“Oh, I think he does,” Gus said. “I’ve been studying Mr. Ingermann’s operation quite closely as I remain alert for ways to rid the planet of him. As I’ve said, Ingermann is Out to Get Us in capital letters. The more I learn about him, the more I agree with your notion—hare-brained though it seemed at first—”
Rainsford glared at him.
Gus grinned and went on. “… that he’s fastened himself on getting control of Zarathustra. And he’s smart enough to have several scams working in that direction—on the theory that any one of them will be more apt to pay off in an atmosphere of general disruption and confusion.”
A small bell chimed somewhere in Pendarvis’ office, discreetly indicating that the time had come for him to go on to other matters.
Rainsford and Brannhard stood and prepared to leave.
“By the way, Governor,” Pendarvis said, “I didn’t request those judgeships because I thought the government could afford them, or because I expected to get them any time soon.”
“What for, then?” Rainsford asked.
“For the record,” Pendarvis said, “so that when we can afford them, I won’t be completely at the end of the line for budget increases.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mr. Commissioner Holloway reached up behind his own head and pushed his hat down over his forehead to shade his eyes. He chuffed on his pipe and continued to swing the microray scanner ahead of him as he crossed and recrossed the basin of Fuzzy Valley.
Gerd had his portable lab—screwed to a contragravity lifter—programmed for inorganics and was running soil samples. The lab floated weightless at bench height, bobbing slightly each time Gerd punched a set of data into the chart storage unit.
George and Ahmed were circling the rim of the valley on a small skid, looking for other signs of Fuzzy habitation that couldn’t be seen from the air.
The Fuzzies had promptly disappeared upon arrival. “So ni-hosh shi-mosh-gashta,” Jack had said. “You find the people like Fuzzies. Tell them Hagga love them, give good treats—give esteefee.”
Jack set his microray scanner on the edge of Gerd’s “bench,” and took a long drink of water. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Nothing unusual about the geology, Gerd,” he said. “This is all homogeneous—pretty much normal sedimentary stuff. I don’t know anything now that I didn’t know when I kicked my toe in the dirt and said that to begin with.”
Gerd punched another test result into the chart unit and raised one eyebrow. “But now you know for sure,” he said.
“True,” Jack replied. “If there’s anything buried in the valley, it’s buried mighty deep.”
“Well, there’s something here,” Gerd said, “that’s putting a lot of titanium into the soil. So far, I have double, triple, and quad-ionized titanium traces, titanic acids, and titanates. The soil is rich enough to grow these plants again if it had sufficient water. The plants are sure to have picked the stuff up—and hence been tasty to Fuzzies. I’ll take some plant samples back for analysis, but that’s just lip service. I’m sure I’m right.”
“But, where is it coming from?” Jack insisted. “Can you tell that?”
“Don’t know yet,” Gerd said. “I’m doing a random chart, now. If that doesn’t ‘point a finger,’ so to speak, we can lay out a point-grid, with a sample from each point on a hundred-meter checkerboard, and graph that. I did have one thought.”
“Which is?”
“Does titanium ever come in meteorites?” Gerd asked.
Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it could.”
“Mmmmm,” Gerd said. “That’s so far out of my area, I wouldn’t even know how to start looking it up. If, though, there was a big titanium-rich meteorite buried up on one of these mountains, it would decompose, ever so slowly, and release compounds like this into the soil as it washes down to the valley floor.”
Jack leaned on the lifter and gazed south toward the woods. “You know, we could come up here and sink a water well. I’ll bet money the water table isn’t very deep. Sink the well upstream,” he mused, talking more to himself than to Gerd. who understood and went on with his work while only half-listening. “Wouldn’t be unheard of to hit a structure that’d give us a good head of artesian flow.” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “Why, it’s plain as day that there’s a saturation layer east of that saddle where the old creek ran. All kinds of folded structures around here. With the amount of hot springs and geothermal fumaroles we’ve spotted, there’s a good chance of hitting a pressure dome. Something’s keeping those trees alive down in the woods, there. No sign of them dying back since the rainfall dropped off.”
