Fuzzy Bones (v1.1)

by William Tuning (v1. 1) (html)

  “In summary,” he said into the vocowriter, “we have clearly established that the titanium which the land-prawns ingest is accumulated and stored in the middle intestine. It is not passed with other wastes, but collects in nodules on the intestine wall until a point of saturation is assumed and then disperses through all the prawn’s soft tissues. The method of action and biochemical function of titanium in land-prawn metabolism is not clearly understood at this point. It is, however, clear that this property of titanium concentration is responsible for the obvious affinity displayed by Fuzzies for land-prawns as a staple item in the Fuzzy diet—even though the titanium present is not in the form of hokfusine, and thus cannot be processed into anti-NFMp by the Fuzzy metabolism.”

  “We have established that the hokfusine molecule present in Extee-Three emergency rations, which is present only if the farina mixture has been prepared in titanium cookers, has only five atoms of titanium; yet Fuzzies can distinguish its presence by taste alone. In short, they are fond of land-prawns, but they are crazy about Extee-Three.”

  “The NFMp hormone present in Fuzzy metabolism interferes with fertility and normal fetus development. The manufacture of NFMp is inhibited by any titanium-bearing organic compounds, but only at effective levels by large amounts of hokfusine. This is present theory, not conclusively established by a persuasive body of experiment, but is being actively pursued as a viable line of research which has an acceptably high probability.”

  “We have proven that Fuzzy metabolism does not use hokfusine directly against NFMp. The digestive process alters it, as well as a variety of other titanium-bearing compounds, into a single substance, which we presently label anti-NFMp, pending full information on its composition and properties.”

  “Another year or so of patient cataloging and observation should start producing a normal birth rate and acceptably low infant mortality levels among the Fuzzies who are getting enough titanium in their diet to manufacture adequate amounts of anti-NFMp in their bodies.”

  Jack Holloway sat down disgustedly on the outboard contragravity-field generator housing of Gerd’s airboat. “Damn it!” he said aloud, in the manner of men who are accustomed to being alone. “I hope this isn’t going to make me late for George’s party tonight.”

  “Wha’ matta’, Pappy Jack?” Little Fuzzy asked as he came to the hatch and jumped down to the ground. He looked all around. “No Fuzzies anywheh neh-yeh in-‘ha woods.”

  Jack smiled and scratched him between the ears. “How are you so sure of that?” he asked.

  Little Fuzzy assumed a wise expression and tapped his ear with a tiny finger.

  Of course. Fuzzies had keener hearing than Terrans, and across a wider frequency range. Terrans hadn’t even known Fuzzies could talk until the Navy researchers discovered their normal speech range was ultrasonic, with various “yeek” sounds at its interface with human hearing. They made handy little doorbells out in the bush—they could hear a contragravity vehicle coming about ten minutes sooner than a Terran could.

  “Whassa matta’,” Little Fuzzy repeated.

  Holloway shrugged. “Pappy Jack is getting forgetful. Remember we had trouble with this thing when we took you all over to Unka Vic’s house?”

  Little Fuzzy nodded.

  “Well, I should have pulled maintenance on it before I brought it up here, but I was in such a rush to get to the field that I forgot about it. Now we’ve lost more power and I can’t get enough lift out of it, even with the secondaries—enough to land it safely, but not enough to fly it. Well, it’s only 1600 and we’ve contacted five groups of Fuzzies today, anyway.”

  “Wha make do?” Little Fuzzy asked; curious, as usual.

  “I think it’s the energy cartridge, overdue for changing. We’ll find out what the trouble is, then screen Unka Gerd and have him bring the part out to us.” He reached inside the boat and opened the locker that held the maintenance tool kit, then stopped.

  Little Fuzzy was pulling on his pants leg.

  “What is it?” he asked, as he jerked the tool kit noisily from its clamps and set it down in the hatchway.

  Little Fuzzy had a finger to his lips. “Two Hagga,” he said. “Come this way—wahking. I think they tosh-ki-Hagga—bad Big Ones.”

