Phil Helton sloshed the inch or so of tepid highball in his glass and stared at it for a moment. “Something like us they are, but not quite the same,” he said. “People, though, that we have not met—or at least they were when this thing went down, here. They may have died out while we were trying to land some plumber’s nightmare we called a space vehicle on Mars. This thing has been here as long as Homo s. terra has been in space—probably longer.”
“On the other hand,” Holloway added, “they may not have died out. We may have just been missing connections with them. Space—there’s an awful lot of it.”
“Oh, poppycock,” Ben Rainsford snorted. “We’ve had the Dillingham Drive and been in hyperspace for nearly five centuries. If there was another star-traveling race, we would have met them by now.”
“Not necessarily,” Commander Bates remarked. “There was an early theory about that which the textbooks call ‘Fogleberg’s Folly.’ “
“Wasn’t he the guy who said ‘You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs’?” Gerd van Riebeek said.
“I thought that was Lenin,” Ahmed Khadra said.
“I thought it was Abraham Lincoln,” George Lunt said.
“I don’t know if he said it or not,” Bates said exasperatedly.
Holloway jumped in and broke up the digression. “What was his theory?” he asked. “I’m not familiar with it.”
“Most people aren’t,” Bates said, “—outside the military, that is. Brigadier General Jerome H. Fogleberg, TFMC, had a theory about the distribution of intelligent races throughout the galaxy, which is known as ‘Fogleberg’s Folly,’ a name which, by marking his peculiar position in history, might indicate that Fogleberg was somewhat off the mark in his concept.”
“Fogleberg was known affectionately to his troops as ‘Ol’ Fogey,’ and his unusual theory is thought to have arisen from his preoccupation with the reading of romantic literature having to do with the noblesse oblige of the mercenary soldier’s trade. His contemporaries often said of him that he thought morale was something that came out of a bass drum.”
“Sounds rarified, all right,” Rainsford said. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“You’re not an astrogator,” Bates said. “It falls in the category of don’t-let-this-happen-to-you information.”
“Fogleberg,” he continued, “assumed that the distribution of stars by spectral class was uniform in space—not a bad idea when you’re dealing with small volumes of galactic space. But, he also assumed they were evenly distributed in temporal terms—that is, in terms of when the novae popped which created them.”
“He set out with a two-ship expedition to chart a new volume of space for star distribution. If his distribution theory was correct, then subsequent exploration should turn up a given number of intelligent races.”
“Did it work?” Gerd asked.
Bates shook his head. “Fogey was so busy looking for active stars that he missed a black hole.”
“What happened?” Jack asked.
“No one knows for sure,” Bates replied. “His companion ship saw his ship wink off the screen and they never found a trace. Since the event horizon of a black hole is quite different at hyperspeed, Fogey may now be a coat of paint on the body, or his ship may have dispersed into free atoms floating around space, or himself, ship, and crew may be wandering around in an alternate universe trying to figure out what happened.”
“I get it,” George Lunt said. “‘Fogleberg’s Folly’ was that he became the victim of his own thinking.”
“You got it,” Bates said.
Ben Rainsford jerked his pipe out of his pocket and started to fill it. “What does that have to do with my assertion about random encounter with other star-travelers?” he asked, with faint irritation. “You comparing me to this Fogleberg fella?”
“Heavens, no!” Commander Bates said.
“Great Ghu’s ghost, Ben,” Jack said. “Simmer down.”
Lieutenant Gaperski slipped smoothly into the fray. “I think what Nels was leading up to was the current Navy Doctrine on such a random encounter, Governor. It’s no secret or anything. It’s just not widely publicized in the civilian sector.”
“We have to have some very specific and uniform idea about it, though,” Bates said, “in order to meet our own responsibilities to the Federation.”
A look of realization flashed on Jack Holloway’s face. “Oh, I know what you mean. It’s fairly new, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Bates replied, “and it proceeds from Fogleberg’s theories, but along less—ah—presumptive lines.”
