Fuzzy Ergo Sum

by Diehr Wolfgang

  “Not people,” Makes-Things said.

  “Have arms. Have head,” Healer argued. “Makes put together thing like Makes-Things.”

  “Is made-thing,” Makes-Things said firmly, “like melon-seed birds. See Big One’s walk out of flying things? See Big Ones open no-legs thing? Open live-thing it make dead. No-legs thing not make dead.”

  Red Fur and the others were forced to agree with Makes-Things. They couldn’t understand how such made-things were possible but they could see that the Big Ones could do many wondrous things. At one point, a big shimo-kato charged into the Big Ones’ camp and destroyed one of the no-legs made-things. The Big Ones used another made-thing that created a loud humming sound and the shimo-kato staggered and fell. A hand of no-legs made-things picked up the shimo-kato and carried it into the big melon-seed flying thing. When they came out again there was no shimokato.

  “Look,” Makes-Things said. He was pointing at the no-legs madething made dead by the shimo-kato. Its shell was ruptured open and the interior spilled out onto the ground. There were things that looked like thin vines of every color, a brown fluid that was too thick to be blood and other things without comparison. “Inside all made-things!”

  “Big Ones make fly-things,” Silver Fur stated. “Make work-things. Big Ones’ very wise.”

  “Make friends with Big Ones,” Healer suggested. “Big Ones help us. Teach us how to make fly-things.”

  Red Fur was hesitant. The shimo-kato made dead by the noise-things scared him. The noise things also hurt his ears. There was a small trickle of blood coming out of Makes-Things ears. “We watch. See what Big Ones do. Big Ones more powerful than shimo-kato. Make shimo-kato dead. Maybe make us dead.”

  II

  The pseudocrustacean blissfully gnawed away at the bark of the featherleaf tree completely unmindful of any potential dangers that could be lurking in the nearby forest. This was typical behavior for a representative of its species as it had virtually no natural enemies.

  The land-prawn, was a nasty little thing, which is how nature and evolution designed it to be. It ruined everything it came near in its constant search for food. Most creatures avoided the land-prawn. It didn’t even associate with its own kind. Were it not for the fact that it was a parthenogenetic female that reproduced asexually, its species would have been long extinct.

  So it was a bit of a shock when it found itself suddenly bereft of a head. Standing over the now decapitated creature was a small hairy biped holding a metal weapon with a leaf-shaped blade at one end and a counterbalancing metal ball at the other. The newcomer, a male, was little more than a foot and a half tall itself with a round head, big ears and a tiny snub nose. The hands that wielded the weapon enjoyed the advantage of opposing thumbs.

  The tiny humanoid looked down at its kill with disproportionately large eyes then a smile came to him as he flipped the dead pseudocrustacean onto its back. Two solid strikes on the underside with the ball end of the weapon cracked open the shell allowing the furry biped to scoop out the gooey insides and stuff it into his mouth, which he did with gusto. When the meat became harder to dig out, the little being used his weapon to chop off one of the land-prawn’s mandibles to use as a pick allowing him to get at the more difficult to access morsels. When done eating he turned around and raised his weapon above his head with both hands and proudly stated, “Yeek!”

  Jack Holloway, semi-retired sunstone prospector and active Commissioner of Native Affairs, quickly pulled a small device out of a pocket and shoved it into his ear with one hand while holding a movie camera in the other. The camera was catching the Fuzzy rite of passage into adulthood while the ear device, an ultrasonic hearing aid, allowed him to understand what the Fuzzy was saying, or would have had he inserted it sooner.

  Baby Fuzzy is too excited to pitch his voice in the human audible range, Jack thought with a smile, and he should be excited. Baby made his first kill. He’s a man, now.

  Jack took as much pride in the Fuzzy’s accomplishment as any parent watching his son hit a homerun or hit a bull’s eye the first time he picked up a rifle. And why shouldn’t he? Hadn’t he discovered and adopted the first representatives of Fuzzy sapiens zarathustra? The Fuzzies had come a long way since that fateful day when Jack Holloway discovered a small golden furred creature in his shower stall.

