Fuzzy Bones (v1.1)

by William Tuning (v1. 1) (html)

  “Call,” Napier said, “is the Ranger still our fastest corvette?”

  “Yes, sir,” Johnsen said, “she is. She’s fitted and provisioned for emergency launch right now.”

  “How soon can she be provisioned with Class-A rations and fully manned?” Napier asked.

  “Six to twelve hours, Commodore,” Johnsen said. “She’s on half-crew liberty.”

  “Mmmm,” Napier said. “Well, Carl, there’s no dreadful rush about it, but I’ll have a courier mission for her in the next few days—week at the most.”

  “I’ll put her on standby alert,” Johnsen said.

  “Thank you, Carl,” Napier said. He blanked the screen and punched out another combination—this time to the private office screen of his Executive Officer, Captain Conrad Greibenfeld.

  Greibenfeld was just sitting down behind his desk when the screen cleared. Apparently he had been out of his office. “Yes, Alex?” he said, using the first-name address, since there were no junior officers or enlisted men within earshot.

  “Connie,” Napier said, “I need a good Class-A agent— one with an impeccable security record.”

  “Sure, Alex,” Greibenfeld said. “How long will you need him?”

  “Might be quite a while,” Napier said. “I want him attached to my personal staff.”

  Greibenfeld looked slightly uncomfortable. He liked to be in on everything, and here was “something” he was obviously not in on. “Very good, sir,” he said. “I’ll send you a selection to choose from. Say, three of them?”

  Napier smiled. “That won’t be necessary, Connie,” he said. “Just pick the one with the most spotless record and highest fitness rating from the qualified Class-A agents on the station.”

  “Yes, sir,” Greibenfeld said. “I’ll get right on it, personally.”

  Napier chuckled. “Don’t look so pained, Connie. You’ll find out all about it at the meeting.”

  “What meeting?” Greibenfeld asked suddenly.

  “The one you’ll get about an hour’s notice on,” Napier said, and blanked the screen.

  Everett Diehl rolled over in his bunk, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and stretched. That was the only good part about drawing the mid-watch; you could sleep until noon that morning, if you wanted to. Then, Diehl remembered what had happened in the cavern the night before. It seemed like a dream, now. Quickly, he reached down and scrambled one hand into his right boot, pulling out the sock he had wadded up in it. Carefully, he opened the sock and was relieved to see the half-dozen shiny pebbles inside. He warmed them between his hands. They started to glow softly. It wasn’t a dream. What he had seen was true; maybe an acre of cavern roof and walls, thickly embedded with sunstones.

  “Jim?” he said. “You awake?”

  Spelvin’s head emerged from under the pillow in the next bunk. “I am now,” he said. “What time is it?”

  “1030,” Diehl said.

  “1030?” Spelvin grumped. “Why the Nifflheim did you wake me up if it’s only 1030?”

  “I can’t sleep,” Diehl said simply. “Jim? Did you pick some up, too?”

  “Some what?” Spelvin asked sleepily.

  “Sunstones,” Diehl said.

  Spelvin sat bolt upright in his bunk. “Shhhh!” he hissed, looking over his shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” Diehl said. “There’s nobody in the barracks but us. Did you pick some up, too?”

  “Yeah,” Spelvin said, scratching himself. “A few,” he lied. He had nearly half a sock full of the precious gems. The time that Diehl had spent gaping in wonderment, Spelvin had spent gathering up loose sunstones—some undoubtedly spilled from the pockets of the late Mr. Squint—right up to the place where a cataclysmite charge had collapsed the fissure at the rear of the cavern.

  “Y’know, Jim,” Diehl said, “I been thinkin’. We could sell a couple of these apiece and pay off Laporte, once and for all.”

  “Sure,” Spelvin said scornfully. “Right away he’ll start wondering where we got that much money all at once. It oughta take about ten minutes for him to find out that we had sold some sunstones to get the money.”

  “So?” Diehl said.

  “So Raul Laporte is the kind of guy that would beat us to a pulp and pull out our fingernails one at a time till we told him what we know,” Spelvin said. “In the end of it, we’ll be out our sunstones, and the information.”

