Or a very powerful enemy.
* * * * * * * * *
“Nifflheim, what a dump. I’ve seen some ghettos on backwater planets before, but this place is worse than even a Yggdrasil hovel. What did you want to meet me here, for?”
Several people in the diner glanced at the booth where the two men, obviously from off-planet, were drinking coffee.
The taller of the two men noticed the turned heads and cautioned his associate. “Keep your voice down, Duncan.”
Duncan “Ripper” Rippolone, a short, stocky man with almost white-blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and a deep tan snorted at his companion. “What’d I say, huh? Think anybody in this dump of a town gives a hoot in Nifflheim what I’m talkin’ about? Gimme a break, Tony.”
Anthony Nicholovich Anderson, a tall, wiry, light skinned man with a thick shock of red hair, rolled his green eyes in exasperation and spoke in a low voice so as not to be overheard. “We do not need to draw attention to ourselves, Ripper, especially in this Junktown, as the locals call it. Besides, we are here on business. In our business, getting noticed by anybody, cop, local, innocent bystander, whatever, is bad.”
Ripper had heard the ‘business’ speech many times before, usually right before engaging in whatever enterprise he and Tony were about to undertake. “Enough, already,” the shorter man said, as he unconsciously lowered his voice. “Well, if you’re so hot to go unnoticed, maybe we should roll around in the mud a bit to blend in better with locals. I know the drill, Tony. Hell, I’ve heard it enough times.”
“And yet it always fails to sink in,” Anderson said. “Like that time on Baldur…”
“Hey, you promised to stop harpin’ about Baldur. I could remind you about that time on Thor…”
“You have made your point, Ripper,” the larger man sighed. “Just humor me and keep your voice down. I have been here for six months and can tell you that these are not people to antagonize. Once we have attended to our business, you can whoop it up all you like…on the ship home. We’ll get you an adjoining room to mine at the Alibi Hotel here in Junktown. There we can lay low and avoid attention.”
The two men left the booth after Anderson dropped a few sols on the table. He was only too aware of the eyes of the other patrons on his back as he and Ripper walked out of the diner. Outside, he spotted a newsstand and bought a newspaper, one made of real paper. Only colony worlds still bothered with newsprint.
“You got a plan to take him with us, yet?” Ripper asked.
Anderson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That…is a work in progress. I will have a better idea what to do after we meet with our contact. It is just about time for our appointment, so hail a cab.”
Ripper pressed the call button on the side of a building. “Hey, yeah. You said you’d tell me who that was after I hit planet-side. It’s been about half an hour since we met up, already.”
“I didn’t want to discuss it until we were well away from too many ears. His name,” Anderson said, “is Raul Laporte.”
* * * * * * * * *
To say that Company House was a large building was a bit like saying Mount Everest was a fair-sized hill. It was enormous. Company House had eighteen levels, not counting the penthouse or sub-surface areas, with each level consisting of four to six floors, each floor being typically two stories high. Each floor contained over 250,000 square feet. Many of the levels were left vacant with an eye towards filling them later as the company grew. This was a building constructed to last for centuries, if not millennia. The framework and foundation were lined with iron collapsium. It was prohibitively expensive but guaranteed to outlast everything save the planet itself. Nickel collapsium lined the outer walls of the building rendering it immune to anything man or nature had to offer short of a direct nuclear blast or large meteor strike. Bomb shelters, though considered by many to be superfluous, made up thirty percent of the sub-levels.
The plumbing and ductwork and power distribution wiring were also designed to last forever. It wasn’t feasible to install pipes and wires that could corrode and breakdown within walls and flooring that were nearly impossible to remove. As such the wiring was made of copper and silver alloys housed in super-insulating plastic, the air shafts lined with collapsed tin and the plumbing with collapsed aluminum.
Because of the shear size of the building, normal transportation was out of the question. There were over twenty elevator stations strategically located for vertical travel, but each floor needed additional travel aids. Conveyor belts were built into the center of every main hallway allowing for speedy movement from section to section.
If there was a drawback to the building, it was the energy utilization. Though powered by a Matter/Energy converter, the building was always hungry for more power. Elevators, conveyor belts, computers, lights, machinery, vehicle recharging stations plus the energy needs of Mallorysport; all took a toll on the power supplies. On paper an M/E converter looked like it could power an entire city from the potential energy of an apple. The reality was considerably less. Much of the energy released in an M/E converter was used to sustain the matter to energy conversion matrix. More energy was used to control that matrix…heat dispersal, energy dampening, energy distribution…at the end of the day less than thirty percent of the potential energy was diverted to run the machines and lights of Company House, a building capable of holding the total sapient population of Zarathustra, Terrans and Fuzzies alike.