  Jack frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  Little Fuzzy cocked his head to one side and turned his ear into the wind. “One say, ‘Just da old man, by-hisse’f, wif one of those ‘itta anima’.’ Ovvuh one say, ‘We come up with ship hiding us, we drop him easy. ‘Fuhst one say, ‘Ship make us good money on Omega Continent. If we bag da Fuzzy, have good money for him same way.’ “

  The tips of Jack’s mustache twitched truculently. “So that’s it; kill me, kidnap you, steal the airboat. How far away are they?” he asked as he loosened his pistol in the holster and snapped off the safety.

  “No fah,” Little Fuzzy said. “Take many—many-many sma’ mahks.” He tapped Jack’s wrist watch.

  Jack frowned. “How many minutes, Little Fuzzy? Think hard.”

  Little Fuzzy closed his eyes tightly, trying to remember what Christiana—Auntie K’istanna, he called her now—had taught him about counting. Finally, he snapped one hand out in front of him with all five fingers opened. “This many,” he said.

  “That’s enough,” he said. He lifted Little Fuzzy up into the boat. “You stay until I come for you. If anybody else comes in, you run like hell. Got that?”

  Little Fuzzy shook his head yes.

  Jack crawled into the boat and punched out Gerd’s office screen combination. The screen filled with a brilliant pattern of color that exploded into the image of Gerd van Riebeek sitting at his desk, dictating a tape. “Hi Jack,” he said, turning toward the screen. “What’s up?”

  “No time to explain, Gerd,” Jack said softly. “Leave this pickup open. My coordinates are J-five-seventy, S-nine-four-fiver. Got that?”

  Gerd was writing on a scratch pad. “Sure, but what’s—”

  “A couple a fellas are working up on me that figure to bushwhack me and steal your boat. If I don’t call you back in five minutes, get a patrol up here on the double. They’ll either be trying to figure out why your boat won’t lift or they’ll be nearby, running like hell. Don’t talk; just listen.”

  Jack thought for a minute, then reached under the control panel and pulled out the nine-millimeter automatic he knew Gerd kept there. He checked the magazine, chambered a round, and tucked it under the tool kit. Then he started whistling noisily and stopped to curse from time to time.

  By the time he could hear the men’s voices coming to him down the wind, he had the generator cover off and had hidden the extra pistol in among the machinery—and never let his right hand stray more than six inches away from it.

  When he heard their voices stop, that meant they could hear him, now, and could be expected to deliver their calling card in about sixty seconds. He closed his hand around the automatic.

  A bearded, disheveled man appeared from behind the front end of the boat. “Hi, friend,” he said with a smile. So—it was going to be the stall-and-cannon play. The “stall” would take his attention, and the “cannon” would shoot him in the back.

  The man was talking about something. Jack was looking at him with his eyes, but his ears were focused about thirty meters to his rear. When he heard the scrape of metal against leather—a very soft sound, but a very specific one if your whole being is focused on listening for it—he whirled on one knee and spun himself behind the open hatch-ramp steps. The cannon got off one shot while Jack was turning into a firing position and judging for size and distance.

  His first shot was a little high, but Jack was able to put the second in his chest—no need to wait to see if that one did it. He now gave the stall his undivided attention.

  The automatic bucked in Jack’s hand as the stall blasted off two wild shots, kicking up a fountain of dirt around the airboat. Jack put his second shot in the man’s left chest. When the man seemed to pause and did
not drop his weapon, Jack placed two more bullets within an inch-and-a-half of the first. The impact snapped the man’s head back and he went over backwards in a graceful arc and lay still, his legs folded under his body.

  Jack felt a hot ache in his right side. Must have banged himself into something as he ducked behind the steps. He rubbed at his ribs where it hurt. The hand came back red. “Old man Holloway is gettin’ slow. That first fella creased me a little,” he said aloud.

  Jack climbed back up into the airboat and peered at a worried-looking Gerd van Riebeek in the screen. “Jack! What the hell happened?”

  Jack grinned lopsidedly. He felt hot and his ears were ringing. “Two promising hijacking careers that will never come to full flower. One Native Affairs Commissioner nicked in the right side—let the other guy get off the first shot. One Little Fuzzy safe and sound. Unnnh. “He sat down on the deck, drew his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead on them.

  Gerd was shouting from the screen. “Jack! I’ll be there as quick as I can. Try to stop the bleeding and avoid shock.”

