Fuzzy Bones (v1.1)

by William Tuning (v1. 1) (html)

  Young snorted. “How can that be, Major? We’ve only been on Zarathustra for a bit over a quarter-century. If there’s a hypership buried on Beta for—as you put it—‘a long, long time,’ men it would have been the first to land on Zarathustra, and Zarathustra would not have been discovered so recently as 629 A.E. Could you elaborate on that?”

  “Gladly, Mr. Young, gladly,” Telemann said. “You must understand that there is still an enormous amount of analytical data to be accumulated and interpreted, but the main points of the matter are these: it might be an early hypership of some old merchant design—one of which we are at the moment not familiar—or it might be some ancient sub-hyperspeed probe that coasted this far and then crashed here.”

  Young leaned forward eagerly, sensing an advantage. “Crashed? Crashed, did you say?”

  “It could have happened,” Telemann said with a nonplussed look. “Those old ion-drive vessels, for example, were known to travel enormous distances on very little thrust—and with no crew; only automatic programming.”

  The interviewer pressed a stud in the console next to his chair and a tape replay flashed into life on the huge screen behind the center of the set. It showed an aerial view of the Beta site. It was a bit fuzzy, indicating that it had been taken from a very high altitude and then enhanced.

  “Our own overflights of the area,” Young said, “show this object to be in one piece and in reasonably good condition. If this ‘vessel,’ as you call it, had crashed, there would be a huge pile of scrap there, instead of what we see in this tape. How do you explain that, Major?”

  Telemann shrugged. “It could have been programmed to make an automatic landing on the first planet encountered that was of a specific type.”

  This kid has done his homework, Telemann thought. He’s getting ready to go in for the kill.

  “Your replies seem quite vague, Major,” Young said. “Does this represent the best information you have on this—ah—situation?”

  Telemann leaned back in his chair, using body language to delude Mr. Young into believing that he held the advantage. “It’s not so much a matter of information, Mr. Young,” the Major said. “The question is more one of accurately interpreting the information we have. For example, one idea that has been advanced is that this vessel might be the lost portion of the Fogleberg Expedition.”

  “The Fogleberg Expedition?” Young said hesitantly.

  “Heavens, yes,” Telemann said. “I thought everyone knew about the Fogleberg Expedition! One of the vessels was lost. No trace has ever been found. Let me think, now—what year was that?”

  “Why—uh—yes. Of course I’m familiar with it,” Young said.

  “It’s one of the possibilities we’re looking into,” Telemann said. Now that I’ve dragged you onto unfamiliar ground, maybe you’ll shut up on that line of questioning, Telemann thought.

  “But why, Major,” Young asked, “why the heavy security procedures and the exclusion of the press from the site?”

  “Exclusion?” Telemann said, slightly aghast. “Goodness, no. We’re not excluding anyone. For the moment, though, precautions must be taken. We’re conducting a scientific excavation. We can’t have a lot of non-essential people trampling around the place, muddying up the archeological evidence. Haven’t you been getting our information sheets? We put out a fact sheet and an update broadcast every day.”

  Young was growing impatient—a certain way to lose control of the interview. “Malarkey,” he said. “It’s censorship. That’s what it is.”

  Telemann looked hurt. “But, Mr. Young,” he said, “we’re freely sharing information with the news media. Less than that would be a form of censorship; and we don’t practice censorship. I can’t tell you anything we don’t know, however, much as you might wish me to be able to—or much as I might wish to be able to.”

  “You’re still not allowing the press free access,” grumped Young.

  Telemann spread his hands innocently. “Now, surely you must know there’s ample precedent in cases like this. You’re aware, I’m sure, Mr. Young, that there was a recent archeological dig on Thor. It was of a very delicate and important nature, and required a good deal of interpretation before non-scientists could be allowed in—leaving footprints all about. That took five years to open up to the press.” He paused a moment, waiting for Young to start a reply, so he could step on it. “But, in the meantime, all the news people were kept informed with information and screen ‘casts of the progress.”