“Why would you want to?” Gerd asked.
“Want to what?”
“Bore a well, of course.”
“Why to throw the switch again on the water supply,” Jack said, “get things growing up here again. Think about it. Live plants that are rich in titanium compounds—that could put a whole new twist to your Fuzzy research.” He laughed, quickly and shortly. “Fuzzy salad might hold the key to the whole problem.”
“Hmmmph!” Gerd said.
“Son of a Khooghra!” Jack exclaimed suddenly. Without moving his head, he fumbled behind him, making the skid bob violently.
“What the blazes are you doing?” Gerd asked, snatching up one of his soil samples to keep it from being spilled.
“Hand me the binos—quick!” Jack said.
Gerd placed the stereo-optic in Jack’s outstretched hand. Jack clapped it to his eyes and chuckled, talking to himself under his breath.
“What is it?” Gerd asked.
“Here,” Jack said, “see for yourself.”
Gerd grabbed the binos and looked.
“So we said the Upland Fuzzies had unusual traits, did we—traits like cooperative hunting—that woods Fuzzies didn’t bother with?” Jack said triumphantly.
Gerd gasped. Their own Fuzzies—the ambassadors— were coming out of the woods, followed by a group of Upland Fuzzies. Whereas woods Fuzzies just moved over the ground in a disorderly bunch, the Upland Fuzzies—well— they were quite a different gang—apparently.
The Upland Fuzzies were arranged in two staggered files, several meters apart. Flankers were spaced out from the edge of the main body, and there was a skirmish line to the front, with three point-men moving ahead of that.
As the two groups drew closer, Jack and Gerd could see that there was a great deal of conversation between Little Fuzzy—who loved being the self-appointed intermediary between the Hagga and all Fuzzydom—and another specific Fuzzy in the Upland group. That suggested that this group of Fuzzies had a group/headman society, which suggested entirely different things about this example of Fuzzy culture, which suggested that a lot of things the Terrans had “deduced” about the evolution of Fuzzy civilization were flat wrong, which suggested that much Fuzzy research was really going nowhere on hyperdrive, which suggested et cetera.
This bunch was just as wary of the first contact with Hagga as any woods Fuzzy, but they were better organized about it. The skirmish line filled out with some members from the column. Chopper-diggers at high port, watchful eyes fixed on the aliens—in other words, the Terrans—and scouts maintaining an air-watch for harpies; very businesslike bunch of Fuzzies.
The leader advanced, with Little Fuzzy, and a rather dignified palaver took place. Jack and Gerd had to use their ultrasonic hearing aids. Upland Fuzzies still spoke in a frequency range too high for Terran hearing. As it was, they only caught about every other word, enough for them to be visually responsive but not really understand. Little Fuzzy translated—and enjoyed every minute of it.
The-by-now-rather-mythic explanation of Hagga was well received. The leader’s delight with Extee-Three was ill-concealed, but handled with a certain dignity that only involved the widening of eyes and some yeeks of pure ecstasy. Gifts of steel shoppo-diggo and canvas shodda-bags were handled in a businesslike manner, the group ca
me up in increments of five each, expressed approval at the trade of new for old chopper-diggers, the gift of shodda-bag, and yeeks of profound pleasure about the ration of esteefee.
The Fuzzy unit—no other word seemed quite as appropriate—almost spooked and ran when George and Ahmed arrived on the contragravity skid. Gerd’s portable lab floating off the ground was one thing, but a thing that did that and moved as well, almost stretched the flee-or-fight reflex beyond its intellectual constraints. As negotiations proceeded, some of the bolder Fuzzies were persuaded to go for short rides on the skid—especially after being challenged with the example of the southern Fuzzies riding it and obviously enjoying it. Eventually, the Uplanders seemed to think it was fun—at least they still had Fuzzies’ traditional attitudes about fun, which is to say they really couldn’t resist it.
