Fuzzy Bones (v1.1)

by William Tuning (v1. 1) (html)

  Jack nodded. “Many-many things for Hagga to learn,” he said. “The Fuzzy remains in the ship aren’t woods Fuzzies and they aren’t Upland Fuzzies. Do these new Fuzzies have anything to do with the remains we found, or do they just occupy the same geography? What does the Fuzzyologist say, Gerd?”

  Gerd grimaced. “Damned questions. Every time we find the answer to one question, it brings up two more questions. We’re getting nowhere at hyperspeed—even though we know an enormously larger amount of information about Fuzzies than we did a year ago.”

  “We know that the decomposing titanium ship hull caused the soil in Fuzzy Valley to become richer in several different kinds of titanium compounds,” Ruth said. “Oxides and nitrates of titanium, sodium tritanate, titanic acids—that sort of thing—not to mention other nitrate compounds from rainwater leaching down into the valley. That’s why the Fuzzies cultivated plants there—until the drought dried up the vegetable patch. The plants picked up titanium from the soil.”

  Jack thoughtfully packed tobacco into his pipe. Little Fuzzy promptly dug into his shodda-bag and began doing the same. “Then why,” Jack said, “when the woods Fuzzies began their southward volkerwanderung, following the land-prawns, did the Upland Fuzzies stay? They knew it was going to be a hard life.”

  Gerd shrugged. “Maybe they thought the rain would come back and things would pick up again. After all, they had no way of knowing that the Company’s draining Big Blackwater was causing a permanent climate change.”

  Jack held his index finger in the air. “Let us,” he said, “ask a definitive eyewitness source. How about it, Little Fuzzy? Why did one group stay and the other group migrate?”

  Little Fuzzy delayed his answer until he had finished lighting his pipe. He blew out a plume of smoke. “They— what you call Up’end Fuzzies are The Haigunsha. We, you so-say woods Fuzzies, are Kampushi-sha. We, both us, Gashta. No fight; not good. Make friend, make help, have fun.” He screwed up his tiny face for a moment, forming the words for the concept. “We just—not same—even though same—Gashta.” He shrugged. “We go—they stay.”

  “Does anyone know about that, Little Fuzzy?” Gerd asked.

  “No,” Little Fuzzy said simply. “Too much time ago. Many-many.”

  “Maybe the Fuzzies came on the ship,” Jack said. “Somebody came on the ship. Maybe they brought the Fuzzies with them.”

  “So what happened to them?” Ruth asked. “Dead? Rescued? What was their relationship to the Fuzzies?”

  “Damned questions,” Gerd muttered.

  “Two tribes of Fuzzies,” Ruth said, half to herself.

  “What is t’ibe?” Little Fuzzy asked quickly.

  While Ruth explained it to him, Jack moved up into the control seat next to Gerd’s. “You know,” he said. “We ought to push a little bit—not too hard—to borrow that sociologist—whats-her-name—Liana Bell. She could have a field day with this, and just might come up with some answers that will help us out.”

  “Well,” Gerd mused, “let’s wait until we see what Napier can come up with. In any case, we’ll be gone about a week, and we can’t do much about it until we get back.”

  “That reminds me, Gerd,” Jack said, “is it okay with you if I borrow your airboat and go back down to the Station while you and Ruth and Little Fuzzy are gone?”

  Gerd looked at him. “Aren’t you going along?”

  Jack waved his pipe noncommittally. “Oh, I’m not going to be much use up there, and I’ve got to catch up on the work that’s piled up for me. Besides, I think I can depend on you and Ruth to look out for Fuzzy interests. There’s really nothing we can get crabby about, anyway, what with Napier invoking Priority One.”

  “Sure,” Gerd said. “That’s all right with me. We’ll keep you posted by screen—at least as much as the Navy allows us to.”

  “You know, Gerd,” Jack pondered. “I’ve sort of been rolling a little theory around in my head. Tell me what you think of it.”

  “Go on,” Gerd said.

  “If someone crashed that ship here—and someone certainly did—they could have had Fuzzies on the ship with them. They were on their way from somewhere to somewhere and just had some problems—like the time I borrowed your airboat to go up the Cordilleras, lost power, and had to set her down in the woods.”