  “Is that the reason for all the Marines?” Young asked. “Marines who have orders to shoot?”

  Telemann chuckled good-naturedly. “How do you know they have orders to shoot?” he asked.

  “We know,” Young said.

  “Have your reporters been crowding too close to the patrol limits?” Telemann asked amiably.

  Young made a sour face. “Let’s get serious, Major,” he said. “If this is as simple as you say, why all the Marines, with or without orders to shoot?”

  Telemann composed himself into a grave and wise figure, dropped his voice about two tones and looked soulfully past Franklin Young, directly into the lighted pickup. “Under the Federation Constitution, the Navy and the Marine Corps are charged with the protection of the public and Federation citizens. Likewise, it is our responsibility to police the safety of friendly sapient races. Whatever is on North Beta, we have the legal obligation to make certain there is no danger about it—” He shrugged. “—such as contamination, radiation leakage; that is, nothing that might threaten the safety of any person. Fuzzies are persons, too, you know.”

  Young broke in. “This all seems a bit melodramatic, Major. Do you mean to tell me that the public welfare comes before the Navy’s interests in this matter?”

  Telemann spread his hands, as though to show there was nothing concealed in them. “The briefest reading of the Federation Constitution will show that, Mr. Young.” Abruptly, he leaned forward. “Besides that, this object is on the Fuzzy Reservation. The Marines are there at the express request of Commissioner of Native Affairs Holloway, and on the concurrence of Governor General Rainsford. It’s quite normal procedure—policing the safety of friendly natives. I can’t quote the regulation to you, but I’ll be glad to furnish a copy so you may pass it on to your viewers.”

  Young settled in for the “heavy shot” that would round out the interview. Climb back in the ring and hope for a technical knockout, he thought.

  “As you may be aware, Major Telemann,” he said, “there have been many speculations about this affair, some of them involving stories from fairly reliable sources, to the effect that this entire—ahh—scenario which you have recited is only an elaborate cover-up for something else.”

  “Do you mean that balderdash about a sunstone strike?” Telemann said, as he leaned back relaxedly in his chair.

  “For one,” Young said. “Are you prepared to comment on that?”

  “I don’t have to be prepared to comment on it,” Telemann said, “because it’s nonsense. It’s true there are some remarkable sunstone deposits on the Fuzzy Reservation, and I can see quite easily that some people might connect mining rumors with our archeological dig. If you stop to think, though, the Navy has no interest—and no authority—to engage in mining operations.”

  Young broke in quickly. “How about ‘policing the safety of friendly natives,’ upon whose reservation territory such a sunstone strike might have been made?”

  Telemann laughed with genuine amusement. “I don’t know, Mr. Young, whether or not you are acquainted with Mr. Commissioner Holloway. If not, then I’m certain you’ve heard of the bulldog tenacity with which he guards the rights and interest of the Fuzzies.” He paused for a reply.

  Young nodded agreement.

  “Well then, there you are,” Telemann said, again spreading his hands. “That’s the purpose of this interview; to inform the public of the facts as we know them. There is a need to restrain public reaction to these unfounded rumors about the
activity on North Beta. Why, I heard a story just the other day that this is all tied in with an impending invasion by aliens in battle cruisers. Have you heard that one yet?”

  “Yes,” Young said, “yes, I’m afraid I have.”

  “Well, then,” Telemann said, “it’s plain that we both have the same kind of ridiculous rumors to deal with—and they spread faster than we can get the truth to the people.”

  “I certainly agree with that,” Young said gloomily. “Well, our time is just about up. Thank you for being with us, Major. Our guest today on Your News has been Major Max Telemann, TFMC, Public Information Officer for the North Beta Excavations, as they are coming to be called. This is Franklin Young for Zarathustra News Service…”

  Victor Grego stubbed out his cigarette as he shut off the screen. “If they want to ‘inform the public,’ as they so grandiosely refer to what they’re doing, why in blazes do they run this program at the mid-morning coffee-klatch hour, when no one is watching but insomniac night-shift workers and indolent household help?”