“Somebody’s Estimate,” Jack said.
“McKettrig’s Estimate. You brief them on it, Frank. I don’t have my data terminal with me and I can’t remember all the numbers.”
Gaperski pulled his hand held data terminal from his hip pocket and punched up a code. He read the data as it scrolled.
“We’re pretty sure there are eleven or twelve billion stars in this galaxy that are very much like our own,” he said. “I won’t bore you with the probability reductions, but they are very comprehensive.”
“Given: a galactic volume of 5.3x1011 cubic light years.”
“Given: probabilities indication of 1,580 star-traveling races or races with enough technology to have a star-drive if they want it.”
“Given: normalized distribution of stars and star-travelers across several drifts and age patterns that draw to a median expression.”
“Then: each star-traveling race with have to itself a volume of space which is 3.34x108 cubic light years. Expressed as a sphere, its diameter would be 858 light years.”
“If: during the course of normal voyages of discovery, charting, and colonial business such as trade and military traffic, a brand new star and its—perhaps—solar system of planets is examined closely each year,”
“Then: in order for us or any other star-traveling race to examine the ‘home sphere’ and an equal-sized volume of space adjacent to the home sphere—at the rate of one star per year—the time to so examine our own territory and the territory next door will be close on to 33,000 years.”
“Expressed as a probability, the odds of a purely random encounter with other star-travelers is thus about 1 chance in 1.7 million.”
There was a long silence.
Gaperski paused, still holding his data terminal, in case there were questions. “So, while you’re waiting to accidentally meet the star-traveling aliens,” he said, trying to break the tension of the moment, “don’t give up sex or breathing.”
“Are you sure that’s right?” Rainsford asked.
“If the galaxy is put together more or less the way we think it is, and if the best minds in the business haven’t made any mistakes in theory—although I’ll admit there was certainly a lot of argument over the past couple centuries as they crosschecked their own and earlier work—then it’s right. It wouldn’t be in the manual otherwise.”
“It’s an interesting perspective,” Holloway said reflectively. “We’ve been industriously working away, colonizing hyperspace, and we’ve managed to push out a whole one hundred light years per century. Yet here we are, still in our own back yard.”
“We may not even be in the yard yet,” Bates said. “We may just be pushing open the screen door.”
Gerd frowned. “I don’t follow you.”
“Well,” Gaperski said, “scientists are given to differences of opinion when matters are still in the half-theory, half-observation stages.”
“Like cops,” muttered George Lunt.
“An early theorist—Smith, Smitt, Schmidt; something like that—came up with one notion radically different from McKettrig’s Estimate. Without pulling out all the data for you; he calculated a ‘home sphere’ diameter of 2,400 light years and a one-star-per-year time to examine it of 120 million years.”
Ben Rainsford chuffed on his pipe. “Then why do you use this McKettrig fella’s arithmetic in your technical manual?”
“Good point,” Gaperski replied. “We use it because it is the most ambitious and optimistic set of probabilities.”
“That’s like what we used to call ‘Cheerful Charley Chemistry’ when I was in school,” Gerd said. “Coming up with experiment results that offered the least amount of thorny problems and alternates that had to be solved out.”
“Oh, there are still plenty of variables,” Bates said. “For example, the probability of encounter is higher in a long search than in a short one. Another factor is the number growth of colony planets. As they get into the exploration act, the number of stars explored during a standard galactic year will grow steadily—even exponentially among colonies that are more curious about neighboring stars, or which are prone to just plain wanderlust.”
“That’s not what I asked you,” Rainsford said. “Why do you use McKettrig as the official Navy doctrine?”
“McKettrig offers us the soonest possibility of random contact with other star-travelers,” Gaperski said, “and, therefore, should such a random encounter occur, the least possible chance for the Navy to get caught with its pants down.”
“Ummph,” Rainsford grunted. “Now it makes sense.”