  “Well, what’re we gonna do then?” Diehl whined.

  Dense as he was, there was a reason for Spelvin being a junior sergeant while Diehl was a corporal. “We’ll tell him what we know in exchange for him wiping out our debt. I think the information is worth that much. Dumb-bell,” Spelvin said.

  “So what’re gonna do with the sunstones?” Diehl asked.

  “Nothing,” Spelvin said. “If we try to sell ‘em on Zarathustra, somebody is going to get nosy about how come two Marines got hold of some sunstones—especially two Marines from this particular battalion.”

  “You mean we could still wind up gettin’ our fingernails pulled out,” Diehl said.

  “Now you got it,” Spelvin said. “We just put ‘em away until we get transferred to some other planet. They’ll bring at least three times as much anyplace but Zarathustra, anyway. We sell ‘em off one or two at a time and put the money away, see?”

  “Yeah,” Diehl said dreamily. “It would work out to a whole bunch of sols, all right.”

  “Then, maybe we can get out of these green suits,” Spelvin said, “and start living like human beings. Maybe buy a little business someplace, maybe a little restaurant and tavern.”

  “Maybe our own little whorehouse, too,” Diehl said dreamily.

  Gerd van Riebeek laid the binocular loupe and went back into his office. His own observations jibed with the report abstract, but it all seemed a bit odd to him. Well, it would all hinge on whether there was one rockslide or two. He still felt uneasy about the test results. There was something— something he couldn’t put his finger on.

  “Yet,” he said out loud in his empty office. “Not yet we got it. Eventually, though, we will.” He thumbed the intercom on his communications screen.

  A thin, middle-aged face materialized before him. “Haskins, here,” said an efficient-looking man in a white lab coat.

  “Bill, how are you doing on the sides analysis of those rock samples?” Gerd asked.

  “I’ve cross-typed and done weathering comparisons with freshly-broken faces,” Haskins said. “I’ve still a little double-checking to do, but it looks to me as if it was all one rock-slide. The tape records are quite clear. There’s absolutely no overlap of weather aging or solar radiation absorption in sample belt ‘B’. It all came down at the same time. I’ll have a final for you this afternoon or early tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Bill,” Gerd said and blanked the screen.

  He was still drumming his fingers on the console and staring out the window at his pet featherleaf tree when Ruth came in the office with a sheaf of printout in her hand.

  “Gerd—” she began.

  “Have you seen the datings on the two sets of Fuzzy bones?” he asked her abruptly.

  “Why, yes,” Ruth said. “I did some of the fractioning analyses myself. Why?”

  “Anything strike you as odd about the comparisons?” Gerd asked her.

  “Not chemically,” she said. “Not until—”

  “There’s something odd there,” he interrupted, “but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  She sat down and laid the printout on his desk. It was obvious she wasn’t going to get a word in about it until Gerd got around to what he was pondering over. “Well,” she said, “what is it?”

  Gerd leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together on top of his head. “The Fuzzy bones in the starship are about three hundred years older than the Fuzzy bones from the cave,” he said simply. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “You mean it doesn’t make sense to you,” Ruth said. “What’s so odd abo
ut it?”

  “That’s just it,” Gerd said. “I can’t put my finger on it. Something to do with Fuzzies burying their dead. The ones that were trapped in the cave; that I can understand. They couldn’t get at them to bury them. But what about the ones in the ship? Why were they left there?”

  “Radiation?” Ruth suggested.

  “Did you find any radiation abnormalities in the remains?” Gerd asked her.

  “No,” she said, “but it could have been short-life radiation. Fuzzies don’t know anything about nuclear hazards. If some of them got into the ship and died, the rest would studiously avoid the place, I would think.”

  “Mmmmm,” Gerd said. “I guess that will have to wait for engineering data. After the Navy is through tearing everything apart, they may be able to decipher what the ship’s drive was and tell us something about potentials for radiation leakage.”

  “And types,” she said.

  “And types,” Gerd agreed. He leaned forward in his chair and began riffling through the stack of printout. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “This,” Ruth said, “is what I came in here about in the first place.”