  “And damned near got killed by those two woods tramps,” Gerd said.

  “Yeah,” Jack said, running his hand over the scar on the right side of his ribs. “They could have died off, but there is a disturbing lack of remains. Or, they were rescued. If they were rescued, that disturbing lack of remains would indicate one hundred percent survival.”

  “Which is not statistically persuasive,” Gerd said.

  “No,” Jack replied, “but it’s possible. It would also indicate a speedy rescue. So, they were rescued and left some of the Fuzzies behind.” Jack held up his hand. “I know what you’re going to say. That’s not a practice in keeping with logical procedure and ethics of a star-traveling race. But, suppose this. Suppose some of the Fuzzies ran off into the woods, couldn’t be found by the rescuers, and were abandoned out of necessity. That would form the original group of ancestors for the Zarathustran Fuzzy. Cut off from the parent gene pool, there would be some random genetic drifts that developed them into an essentially different species. That would account for the difference in stature between the Fuzzy bones in the wreck and the Fuzzy bones in the cave.”

  “The ones in the cave, too?” Gerd said.

  Jack nodded.

  Gerd shook his head. “The ones in the cave are three hundred years newer than the ones in the wreck.”

  Jack snorted. “Well, they wouldn’t change much in that length of time.”

  “Yeah,” Gerd said gloomily. “I have to admit that.”

  “It might go a long way to explain why Fuzzies need titanium when they couldn’t have evolved the need for it,” Jack said. “What do you think?”

  Gerd nodded. “It’s worth pursuing. I’ll give you that. Damn Garrett’s Theorem, anyway,” he growled. “I don’t know why xeno-naturalists can’t draw an easy problem once in a while.”

  Jack leaned back in the chair and puffed his pipe. “That, Dr. van Riebeek, is one of the reasons I never had the desire to take up science as a trade.”

  “Profession,” Gerd corrected.

  While Gerd van Riebeek’s airboat was still in the air, a Marine command car grounded on the landing stage at the level just below the residential suite occupied by Justice and Mrs. Frederic Pendarvis.

  Helton spoke to the two men with him. “Karnowski, you and Ash hop out and make a show of guarding this thing as soon as I clear myself with that local cop over there.” He leaned forward and tapped Bushmeyer on the shoulder. “And you stay awake, son. I don’t want you lifting off into the overhead. Makes paperwork.”

  In answer to the door chime, and in the temporary absence of the butler he had furnished for the occasion, the caterer opened the door. He was a bit startled to see a Marine outside in the corridor.

  “I have paperwork for Governor Rainsford to sign and thumbprint. I understand he is here,” Helton said.

  Jerry Panoyian smiled deferentially. “You are correct,” he said. “If you will be good enough to step into the foyer and wait a moment, I will tell him you are here. Sergeant.”

  As Panoyian turned to go, Helton put a hand on his shoulder. Panoyian turned, slightly surprised. No one ever touched him except to shake hands.

  “Just a minute,” Helton said. “Who’s that over there— with the good-looking girl and the Fuzzy wearing a bow tie?”

  Panoyian’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Why, that’s Mr. Victor Grego, the Manager-in-Chief of the Chartered Zarathustra Company,” he said with a slight look of disdain.

  “Oh,” Helton said. “Thanks. Thank you very much.”

  Jerry Panoyian tugged at the jacket of his formats, as if to say, “Some crust for a Marine,” and turned to fetch Ben Rainsford.

>   Helton finally caught Christiana’s eye at the same time he saw Rainsford—whom he recognized—working through the crowd, followed by a tall, slender gentlemen whom he did not recognize. Helton winked at her, as if to say “Nice going.” She hesitated a moment until she recognized him, then frowned and squinted worriedly as she realized Helton was the only person in the room full of highly-placed officials and powerful men who knew of her previously avowed trade. But she sensed he had no intention of meddling in her life, smiled happily at him, and turned back to the conversation.

  Judge Pendarvis caught the exchange between them, watching it over the top of Ben Rainsford’s head. He hadn’t spent a lifetime in the theater of the courtroom without learning to spot minute subtleties of human reaction.