  “I should have put more thought into Baby’s name,” Commissioner Gerd van Riebeek said. “He’s a bit too big to be called ‘Baby’ anymore but he can’t grasp the idea of changing it to something else. I should have called him ‘Harry’ or something.”

  Little Fuzzy, Mike, Mitzi, Mama Fuzzy, Ko-Ko and Cinderella ran over to congratulate Baby Fuzzy on his success. Little Fuzzy was slapping Baby Fuzzy on the back in a surprisingly Terran display of congratulation and affection, and then produced a pipe. The elder Fuzzy lit it and took a few puffs then offered it to Baby. The younger Fuzzy took a puff and coughed once then shook his head.

  Just as well, Jack thought, Baby Fuzzy still has a lot of growing to do and tobacco might stunt his growth. The sapient being from Terra turned off his movie camera and joined the sapient natives of Zarathustra in offering his congratulations to the new hunter with Gerd.

  “I would have thought Baby was still too young to hunt land-prawns,” the xenonaturalist commented. “Near as I can figure he’s about the equivalent of a human child around eight to ten years old. He can’t be more than four Z-years old.”

  “Children of primitive cultures grow up quickly, Gerd,” Jack said, “or they might not get to grow up at all. If a damnthing or flock of harpies killed all of Little Fuzzy’s tribe then Baby would have to fend for himself. He’s big enough to wield a chopper-digger so he’s ready to learn how to hunt and survive.”

  “Hardly seems necessary with Pappy Jack around to protect them,” Gerd observed.

  “Well, Fuzzies and humans have only been together for a little over two years, you know. Their culture will take a while to adapt. Besides, we don’t want them dependant on us for everything. Better they maintain their way of life as much as possible even with us looking out for them. That’s why I made the North-East quadrant of the reservation a Terran verboten zone. Keep the Terran-humans away from the Fuzzies there and maybe they’ll develop naturally without our screwing them up.”

  “Then why didn’t you have him make his own chopper-digger instead of making him that metal one?” Gerd argued. “Terran speaks with forkedtongue, I think.”

  “Actually, Little Fuzzy had Baby make one out of a zarabuck antler,” he countered. “He did a real fine job, too. Then Little Fuzzy told him to bring it to me and ask if I wanted to trade for a metal one.”

  Gerd raised an eyebrow then said, “That’s great! They keep their skills and they use barter to trade up. We’ll have to tell Ruth and Dr. Mallin about that. Hey, I’ll bet we could even get a market for Fuzzy artifacts going off-world. We should talk to Victor Grego about the marketing possibilities.”

  “That sounds like a good idea. Those damn Baby Fuzzy hats are still popular on Terra, Gimli and Baldur, last I heard.” Jack considered a moment then said, “We should open a Native Museum like the ones on Uller and Yggdrasil. Fill it up with Fuzzy tools, wax figures and whatnot. We can move Goldilocks’ statue into it…or better, in front of it…no, wait, we just build it on the edge of the park near her statue. We could set up a viewing room for all the movies we took way back when we first discovered the Fuzzies. It would be educational and something for the tourists to gawk at. I’ll bet the Fuzzies would get a kick out of it, too.”

  “Looks like Baby’s gearing up for another go,” Gerd said, as he watched Baby Fuzzy raise his weapon and move off into the forest. “You know, I expected him to attack the legs like Mama Fuzzy, but he runs by it and spins around like Little Fuzzy.”

  “Little Fuzzy worked with him before sending Baby out. Come on. It’ll be interesting to see what he does with a second kill.” Jack turned on his movie camera and followed the Fuzzies with Gerd clos
e behind. “Too bad Ben is missing all of this.”

  “Where is our Colonial Governor anyway?”

  “He’s back at Government House doing his job…and hating every minute of it.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  “How the Nifflheim did I let myself get put in this position?” Colonial Governor Bennett Rainsford yelled. “I want a recount, damn-it!”

  “Usually it is the loser that demands a recount, Ben,” Victor Grego, CEO of the Charterless Zarathustra Company, offered, “It was a fairly close election but you took it with a 10,000 vote lead.”

  “Wrong. I lost. I wanted out of this job. Nifflheim, I never wanted it in the first place but Commodore Napier boxed me in.”