  “Which is?” Gerd asked.

  “Which is,” Ruth said, “what I’ve been trying to get a word in edgewise about since I got here. Namely, my readouts show that there was a much higher concentration of anti-NFMp in the Fuzzy bones in the wreck than in the Fuzzy bones in the cave.”

  Gerd carefully and deliberately shook a cigarette out of the pack on his desk, lighted it, and leaned back in his chair once again. “Questions, questions, questions,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “Why do we always have more questions than answers?”

  “Send him in, Myra,” Victor Grego said to the image in the intercom screen.

  The uniformed man who entered Grego’s office shut the door behind himself. That figured. Anything important enough to bring Harry Steefer over in person must be pretty confidential. The Company Police Chief was not a messenger boy.

  “Afternoon, Harry,” Grego said, motioning him to a chair. “What is it?”

  Steefer could not conceal the fact that he was pleased about something. “We’ve finally done it, Victor. We have penetrated the ZNPF. Our man has managed to wangle himself an assignment to the liaison patrol up there in Fuzzy Valley where all those Marines are milling about.”

  “What has he found out?” Grego asked.

  “Precious little, so far,” Steefer replied, handing over a slender folder, “but there’s more there than meets the eye.”

  Grego lighted a cigarette, flipped open the folder, and absently scratched his Adam’s apple as he looked over the report.

  “The very fact that he can’t find out anything means there’s plenty worth finding out,” Grego said. “Uh—the Colonial Investigations Bureau doesn’t know about him, do they?”

  Steefer grinned. “Course not. Then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore, would it?”

  Steefer was no sooner out the door than Grego’s private screen chimed. He keyed it on. “Why, hello, Christiana,” he said. “You’re looking lovely this afternoon.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Grego,” she said, slightly flustered. It was her normal reaction to a compliment—especially one from Victor Grego. Then she frowned slightly. “I was wondering, Mr. Grego, if I could have the afternoon off. I—I have some things to attend to.”

  “Where’s Diamond?” Grego asked.

  She brightened. “Oh, he’s over at Company House, playing with Flora and Fauna. I’ll be back in time to get him.”

  Grego held up a hand. “No need, my dear. I’m going over there, myself, as soon as I can break away from here. I’ll bring him back home. You take as long as you like.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Grego,” she said.

  “Christiana,” Grego said. “Are you all right? I mean, is anything wrong?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I—I guess I just have my mind on my errands.”

  “Dinner?” he asked.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she said. “I’ll screen you, either at Governor Rainsford’s or at home.”

  “Okay,” he said and blanked the screen.

  It was a dingy, gray afternoon, with a misting rain coming from the overcast sky and slanting across Mallorysport. The esplanade was practically deserted. Christiana held up the collar of her coat against the rain and the chilly wind that was driving it.

  What was she going to do? Sooner or later the man in the hat was going to wise up that she was giving him pretty innocuous information, with just enough important nuggets in it to keep the charade going. She couldn’t betray Grego, and yet she couldn’t go on like this. It made her feel dirty. She couldn’t risk letting him find out about her past. She might lose him. That made her feel dirty, too.

  The rain started coming down harder as she ducked in through the door of the La Rondo.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The entry door chimed. Ben Rainsford came out of his kitchen, drying his hands on a towel he had pulled through the belt of his bush-jacket. He had tried having someone else cook and wash up for him, but they just never got things quite the way he wanted them, and they were never around when he was trying to find something for himself. The fits of temper he got into trying to find where the cook had hidden his favorite paring knife just weren’t worth whatever the convenience was supposed to be.

  Rainsford opened the door, then extended his hand. “Victor,” he said. “How nice to see you.”

  “Yes,” Grego said, shaking hands. “I might say the same, Bennett. We ought to get together more often.”

  Rainsford’s face took on a mournful look. “If we ever get a minute to ourselves,” he said. “I imagine you have just as many chucklewits running to you these days as I do; dithering over some problem they could solve themselves if they’d just stop and think it out.”

  “Amen to that,” Grego said, stepping into the foyer. He reached down and tugged lightly at the towel. “Doing a little surgery, are you?” he asked.