  Leslie Coombes assumed a look of mock astonishment. “Why, Victor,” he said. “The news services are fulfilling their responsibilities to present all sides of any given story— but, of course, in such a way that they can keep it best stirred up in the public mind. Now, they have run this very fair representation of the Navy’s side of things. It’s ‘unfortunate’ that the only time available for the ‘cast happened to be at this rather inopportune hour—in terms of wide audience. But, be of good cheer; they’ll run some roaring nonsense—designed to foment riots, if possible—around 1900 tonight when everyone on the planet will be watching.”

  “I’m sad to say you’re probably in close proximity to the truth, Leslie,” Grego said. He yawned. “Well, I have a company to run, and you have a legal department to run. We’ve loafed away the biggest end of an hour, here, and I must say I’m not any closer to sniffing out the trail than I was to begin with.”

  Coombes rose to leave Grego’s office.

  Grego held up one hand, with the index finger pointing toward the ceiling. “There’s something, though— dammit—something I can’t put my finger on.” He looked up at Coombes. “Tell you what, Leslie,” he said. “Drop ‘round my place about 1730 for cocktails. I’ll either have it figured by then—or—maybe you can jog this old brain a bit.”

  “I’ll see you then,” Coombes said.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Results! You dolts! I want results!” Hugo Ingermann angrily slapped the off switch on his communications screen just as Franklin Young was signing off on the Telemann interview.

  He hurled himself back in his office chair and propped his chin on one fist. “Biggest sunstone strike since the planet was opened, and you bungling louts can’t find out anything about it beyond this—this—” He waved his other hand petulantly. “—this cover story about them digging up some damned old spaceship.”

  He looked around the room, eyes glittering. “More men!” He leaped to his feet. “That’s the ticket! We must send more men to Beta and spy this thing out!”

  Hugo Ingermann was alone in his office.

  The hard-backed ridge between the upland plateau of North Beta and the Piedmont and woods of South Beta was already beginning to show up on new maps as “Fuzzy Divide.”

  The sun that warmed Zarathustra was creeping up over the Cordilleras, filling the Marine command car with shafts of orange light and shifting shadows as Fuzzy Divide slid under its nose five thousand feet below.

  Gerd van Riebeek yawned. “It’s barbaric, is what it is. It’s kidnapping—drag a man out of his bed at dawn.”

  “What it is, is fame,” Holloway remarked, his smile making the points of his mustache turn upwards. “Whether you know it or not, you and Ruth are likely the foremost Fuzzyologists on the planet.”

  “Hmmph,” Gerd said. “What about Juan Jimenez?”

  Holloway wagged his hand, with the fingers spread.

  “Good point, but I wouldn’t give you six to five one way or the other.”

  “Immaterial,” Helton said.

  “Why so?” Ruth asked.

  “Jimenez is a CZC Company man. That’s the last thing I want around this place—for a while, anyway.” Helton smiled. “You people are involved with the Native Affairs Commission. That means you’re under a certain amount of government control in your research—and in the way you release information about it.”

  “Intimidating, isn’t he?” Gerd sniffed as he sipped at his coffee.

  “Businesslike, is the word I’d use, “Jack said. “We don’t know what kind of interest the CZC might have in this—or, for that matter, just what it’s about. When we know that, there’ll be plenty of time to share data with them.”

  “On our terms,” Ruth remarked.

  Gerd sipped at his coffee, again. “Mummified Fuzzies,” he said to no one in particular. “Are you sure?”

  Helton shrugged. “Weapons systems are what I’m sure of. I can’t say.”

  “How long can they have been there?” Gerd asked, again of no one in particular.

  “Might have been a very long time,” Helton said.

  Gerd chuckled. “Thought you couldn’t say.”

  Helton gave him a level look. “That’s what I said,” he remarked. “I didn’t say I had no opinion.”

  Jack laughed out loud. “There for you, Dr. Fuzzyologist.”

  Gerd waved a hand to indicate that he yielded the point and was ready to listen.

  “How do you think they got in there?” Holloway asked.