  Grego shrugged and tried to keep from smiling. “Granted, it’s a dirty job but somebody has to do it.” And you like the job more than you want to admit.

  Three Fuzzies playing together outside had heard the outburst and came to investigate. “Pappy Ben,” the female asked, “You angry at Pappy Vic?”

  “No, Flora,” Ben said. “We are just talking loud like Big Ones do sometimes.”

  “Not angry?” Grego’s Fuzzy Diamond asked. “Not fight like on vid?”

  “Vid?” asked Ben.

  “Diamond watches a lot of old Western movies,” Grego explained. “He’s just making certain we don’t go out back and have a shootout.”

  “No, Diamond,” Rainsford said. “Pappy Ben and Pappy Vic are still friends and everybody is happy.”

  “Go play with Flora and Fauna, Diamond, while Big Ones make big people talk about government,” Grego added.

  “Hokay, Pappy Vic,” the Fuzzy agreed.

  The Fuzzies scampered out and left the big people to their discussion.

  “My mistake was in not running like hell when my appointment was up,” Ben muttered, careful to keep his voice low lest it further upset the Fuzzies. “Two years was all I was supposed to be stuck for. By then we were supposed to have an operating legislative body and proper elections.”

  “Then why did you run in this last election?”

  “Gus talked me into it,” Ben admitted. “He said we needed to have at least two candidates for a proper election and nobody wanted to run against Juan Takagashi. I figured he would take this election hands down. I mean, Nifflheim, I didn’t even campaign!”

  “People vote their wallets,” Grego said. “That’s why I voted for you, too.”

  “Betrayed!” the Governor howled, then added dramatically, “Et tu, Veek-tor?”

  “I fail to see what the problem is. You’re governing a relatively small population, the treasury is in the black, thanks to the sunstone mining agreement, and you have very little that actually needs your attention.”

  “On the contrary I’m facing a few sizable problems. One of which is the influx of immigrants who landed here expecting to get rich,” Ben argued, “only to find all the best land is already taken. These people need food, shelter and employment.”

  Grego rubbed his jaw then said, “Employment won’t be too much of a problem. The Company is still scrambling to fill positions vacated when the Pendarvis Decision smashed our charter. People took off in droves looking to get in on the free land grab. More got arrested for aircar theft and others ended up working for you to fill slots in the police forces. I lost some good security men that way. Immigrants I can happily find jobs for…within reason.”

  “That helps but won’t do it all.” Ben shook his head as if to clear it. “In fact, you should be a little worried yourself about the population increase.”

  Grego raised an eyebrow. “Why me?”

  “Because our agreement has you on the hook for planetary services. In the last year the population of Zarathustra has increased by over ten percent. That means greater demands for power, sewage treatment, communications and medical care for starters.”

  “Well, for the most part we are already situated for that. Home Office always planned for Zarathustra to expand and grow, meaning more people to work for it and a larger population base to draw that workforce from.” Grego stubbed out his cigarette before continuing. “We have sufficient resources to provide power for ten times the current population, as well as sewage treatment. Actually, most of the sewage is separated from reclaimable water and put into a mass/energy converter. More sewage equals more power. Same goes for non-recyclable trash. Thank Ghu we don’t just dump garbage into land-fills like they did on Terra back in the first century AE, let alone spew sewage directly into the oceans! Medical is more of a problem, I’ll admit. Hopefully, we can get some qualified doctors and nurses from the influx of immigrants.”

  “There will also be an increase in the need for schools and housing. The schools are on your plate, but the housing is on mine, plus increased law enforcement. Pretty soon the treasury will go from black to red.” Ben opened a drawer in his desk and extracted two headache pills. “I’m going to be chewing on these things like candy before too long.”

  Grego thought for a moment then said, “Why don’t you look into what other new governments did to generate revenue? Taxes are out, but there are tariffs on imports you could impose, for example.”

  “Hmm…I’ll put Millie on research. You might be onto something there.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  “Gerd, Jack, good to see you back.” Ruth waved as the men and Fuzzies approached. “That little problem is getting bigger.”

  “You’ll have to be a little more specific,” Jack propted. Problems abounded for the Commissioner of Native Affairs.