  “Don’t forget to call the cops at Beta-15,” Jack said softly. He felt something soft brush against his cheek and a little arm go around his neck. He opened his eyes and smiled at Little Fuzzy. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he said.

  Little Fuzzy stroked Jack’s arm. “You hokay, Pappy Jack? Tosh-ki-Hagga huhtsu?”

  “Not very much, Little Fuzzy. You saved Pappy Jack’s life. If you hadn’t heard them, I would have been tearing into the generator and making enough noise for them to have got me.”

  Jack looked closely at Little Fuzzy and saw something he had never seen before. There were two small wet spots in the fur just under Little Fuzzy’s eyes. Presently, another tear welled up and rolled away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Grego whistled absently as the private lift sped toward the penthouse level. Attorney General Brannhard had organized the agenda logically and presided over the meeting smoothly. No wasted words. Grego appreciated that sort of thing. He also appreciated that no one had tried to sell the Company more than its fair share of the contribution. They sometimes did that, presumably on the theory that the Company was a bottomless pocket filled with financial assets and cash flow.

  He stepped out of the lift directly into the foyer of his penthouse apartment. Christiana appeared in the living room doorway with a drink, which she handed to Grego.

  “How did you manage to time this?” he asked, waving his other hand over the glass.

  She grinned. “With an accomplice. Diamond can hear the lifter generator as soon as it engages at your office. There’s just enough time—if everything is already laid out.”

  “Well,” Grego said as he strolled into the living room. “You continue to amaze me, Miss Stone.” He looked around the room. “Where’s Diamond? He’s usually climbing me like a tree as soon as I come out of the lift.”

  She held up one finger. “That’s my fault. We have conspired to forego the usual greeting to show you something. Since it involved holding up part of dessert, I’m sure Diamond is waiting impatiently.” She motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen.

  “Heyo, Pappy Vic!” Diamond shouted. “SeehowIdo!”

  Diamond was seated at the kitchen table, in a kind of highchair. In front of him was a place setting of Fuzzy-sized silverware—actually the half-size utensils that were manufactured for very small children—fork, salad fork, soup spoon, teaspoon, knife., and butter knife. A little liqueur glass had been pressed into service as a water goblet— Fuzzy-scale.

  Christiana set a saucer in front of Diamond and a plate on the table. The saucer was empty; the plate contained an uncut cake of Extee-Three. She stood back against the kitchen counter and took a sip from her own drink.

  Grego watched in rapt fascination as Diamond picked up his knife and fork, cut off a slice of Extee-Three, and with great dignity placed it on the saucer in front of him. He laid down the knife and separated a single bite-sized piece from the slice with his fork, shifted his grip, impaled the bite on the fork and popped it into his mouth. This process was repeated, with occasional sips from the water glass, until the saucer was completely bare. Diamond took his napkin—a small pocket handkerchief—from his lap, dabbed at each corner of his mouth, folded up the napkin, and laid it to the left of his salad fork. He turned toward them with shining eyes. “How I do, Auntie Chistanna?” he asked.

  They both set down their drinks and applauded loudly.

  “Perfect, Diamond, “Christiana said. “You didn’t miss a thing.”

  Diamond gave a whoop and bounded down to the floor. He leaped a few steps and threw his arms around Grego’s neck, which, with its owner, had squatted down to Fuzzy-height.

  After hugs and a little romping all around, Diamond looked proudly at both his hands. “Fingahs no weh,” he announced, then ran off into the Fuzzy-Room.

  “What’d he say?” Christiana asked.

  “‘Fingers not wet,’” Grego repeated.

  “Oh,” she said, “of course. I’m still not quite used to that pidgin Terran. Does it have something to do with their speaking machinery?”

  Grego nodded. “‘L’ and ‘R’ pose quite a problem for them. As far as we know, the sounds don’t exist in Lingua Fuzzy.”

  They had drifted back into the living room and seated themselves on opposite sides of the coffee table. “You continue to astonish me, Miss Stone, and this is only Tuesday evening of your first week. The mind boggles at what you may accomplish by the time you have been here a fortnight.” She laughed. “It wasn’t that difficult,” she said. “He had watched Hagga eat with silverware. Given the tools, scaled down to his anatomy, he practically got it the first time. The only practice he’s had was with dinner, before you arrived.”