  “Just tidying up in the kitchen,” Rainsford said as he pulled the towel free and draped it over one shoulder.

  Grego’s eyebrows went up. “How do you find the time to do your own housekeeping?” he asked.

  Rainsford explained the entropy factor of it, then added, “I have a woman come in to clean and dust once a week. We have an understanding. She doesn’t touch my desk or anything in the kitchen except the floor, and I give her money.”

  Rainsford was about to say something else when they were suddenly overrun by Fuzzies. Even when there were only three of them it sometimes seemed like a hundred Fuzzies.

  “Heyo, Pappy Vic,” Diamond whooped joyously. “What make do?” He braced himself and slid the last several feet on the foyer’s highly-polished floor, then clamped his tiny arms around Grego’s leg to regain his balance.

  Flora and Fauna were in hot pursuit, howling noisily. “Heyo, Unka Vic. Heyo! Heyo, Pappy Ben. You no say Unka Vic come.”

  Rainsford gathered them both in his arms and picked them up. “Pappy Ben forgot,” he said. “Pappy Ben, Unka Vic have Big One talk to make. How about Extee-Three? So-siggo esteefee?”

  “Hoksufusso,” they shrieked in delight. “Bizzo-asho. Esteefee! Nozzo so-siggo esteefee.” With that, they both leaped from Rainsford’s arms, tumbled end over end on the floor a couple of times until they got their footing, and all three scampered into the kitchen.

  Grego winced. At first it looked as though they were going to break their necks.

  “How about you, Victor?” Rainsford said, as he turned toward the kitchen. “You care for some tosh-ki waji? It’s a good half hour before my guest arrives.”

  “At this point,” Grego said, “I think a cocktail is a wonderful idea.”

  Since they weren’t in the habit of running everywhere they went, it took Rainsford and Grego a bit longer to reach the kitchen. The Fuzzies were hopping up and down in eager anticipation. Rainsford had taught them early-on not to climb on
things in the house without permission.

  “Where’s Christiana?” Rainsford asked as he opened a cupboard and rummaged around for one of the familiar blue-labeled tins.

  “Yes,” Diamond demanded. “Why no Auntie Ki’stanna?”

  “She had some errands to run,” Grego said, half to Rainsford and half to Diamond, “and, since I was coming over anyway, there wasn’t any reason for both of us to make the trip.” Diamond’s face took on a pouting look. “We’ll likely see her later this evening,” he said to Diamond. “Now have your esteefee treat.”

  Rainsford set the tin on the counter with a plate, and a knife for dividing it.

  “Bizzo so,” Flora and Fauna clamored, waving their arms for Diamond to hurry. In what was obviously a well-rehearsed drill, Flora and Fauna laced their fingers together into a stirrup, so Diamond could get a leg up and climb onto the counter top.

  He expertly ran the can through the opener and sliced it into manageable portions almost faster than the eye could follow. And why not? A table knife is not so much different from a steel shoppo-diggo. Diamond handed the plate down to Flora and Fauna, picked up the empty tin and its lid, walked to the end of the counter, and dropped it in the trash. He glanced at the two Terran humans and made a slight but decisive movement of his head—as if to say, “See what good house manners I have?” He picked up three tiny plastic tumblers, which used to be two-ounce measuring cups, nested them together, and tossed them down to Fauna. He jumped off the counter with a squeal of glee, landed lightly on the floor, and all three of them went pelting back out onto the south lawn, where they would fill the water cups at the fountain and make Fuzzy-talk while Ben and Vic made Big-One talk.

  “Why in Nifflheim do they want to go out in this drizzle?” Grego asked.

  “Mmmmmm?” Rainsford said absently as he finished mixing a four-portion jug full of cocktails and poked the stopper into it. “Oh, they won’t get wet. They’ll all sit in Flora and Fauna’s pup-tent, which the Marines—ah— liberated for me, watch it rain, eat their Extee-Three, and have a grand time.” Rainsford paused with his hand on the cupboard door. “Did you ever have a tree-house when you were a kid, Victor?” he asked, his hand still poised on the knob of the cupboard door.