  “Fuzzy sanitation measures. The Fuzzies have been ranging further and further from the Reservation to ‘bury the bad smells.’ Well, a couple of Fuzzies were nearly trampled by a zarabuck because they ranged so far out. We need a better way of dealing with this.”

  Jack looked around at the numerous plots of overturned earth. It looked like a major gopher convention was in town. “We need a Fuzzysized latrine and a king-sized septic system to go with it. And a training vid. I think I have an idea.”

  Jack turned on his heel and marched into his office where he sat down in front of the viewscreen and punched in the code for Victor Grego’s office. Within seconds the homely face of Myra Fallada, Grego’s secretary, filled the screen.

  “Mr. Grego’s office. May I help…oh, Mr. Holloway! Is Mr. Grego expecting your call?”

  “I’d be worried if he was,” Jack said with a smile. “I just had an idea and I need his help with it.”

  “I’ll see if he is free.” The screen went dark with a bright CZC logo shining in the middle. The logo changed color in spectrum order; red-orange-yellow-green…before it shifted to blue the screen changed to Victor Grego.

  “Jack, good to hear from you.” Grego shook his hands together in traditional screen-greeting style. “Your timing is pretty good. I just got back from visiting Ben. Myra says you need some help with something?”

  “I do, and it might make you some profit.” Jack explained the problems with the Fuzzies and the need for an isolated waste disposal system.

  “Yeah, I’ve been having the gardener swap out the soiled earth in my private garden since Diamond moved in,” the CZC Head admitted. “A scaled down series of commodes on a heavy-duty septic system should do the job. A self-cleaning model might be best, at least until the Fuzzies understand how it works. Maybe adapter seats, like those used for potty-training young children, would do the job in most households. Yeah, I think we could pull in quite a bit of profit from that. Okay, assuming this takes-off, where do we send your royalty checks?”

  “Royalties?” Jack thought for a moment. On some planets the ideas of government employees became the property of the government. “Send half to the Treasury and take the cost of installing the latrine here out of the other half.”

  “I think that would come out of the Fuzzies’ sunstone revenues, Jack,” Grego replied. “I’ll talk it over with Ben and see what he says about it.”

  “Fair enough.” Jack glanced out a window at
the plods of earth. “Any chance we can get an advance on that and get started right away?”

  Grego laughed. “I’ll have an excavation and installation team out there tomorrow evening. We’ll cut costs by pulling it from the marketing budget. I’ll have to get a film crew out there for advertising and the training film after the latrine is up, though.”

  “Sounds good,” Jack said. “I’ll get my family ready to be film stars.”

  III

  “For the love of Ghu would somebody get me a damned drink?”

  Allan Quatermain and Natty Bumppo looked up from their jigsaw puzzle at the large unusually hairy sapient sitting up at the table with them in a wheelchair. Actually, all three of the table’s occupants were extremely hairy but in the case of the Fuzzies it was a standard racial characteristic. Fuzzies, usually upset by sudden outbursts from Big Ones, took this sudden flare-up in stride. In the last few days they had heard it many times before.

  “Dok’ta say no coktail-drinko, Pappy Gus,” Allan said.

  “Likka make livah go bad if not wait,” Natty added.

  They grow up so fast, thought Gus Brannhard. “I know, I know. But, Great Satan! A man could die of thirst in this place.”

  “If Pappy Gus thihsty, got wateh to drink,” Allan offered.

  “That stuff is murder,” Gus muttered under his breath. “I wouldn’t have cut back on my drinking if I’d known this was going to happen. I’d have tried to store it like a camel.”

  Allan and Natty had been unswervingly solicitous of the big man’s health since he was admitted to the hospital, only leaving his side for necessary trips outside to bury bad smells and then just one at a time. Moreover, they adhered strictly to what Doctor MacTaggert ordered by preventing Gus from sneaking in a bottle of bourbon by bribing an orderly the day before. The orderly barely escaped with his hide intact when the Fuzzies caught him with the bottle hidden under his jacket. The hapless man had walked into the hospital room when the two Fuzzies raised their heads, sniffed the air and launched themselves at the orderly with chopperdiggers swinging wildly.