  “Speaking of dinner,” Grego replied, “let’s get that started.” He got to his feet and went over to his private screen, punched in a combination, and lit a fresh cigarette while he waited for the dinner menu to start scrolling.

  What a remarkable young woman, he thought, as she joined him to make her selection.

  George Lunt’s party was a little more elaborate than a “beer and pretzels fest.” Aside from the large cooler full of beer, there was a very respectable sideboard of cold cuts, cheeses, various sandwich makings, a tangy coleslaw of whacker-cabbage, the Zarathustran mutations of celery, radishes, carrot sticks, and pickled artichoke hearts, various kinds of crackers, salted nuts, dips, and—of course— pretzels.

  George had wangled Ahmed and Sandra to let him throw the party in their new bungalow on the grounds that his quarters were certainly too small, that it would be against regulations—which he was still busily writing—to use ZNPF facilities, and, finally, that the bride and groom would inherit all the leftovers, which would “… keep them both alive until one of them learns how to cook.”

  The other ZNPF officers had been invited—as etiquette required on the marriage of a fellow officer. The lieutenants were starting to drift away toward their own social circle. The three off-duty captains were holding their own—Jordan Nunez, Joseph Holderman, and Ray Pendleton—and Bruce Presley would come by to pay his respects when he closed off his shift at 2330.

  Nunez was sitting across from Jack in the group, with his tunic collar unbuttoned and one leg thrown over the arm of the big wooden armchair that had once been part of a pool-ball tree. “Hell, Jack,” he said, “why’d you have to kill ‘em both? If you could just have winged one of those guys, we could be sweating a thousand names out of him right now.”

  “That’s the truth,” Holderman agreed. “You know—tell him they’re going to have to operate on his leg, but we won’t let them put him under till he answers our questions.” He winked. “And if they have to wait till the leg swells up like a banjo-bird’s chest in mating season, they’ll probably have to cut it off. Not that they didn’t need killing—kidnap a Fuzzy and sell him on Omega, indeed—but couldn’t you have been a little less final with
one of them?”

  “Wasn’t time, Joe,” Jack said to Holderman. “As it was, I let that first son of a Khooghra nick me. It’s been a long time since that’s happened. Maybe this Commissioner of Native Affairs job is just right for me. Maybe I should be flying a desk—if I’m getting so old and slow that I can’t chop down two bush rats in a simple-minded ambush without getting scratched up.”

  “Oh, Jack,” Nunez said, “stop running yourself down. You’re not quite tired old folks, yet. I’ll tell you the truth— I’d hate to run up against you in a shooting scrape, and I’m about half your age.”

  “Thank you, Jordy,” Jack said. “That honestly makes me feel better. Do we know anything about them yet?”

  Nunez fished his notebook out of his hip pocket. “Let’s see,” he said, leafing through the pages, “I was just going off duty when we heard the call. Your coordinates weren’t actually inside the Fuzzy Reservation, so Colonial Constabulary had jurisdiction. But I went scooting over to Red Hill, anyway, and helped young Catlin catalog the deceaseds’ possessions. They were, J.J. Roberts—we don’t know what the J.J. stands for, but we think ‘J.J.’ is his actual first name—and one Curtis Hansson. They both had five hundred sols on them—separate from a little other money, and in each case tucked into a small white envelope. I checked in with Bruce, just before I came to the party, to see what he had gotten out of the big computer. Y’see, both these guys had a screen combination on a slip of paper tucked in those envelopes. Turns out that combination is for Hugo Ingermann’s private screen in Mallorysport.” He snapped the notebook shut and tucked it back in his hip pocket. “Isn’t that interesting?” he said. “Both these grubby bums having fresh money on them as well as Ingermann’s unlisted screen combination?”

  “Anh-hanh,” Holderman said. “I’ve been figuring that Ingermann must have some scouts out over here—ever since the sunstone claim on Fuzzy Divide was leased back to the CZC.”

  “Do you think it could have been a snuff job?” Jack asked.

  “No,” Nunez said, “I don’t think so. Ingermann doesn’t see you as the big snarl in his rope. He’s sunstone happy—his past actions prove that—so he’s going to have a bunch of cheerful dummies over here trying to figure out bigger and better ways to steal sunstones.”