Ahmed picked up the microray scanner and wandered off up the slope of what they were now calling “Mount Fuzzy,” taking random readings—more for something to do than anything else.
The discussion broke down on only one point, but it was a sticking-point. Jack’s suggestion that they all come down to Holloway Station and get away from this grim hand to mouth existence was met with a flat refusal. The Upland Fuzzies were adamant about staying where they were. It was traditional , you know; stick close to the valley. They couldn’t explain the why of it, but there was no shaking them from the fact of its necessity—another basic difference between the Uplanders and the woods Fuzzies, which suggested a whole bunch more of “and so ons” about the state of the art in Fuzzy research.
Attempts to convince them were useless.
“How are you going to persuade them?” George asked. “It’s a cinch these folks are having a hard time putting beans on the table. Look at them. There isn’t a one that isn’t seriously underweight.”
“And, as a result of malnutrition,” Gerd added. “A lot of them need medical attention. I can see it from here. It would be for their own good, Jack, if we—”
“It’s not my job to persuade them about anything,” Jack snapped. “My job is to protect them. If they won’t come to us, we’ll have to come to them. Your job is to implement the Commissioner’s policy and wants—namely mine. So, make some notes. You are opening a branch office of Fuzzy Institute.”
Gerd started to reply, but Jack cut him off with a gesture. “Little Fuzzy, tell them we will leave all the hoksu-fitsso we have with us, and will bring back more in less than a hand of days. Ask if there are more Fuzzies up here than this bunch.”
Little Fuzzy carried on a light-speed conversation with the leader, whose face brightened when he was told about the esteefee. He motioned some of his troops forward. Each grabbed a blue-labeled tin of esteefee and tenderly hoisted it onto his shoulder.
“All Fuzzies hek-yeh, Pappy Jack,” Little Fuzzy said.
“He say, once many-many. Ha’hpy make off wif some. Some no tough enough—die in cold season. Many-many go off when zatku move souff—he no know.”
Jack rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell him they have my promise we will take care of them,” he said to Little Fuzzy. He was going to say more, but there was a curious catch in his voice, so he let it go at that.
As Little Fuzzy was translating, the leader’s face began to soften for the first time from the grim, hollow-eyed expression of resolve that had gripped it all through the conference. That was one way the Uplanders were like all other Fuzzies—there was something in their nature that compelled them to love the Hagga and accept their protection. Leave the valley? Not a chance. But, make the Hagga happy; that was as natural to them as eating zatku.
Suddenly, there was a blood-curdling shriek from up on Mount Fuzzy. “Great Jumping Jezebel’s Eyebrows.’” Ahmed bellowed at the top of his voice. “Come here! Quick!”
The Upland Fuzzies quite reasonably took this to be a danger warning. They scattered in every direction—making sure that all the tins of Extee-Three accompanied them— and were out of sight of the Terrans in less than a minute.
Even Holloway’s Fuzzies took cover and then peeped out anxiously from under, in, and behind where they had dived when Ahmed first shouted.
Jack, Gerd, and George leaped onto the skid and George sent it skimming up the mountain slope to where they could see Ahmed jumping up and down and waving the microray scanner.
Before the skid stopped, Jack jumped off and ran a few steps to adjust his forward momentum. “Now what the hell?” he asked Ahmed.
Ahmed pointed to the bare ground. He had made some little piles of stones, and scratched lines in the loose earth with the toe of his boot. “Look at the size of this sonofabitch!” he said.
George had grounded the skid. “What sonofabitch?” he barked.
“I don’t know,” Ahmed barked right back, “but look at the size of it!”
Gerd still had the rangefinder he had used to chart-spot his soil sample locations. He pulled it out of his pocket and took some shots of the area Ahmed had marked out.
“The ‘size of it’ is about eight hundred feet long and about seven hundred feet across, shaped something very much like a regular triangle,” he said drily. “At risk of sounding redundant, what is it?”
“It’s—it’s—it’s something,” Ahmed said, “and it’s all titanium, as near as I can tell.”