  As they drew closer to the foyer, Helton heard Rainsford say back over his shoulder, “Some poppycock about removing artifacts from the planetary surface. I want you to see if it’s legal before I sign anything.”

  Helton and Judge Pendarvis were introduced.

  “Ah,” Helton said, shaking hands, “the man who changed the history of Zarathustra,” he said. “Your name looms large on the lips of law professors in Terran universities these days. An honor to meet you, sir.”

  “I was only following the law as I saw it. Sergeant Helton,” Pendarvis said. He waved his hand toward a door. “Shall we step into my study?”

  Once inside the comfortable, booklined room, Pendarvis stopped short. “How rude of me, “he said. “Would you like a drink, Sergeant?”

  “No, thank you, Judge,” Helton said. “My day isn’t over yet. I have to get back to Beta tonight.”

  “Of course,” Pendarvis replied. “I understand.” He took the folio which Helton handed him and sat down at his desk.

  While Pendarvis and Rainsford were going over the paperwork, with occasional pointing at paragraphs by Rainsford, accompanied by the question, “Is that legal?” Helton stood and looked at the books. One didn’t often see old books anymore, made of paper, with pages that had to be turned manually. They took up too much space when compared with chips designed to be put through a readout screen. Helton loved the smell of them. He moved slowly down the shelves, stopping occasionally to look at the titles, with his hands clasped behind his back, and rocked up and down slightly on the balls of his feet. It must have cost a fortune to ship these things out here, unless some Zarathustran antiquarian was actually running a printing plant on the planet.

  “This is all in order, Ben,” Pendarvis said. “Ink it in the spots indicated. I’ve extracted your copies.” He got to his feet and picked up the slender panetella from his ashtray. “Do you like books, Sergeant?” he asked Helton.

  Helton started slightly, then turned abruptly with a grin. “Very much, Judge. Very much.”

  “There is no frigate like a book

  To take us lands away,

  Nor any corsairs like a page

  Of prancing poetry.”

  “Well said,” Pendarvis replied. He sighed. “Would that more people thought so.” He walked over to where Helton stood, and ran his hand over one of the shelves. “I rather thought you did, from the meticulous way you had prepared and arranged the papers in the folio. Only one misplaced comma, which I corrected.”

  Rainsford joined them and handed the folio back to Helton , who opened it, went briefly through the papers, pausing for a moment to note the Judge’s correction.

  “I believe you’re right, sir,” Helton said. “It could go either way, but I think this usage makes better sense.”

  Rainsford jerked his pipe from his bush jacket pocket and fired it up. “What is this?” he demanded. “Federation business or a grammar class?”

  Pendarvis smiled benignly at him. “Ben,” he said, “did I ever tell you The Pendarvis Theory of Technology?”

  Rainsford shook his head while he began to produce huge clouds of smoke from the pipe.

  “You’ll likely enjoy this, too, Sergeant,” Pendarvis said to Helton. “Simply put, it is my theory that everything wrong with everything is the fault of language teachers.”

  Helton leaned forward attentively.

  “If a child is taught,” Pendarvis said, “that it’s all right if you mis-spell a word occasionally, or don’t always punctuate exactly correctly, then you are teaching that child that small mistakes are okay, as long as people know pretty much what is meant. I feel this is a dangerous attitude to foster in a highly technological society, because it encourages people to think ‘Well, after all, the readout is only a little bit over into the red zone. Maybe it will return to normal while I’m trying to remember which way to adjust the control. Let’s see, now, was that to the left or to the right…’ Do you agree?”

  Helton nodded. “Absolutely, Judge. The commonest criticism of my evaluations revolve around my being too particular about details, but I say almost on target is no better than missing it by a million miles.”

  “Where will the scientific method turn up next?” Rainsford snorted.

  Pendarvis shook hands warmly with Helton. “Well, I know you have a great deal left to do tonight, Sergeant. I don’t want to keep you from it, and I must get back to my guests. However, next time you are in Mallorysport, will you do us the honor of paying a call on Mrs. Pendarvis and myself? We have a good deal to talk about, I suspect.”