Helton pondered. “He’s right, of course, but that’s not the main consideration.”
“I agree,” Rainsford said expansively. “The important thing is to direct ourselves toward shortening the odds and try to make such a contact as quickly as we can manage it.”
Helton smiled and shook his head. “Wrong. They may not be friendly.”
The sun was down. The daylight was slowly failing. At the edge of the excavation two small figures stood together and regarded the huge object at the bottom, while the others were finishing a get-acquainted romp back and forth across the valley near the weirthorn thicket.
“What is?” Starwatcher asked.
Little Fuzzy stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “Greensuit Hagga say is ship—same as Hagga come this place in.”
“How can be?” Starwatcher asked.
“No know.” Little Fuzzy shrugged and dug his smoking pipe out of his shodda-bag. He began to tamp tobacco into it thoughtfully. “When some gashta—we all Fuzzies, now—on that place,”—He pointed to Xerxes, about 30 degrees above the horizon—“see round thing many, many times bigger than things Hagga fly here in.” He pointed to the ground at his feet.
“Can be this one?” Starwatcher asked.
Little Fuzzy shrugged, again. “Hagga know many things—much as want. I ask Pappy Jack when he no busy.”
The crew of Marines working nearby were preoccupied with their onerous task—onerous as all after-duty-hours tasks are—of setting up floodlights on skids so the dig could be tidied up after chow. They paid no attention to the Fuzzies talking. They were talking Lingua Fuzzy, anyway, so only an occasional yeek was audible to Terran ears.
“I would think it’ll be days before we can safely get inside,” Bates said. “What do you think, Phil?”
The group was walking across the dry creek to where the Held mess was set up.
“Sounds right to me,” Helton said. “We might have to stabilize after we date it and take samples. The whole thing might be ready to crumble. We have no idea how much of a beating it took in the landing.”
“We’ll transmit preliminary reports to Xerxes at 1930, and go on from there,” Gaperski added.
“You’re still convinced that this is a hyperdrive vessel of some kind?” Rainsford asked.
“Yes, sir,” Helton said. He slowed his pace a moment and looked up at the sky, half whispering to himself, ”’… there is a country/far beyond the stars/where stands a winged sentry/all skilful in the wars.’” Then he jumped briskly across a little erosion gully and caught up with the others.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Let’s see,” Holloway was saying as the five of them walked back toward their own vehicles. “Gerd’s airboat will sleep four, and with the ZNPF car and Ben’s luxurious transportation of office—”
Rainsford snorted.
“—all of us and the two drivers can sleep inside. We won’t have to pitch tents.”
“I’ve got to call my office,” George Lunt said as they climbed into the boat.
“I’ve got to call my wife,” Ahmed said. “Tell her I won’t be home tonight.”
Rainsford yawned. “I don’t have to call anybody. I just have to get up at 0400. Why call your office, George? You afraid the duty captain has gone to sleep? You worry too much.”
George frowned. “I need to get more men up here.” He looked at the readout. “Pendleton is on at this hour. Oh, boy. He’ll fly into a fury about the paperwork.”
“Why do you want more men, George?” Jack asked. “Things seem well in hand to me.”
“Security,” George replied. “This is my jurisdiction. I don’t care how snappy a job the Marines are doing. It’s up to me to watch the watchers, so to speak. I don’t want any more of this leaking out than can be helped until we know where we stand with the Navy.”
“That’s sound,” Jack said. “You’re the ZNPF commander, not me.”
Phil Helton flipped the key on the familiar, sturdy, green enameled piece of equipment. The high pitched wavering whine and the readouts showed his report now being transmitted at sixty speed on scramble-8 to Xerxes.
Presently the operator came back on screen. “The Commodore has asked that you screen him back in one standard hour, Gunnie, and he suggests that it would be desirable for Governor Rainsford and Commissioner Holloway to be present, as well.”