“Oh for—” Jack said exasperatedly. “Here, give me that.” He took the microray scanner, pointed it, shaded the readout with his hand, and then made a face. He zeroed the readout, smacked the scanner smartly on its side a few times with the heel of his hand, and assumed an exasperated expression.
He handed the instrument to Gerd. “Here. See for yourself.”
“Great Ghu’s gallstones,” Gerd said. “He’s right. It’s totally impossible, of course, but he’s right.”
George had to look next. The interruption pattern was quite clear on the readout pattern; a large triangle, with a hollow place in the middle, so that it looked much like a letter “A” on the readout screen. “Well,” George said, “it’s not all titanium. There’s some other stuff there, too. I don’t see why you guys are all coming unstuck. I told you there was a lot of titanium up here.” He looked nonplussed.
“For God’s sake, George…” Jack said. “Look. If all the titanium in the entire crust of Zarathustra was to be collected, refined, and cast into a single chunk, it still wouldn’t be as large as this thing is. That’s what we’re excited about.”
What Colonial Governor General Bennett Rainsford was excited about was that Attorney General Gus Brannhard had emphatically informed him that the prerogatives of his office did not allow him to shoot a couple members of the constitutional convention out-of-hand, just to get the rest of them to take him seriously.
The idea kept running through his mind as he addressed the delegates, assembled in congress, that they would somehow more clearly understand what he was saying if he could just haul out his pistol and rap the butt of it on the lectern smartly from time to time to drive the point home.
“I have no desire to stifle debate, ladies and gentlemen,” he concluded, “but if you keep on with this debate as you have, you will legislate representative government on Zarathustra right out of business. If a Federation High Commission were to investigate the progress of this convention over the past ten months, they would, I am most certain, declare the body politic—the corpus comitatus—of the people of Zarathustra Colony to be incompetent to manage its own affairs. They—a Federation High Commission—would then appoint a guardian government for us—a political nanny, if you will—to look after us, since we had demonstrated that we could not look after ourselves.”
“I will not go that far—nor while I hold office, will I permit such a shameful occurrence. But, I’ll tell you what I will do, and I’ll tell you why. If you distinguished delegates do not complete the task of framing a constitution in a speedy and efficient manner, this entire colony is going to start coming down around all our ears.”
“The reques
t which you have duly filed,” he continued, “for a one-year extension of the authority of this body is denied. Attorney General Brannhard will read the court order to you as soon as I have finished speaking, and furnish copies to those members who may wish to study it—on their own time. During the remaining two months of life which this convention now possesses, the convention will complete the task to which it was appointed—namely to write a constitution for the Colony of Zarathustra. If that task has not been completed speedily, which is to say in less than the allotted time, my office will apply for an Order Nisi Quo Warranto, which the courts will issue. Such an order will dissolve the convention on a priori grounds of incompetence in office and form a possible cause of action against individual members on criminal charges of malfeasance in office.”
Rainsford looked over the hall full of stunned faces before him. “I trust you all now know how I feel,” he said, then turned and left the platform.
Chapter Nineteen
“Paperwork, paperwork!” snarled the small, wiry man behind the watch captain’s desk. “Damn the double-damned paperwork!”
“Are the burdens of duty weighing heavily on your scrawny frame, Captain Pendleton?” George Lunt asked quietly.
“Dammit, George,” Pendleton said. He shook a sheaf of printout in the air. “What’s all this crap with changing the patrol schedules—and the personnel—and the assignment areas?”
“Why, Ray,” George said, “all I’ve done is shift the Marines from North Beta to the southern areas of the continent—essentially.”
“Essentially, my Aunt Fanny,” Pendleton grumped. “You’ve put different men on everything north of Fuzzy Divide, and changed the duty schedule for everyone else.”
“Not everyone, Ray,” George chided. “I’ve left all the lieutenants and captains right where they were on the roster schedule.”
“Yeaaahhh,” Pendleton said, “which means that all their sergeants and troopers are now men they’ve never worked with before.”
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