  “I’d be honored, sir,” Helton said. “I’ll screen ahead.” He turned and shook hands with Rainsford. “Thank you for your time, Governor.”

  Rainsford waved his pipe vaguely. “No trouble at all,” he said as Pendarvis ushered them from his study to the foyer.

  After another round of goodbyes, Helton caught a second glimpse of Christiana, sitting on an ottoman, talking and laughing with four Fuzzies. Lovely girl, really. This is certainly a better environment for her than Junktown. She was never cut out for that kind of life, anyway.

  After Helton had departed, Pendarvis closed the door and beckoned Rainsford to follow him back to the study. He went to the sideboard and poured them both a small brandy. He handed one to Rainsford and stood, silent, for a moment, staring into the distance and reflectively sluicing the brandy around in the snifter with a slow circular motion of his hand. Finally, he turned to Rainsford. “Who would have thought it, Ben,” he said. Then, more musing to himself than talking to Rainsford; “An educated man and a gentleman—in Marine field greens.” He took a small sip of his brandy and fixed his gaze on a painting over the fireplace. “And wearing stripes on his sleeve,” he continued. Pendarvis frowned. “Not an officer at all,” he said. Still staring at the painting: “What do you make of it, Ben? It’s another inexplicable paradox of the human spirit—one that had never crossed my mind until just now.”

  “I’ll admit it’s at least unusual,” Rainsford said, “to find a career Marine and an educated man both living inside the same skin, but I don’t know that I would call it a paradox. The factual universe is largely made up of paradoxes.”

  Pendarvis sighed and set his glass down on the sideboard. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, “but it’s still quite a revelation—to me, at least. Well, let’s get back into the bull-pen.”

  “That’s more like it,” Rainsford said enthusiastically. “I’ve just about got old man Buchanan whipped into shape so he thinks he’s made up his mind to take a position and stick it out.”

  Outside in the corridor, Helton waited for the lift that would take him back down to the landing stage. He looked up and down, to make sure no one was watching, then danced a little jig and sang to himself:

  When I was a young man I lived all alone,

  And never saw a lady I wanted to own.

  Spelvin and Diehl were all smiles when they came out of Raul Laporte’s office—a contrast to their usual appearance after the usual fierce tongue-lashing from Laporte.

  From the stage, Gwen saw them come out into the main room. Each had a piece of paper—about receipt size—in his hand. They compared them for a moment, smiled some more, shook hands, and
folded up the receipts and put them in a pocket.

  Strange, she thought. What business could those two have had with Laporte? They certainly didn’t have enough sols together to pay off their gaming debts, but they sure are acting like it.

  Laporte emerged from his office, said a few hurried words to his bar manager, then pushed hastily through the crowd, toward the back door.

  “Take a long break,” Gwen said to the lead musician. She darted toward the rear of The Bitter End, threw on a wrap, and was soon out the door—just in time to see Laporte disappear around the corner on foot. There’s only one place he can be going this time of night without an aircar. The only place that close is Hugo Ingermann’s office, and Ingermann is always there at night.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  It had been a long and exhausting evening.

  Victor Grego loosened his neckcloth as he crossed the landing stage, with Diamond tagging along with him. His private aircar would take Christiana on to her place. He was just too tired to see her home.

  She understood that perfectly well, and had suggested it. What a marvel she had been tonight. So many ruffled feathers to be smoothed down; she pitched right in and just charmed the pants off those old bull zebralopes who were swinging the biggest hammers in the Constitutional Convention. And Bill Zeckendorf; he had bought up a large chunk of Mortgageville from the banks that had foreclosed all those one and two-mile—square parcels when the last immigration boom had fallen apart. Let’s see—when was that—must be about nine years ago, now. He was itching to develop the place, huffing and puffing about unfair competition from the Company, and was making ugly noises about a Restraint-of-Trade suit. Could turn nasty. Christiana had him eating out of her hand like a tame tilbra in less than thirty minutes.

  What a remarkable young woman.

  Grego let himself in the back door of his penthouse and turned to close it. “Do you want anything before the sleep-time, Diamond?” he asked.