Helton acknowledged and quickly ended the transmission. He muttered under his breath, “—if they haven’t gone to sleep, yet—” and grabbed a passing corporal to carry the message.
At 2030 the three of them were in the communications center, with Rainsford bristling because he had been deprived of yet another hour’s sleep.
Gaperski and Bates were hovering, a little to one side, should the Commodore have instructions for them.
Alex Napier’s image on the communication screen, dressed in gold-braided Navy black, was concluding his remarks. “So I expect to have the rest of Lieutenant Colonel O’Bannon’s battalion down there sometime tomorrow. I want to set up surveillance over a couple hundred square miles and have it carefully scanned for any more objects of this nature. The battalion will be prepared to remain for some time—until we have this thing totally evaluated.”
“Now, just a minute, Commodore!” Ben Rainsford said vehemently, almost before Napier got the “evaluated” out. “As Governor General of Zarathustra, I most strenuously recommend that you get my personal approval before you start drawing boundary lines and occupying territory on the planetary surface.”
Holloway dove in, as well. “Approval or no approval; this is Fuzzy land. Anything on the Fuzzy Reservation belongs to the Fuzzies. The Commissioner of Native Affairs—namely me—will not tolerate any high-handed violations of Fuzzy territory.”
Rainsford barked: “I appointed you Commissioner!”
Jack’s mustache was twitching. “And you can un-appoint me any time you don’t like the way I’m doing the job. I’ve told you that before, Ben.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Napier said. “I appointed Governor General Rainsford, so let’s not anyone get too big for his pants.”
“I’m trying to help your government hang onto control of things, not set you to quarreling with each other—or with me,” Napier added with just the correct note of ominousness. “The Navy is not interested in running anyone’s planetary government—but we are quite competent and capable, if the need arises. My point is that one wild rumor about all this business could cause the very kind of crisis as the question of Fuzzy sapience did. Now, then, can we have some consensus and cooperation, please?”
Holloway and Rainsford looked at each other for a moment, both thinking, if we don’t hang together, he can hang each of us separately any time he wants to.
Holloway turned back to the screen. “If yo
u allow my ZNPF men free access to all parts of the site, I’ll go along with you for a few days. If the whole business disturbs the Fuzzies or anyone bothers them, the deal is off.”
“That sounds fair, but I want to be copied with all reports,” Rainsford said.
“I think the Navy will manage, gentlemen,” Napier said. “Now, I desire that Master Gunnery Sergeant Helton be in charge of the dig proper. He has more knowledge of vessels and equipment than all of us put together. Lieutenant Colonel O’Bannon will be in charge of the security and scanning operations. Lieutenant Gaperski and Commander Bates will act as liaison between the two and report directly to me, as well.”
Everyone looked at each other and nodded agreement.
“And, one other thing,” Napier said. “Sooner or later, you’re going to have people from the press all over you, so I’m sending down Major Max Telemann to act as Information Officer on the project and keep the media out from under your feet.”
From five thousand feet the camp in Fuzzy Valley was a tiny blur of light, with a bright, starlike point to one side of it.
With powerful onboard stereo-optics the site of the dig could be made out clearly enough in the glaring floodlights to see its major features. Dust drifted upward through the beams of the lights and a slight shimmer from the geothermally heated ground of the mountainside shined nacreously.
“Dammit, Charley,” Raul Laporte said. “Keep this thing in a steady circle or you’ll make me muddy the readings on the infraslides.”
“I’m doin’ the best I can, Mr. Laporte,” Charley Walker said uneasily. Like most people, he was instinctively afraid of Laporte.
“See that you do,” Laporte growled. “We’ve only got two passes—at the most—to get this before the combat cars get us on their screens and challenge.”
This is nuts, Laporte thought—hanging myself out in the open this way. Cheaper than hiring it, though, and I can beat Ingermann at his own game. Three thousand—the cheapskate!
“Okay. I got it. Make tracks, Charley,” he said.
Fuzzy Bones (v1.1) Page 15