  Helton shrugged. “Like I said before—weapons systems and hardware are my specialty. What I can tell you is that we have mapped the entire ship. A lot of it was caved in by the landing, but we have precise locations for you of the remains. You won’t have to spend much time inside, and it’s safe—as long as you don’t start tearing out bulkheads.”

  Gerd was tapping his nose with his index finger. “How closely can we date the ship with the remains? We might have something very interesting, there.”

  “We’ve done that,” Helton said. “The remains are younger than the ship is.”

  “Which doesn’t prove a damned thing,” Holloway said.

  “That’s my thought,” Helton said.

  Gerd took on an irritable look. “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “How old are they?”

  Helton’s face brightened. He saw what Gerd meant immediately. “The remains are ten to twelve centuries old—” Then he held up a cautioning finger. “—unless there are hydrocarbon accelerations we know nothing about. That’s why I dragged you good people out of bed at such an ungenteel hour.”

  “What about the ship?” Ruth asked. “How old is it?”

  Helton looked down at the deck under his feet for a moment. “We can’t say anything definite about that. Maybe less than two thousand years old—maybe more. We have to do a long rundown on the oxides to get anything close to a guess.”

  “You realize, of course,” Gerd said, “that trying to accurately date the remains while they’re still inside the ship is pretty unreliable.”

  Helton nodded. “Yes, and I also realize that we have no one at the site with anything resembling the skill to do a proper job of removing them and making a thorough analysis—which, I suppose, explains O’Bannon’s instant approval of my idea to import some Fuzzyologists and do the job correctly.”

  “Colonel O’Bannon is an intelligent man,” Gerd said, nodding affirmatively.

  “For a Marine,” Helton said.

  After the general laughter had subsided, Jack Holloway chuffed thoughtfully on his pipe for a moment, then looked seriously at Helton. “Phil;” he said, “remember what I said about you not ‘sirring’ very many people?”

  “Yes, sir,” Helton replied with a broad grin.

  “Aside from the fact that he’s obviously a competent man,” Holloway said, “why do you show him that kind of respect?”

  Helton’s face took an immediate change of
expression. “Because he’s not in awe of me,” Helton said. “Captains jump when I growl. Senior officers solicit my opinion before they proceed. O’Bannon always knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s not about to be dazzled by the mystique of the omnipotent Master Gunnie. So, I defer to him—unless I think he’s wrong.”

  Victor Grego had slogged his way through a luncheon meeting in the Board Room with several of his division managers, solving problems and making decisions in areas they should have been able to manage without his advice. That was, he thought, why they were called “managers.”

  Now he sat behind the large desk in his own office, leaned back in his chair, and lit a cigarette. It might just be time to shake up the leadership in a few departments—a wonderful way to convey the idea to everyone that the Manager-in-Chief was not just sitting on his duff, reading reports.

  Of course, this thing on North Beta had everyone up in the air—rumors and rumors of rumors. Harry Steefer’s overflight readouts on the excavation and the “object” indicated that it was likely made of titanium, but none of the spies from the CZC Police who had been shunted over to Beta had come up with anything positive on just what the thing was.

  Grego blew smoke at the ceiling and watched his lazily turning globe of Zarathustra. It would be just about morning coffee-break time at the North Beta Excavations. He formed a mental picture of dusty Marines lining up to get their coffee and pastry. A whole battalion of Marines…

  Suddenly, he sprang forward in his chair and tapped the switch on his private communication screen. After the swirling burst of color dissolved, Myra Fallada’s face appeared in it. He could tell he had interrupted her at some task. “Myra!” he said. “Get me Juan Jimenez at Science Center— instantly.”

  Myra frowned. “Yes, Mr. Grego,” she said.

  Grego stubbed out the cigarette. In less than a minute, Juan Jimenez appeared as Myra switched in the channel. “What is it, Victor?” Jimenez asked.

  “Juan,” Grego said, “isn’t there a scientific principle which states an organism does not evolve a need for any element that isn’t fairly plentiful in the environment?”