Ben, Pappy Vic?” he asked.
“Business, Diamond,” Grego answered. “About ways to do a better job of catching bad Big Ones.”
“Tosh-ki-Hagga?” Diamond asked, “like the Big Ones who brought me here from the big woods?”
“That’s right,” Grego said. “It’s an awfully big job.”
Diamond squirmed around until he was comfortable on Grego’s ample lap. “Not so bad—the way it work out,” he said sleepily.
Grego thought about the way Diamond had been kidnapped by Herckerd and Novaes and held prisoner until he escaped. “So-noho-aki davov tosh-ki,” Grego said. You tell me how not bad.
Diamond yawned, again. “If not come here, no find Pappy Vic,” he said. “No find you hoksu-hagga— wonderful big one.”
Grego scratched the back of Diamond’s head, between his ears. In a moment he set down his brandy snifter and brushed something out of the corner of his left eye.
Chapter Nine
They were in Jack’s living room, and it looked almost exactly as it had the first night Gerd van Riebeek had seen it, when he and Ruth and Juan Jimenez had come out to see the Fuzzies, without the least idea that the validity of the Company’s charter would be involved.
All the office equipment and supplies and files that had cluttered Jack Holloway’s home right after the Pendarvis Decisions were long since cleared out into the Administration Office buildings. Now there was just the sturdy, comfortable furniture which Jack had built himself, the damnthing and bush-goblin and veldbeest skins on the floor, and the gun-rack with a tangle of bedding under it where his own family of Fuzzies slept. The other Fuzzies didn’t intrude here—they understood it was private to Pappy Jack’s Fuzzies.
There were only four people present—soon to be joined by another: Jack and the van Riebeeks as before; and Lynne Andrews, slender and blonde and sitting on the couch where Juan Jimenez and Ben Rainsford had sat that first night. Jack sat in the armchair at his table-desk, trying to keep Baby Fuzzy, on his lap, from climbing up to sit on his head.
“We’re getting closer, but there’s an enormous amount of information we don’t have yet,” Gerd was saying. “The Fuzzy infant mortality rate is running something like ninety percent. The NFMp hormone inhibits normal development of the fetus every time—” He pointed to the example of Baby Fuzzy. “—except when the NFMp production cycle is out of phase with the mother’s fertility cycle.”
“How many viable infants are there in Fuzzy-shelter, now?” Jack asked.
“Seven, “Ruth answered. “Since we set up the lab, we’ve had sixty-two deliveries. Fifty-five of those have been stillbirths, live births that die within hours, or
preemies who aren’t strong enough to stay alive, even in incubators. The mothers with healthy babies have been kept here, so we can study their kids—even if there aren’t enough of them for a decent sample group.”
Jack nodded as he arranged the information in his mind. “Good—actually, not good. What I mean is that it’s good you’re retaining the Fuzzies with viable offspring, instead of letting them disappear into the adoption pool. Do you have an infant experimental group getting large doses of hokfusine, as well as the adult sample?”
“Yes,” Lynne said, “but it’s too soon yet to measure any differences in development.” Lynne had been shanghaied from the hospital in Mallorysport, where her practicing M.D. was in pediatrics. She still hadn’t completely shaken off the notion of equating Fuzzies with human children about one year of age; they were much the same size. Some of them, of course, were older than she was, but the present state-of-the-art Fuzzyology didn’t include any method of age-determination. And Fuzzies had a very cavalier attitude about numbers: they counted to five on the fingers of one hand, using the other hand to count with. Then they counted past that to a “hand of hands”—twenty-five. After that it was “many,” and somewhere beyond that it was simply “many-many.”
“Many-many summers” of age wasn’t very satisfying to a scientist trying to set up research records.
“Hell, Jack,” Gerd said. “We’re not even real sure what the gestation period is for Fuzzies, much less what their growth rates and mental development schedules are. We have some adolescent Fuzzies. We have some pubescent Fuzzies. And we have adult Fuzzies. But we have no Fuzzies who can give us precise elapsed-time information about their own life cycles. We’ll just have to skull it out for ourselves by observation of experimental groups. We’ve got a long job ahead of us, here.”
Jack asked, “Do we know anything definite yet about how they use hokfusine—more than that they metabolize it into something that inhibits NFMp production?”
“We think it’s like a vitamin to them,” Lynne said. “They prefer eating land-prawns over anything else, because of the titanium in its middle intestine. But the molecule isn’t the same as the hokfusine molecule. They can’t convert it into anti-NFMp, even though they’re very fond of the taste it gives the land-prawn. We’re making a series of endocrine comparisons now to determine what’s involved with the titanium in hokfusine that allows its conversion into anti-NFMp and doesn’t allow the titanium in land-prawns to be converted.” She gave a short laugh. “You have to understand, though, that when I say endocrine system for Fuzzies, that’s only the vaguest kind of label; we have precious little information on the subject at this point.”
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