As such, all non-recyclable waste was diverted to the M/E converter. As this proved insufficient, plumbing was designed to separate human waste from reclaimable water and feed it into the voracious converter. Every kilowatt was carefully tracked and logged by the company computer. Even a mild irregularity of a few thousand kilowatts had to be researched and accounted for.
The shareholders screamed bloody murder when they saw the bill for the construction project, but settled down when the CZC made the money back in the second year after construction. By the third year all agreed that it was money well spent. This was the building that held the Charterless Zarathustra Company and its CEO, Victor Grego.
Victor Grego was just finishing a conference call about a mysterious, though minor power drain with the various department heads when Myra walked into the office. She patiently waited while Grego made his goodbyes then announced that he had a visitor. “It’s a Mr. John Morgan, sir.” Myra was slow to warm up to people, be they Terran or Fuzzy, and was especially frosty to those she felt shouldn’t bother her boss.
“John Morgan?” Myra nodded. “What is his business?”
“He says he’s a stockholder, Mr. Grego. I ran his name and verified his portfolio card. He holds 300,000 shares, sir.”
Grego let out a low whistle. That many shares made him a serious heavy-weight in the Home Office. Only Grego himself held more shares… at least on Zarathustra. “Best we not keep Mr. Morgan waiting, Myra.”
Myra nodded and left the office while Grego reached for a cigarette. He changed his mind when he considered the possibility that John Morgan might be a non-smoker. Best not to start off on the wrong foot with the man.
The first thing that struck the CZC CEO when Morgan entered was that he was wearing his gun belt. “Did you find something unsatisfactory, Mr. Morgan?”
Morgan looked confused as he answered. “I don’t understand.”
Grego indicated the sidearm.
“Oh. On the flight in I learned that people on Zarathustra typically went around armed everywhere. I was just trying not to look like a tourist. And, please, just call me ‘John,’ Bubba.”
Bubba? “No problem, John. And, please, call me Victor.” The two men shook hands then Morgan took a seat in front of the desk.
“Ordinarily, you would be correct. However, we check our arms before entering court houses, police stations and secure facilities…like Company House, except in special circumstances.” Which made Grego wonder who fell down on the job at the front entrance. Chief Steefer would have a few things to say
about that. “Anybody entering the building is required to check their guns at the security desk, unless they are accompanied by me. Law enforcement is exempt from this rule, of course.”
“I appreciate the crash-course. That also explains why the security man at the entrance insisted on taking my ammunition, too. On Freya men carry guns, knives or swords pretty much everywhere. We only check our firearms when taking audience with the nobility,” Morgan explained. “When meeting with one’s peers it is actually an insult to go unarmed.”
“Really?” Grego found himself interested and leaned forward. “Why is that?”
“It suggests that they consider you to be completely harmless,” Morgan explained. “Like a woman or a child.”
Grego showed his toothy smile and leaned back. “Well, in that case I accept the compliment of your carrying that cannon while meeting with me, and hope you will not be insulted that I neglected to be similarly armed.”
“No offence taken, Victor. I have been to enough Terran Federation worlds to know that Freya is the ‘odd-duck’ with that particular tradition. I’ll be happy to take it off.” Morgan stood and removed his gun belt and hung it from a peg on the wall that Grego indicated. He noticed that Grego’s gun belt on an adjoining peg held a Martian Special 9mm. Good for accuracy if lacking the stopping power of his own .457.
“I never went armed on Terra, and only for my first week on Mars. I had a little misunderstanding with the police before I put them away for the duration of my stay.” Morgan turned away from the gun rack and noticed the floating replica of Zarathustra and its two moons, Darius and Xerxes, illuminated by an orange light that simulated the local sun. “That’s some time piece you have there, Victor.”
“I had it made shortly after I set up my office here, oh, about fifteen years ago. I’ll have to introduce you to the craftsman who made it.”
Grego changed the subject by inquiring what John Morgan needed from his office.
“I do have a few questions. I am conducting an investigation for my own purposes. I am considering increasing my holdings in the company and want to make sure my investment would be sound.”
Most investors paid people for this sort of thing. Morgan took a more hands-on approach. Grego respected that. “Okay, shoot.”
“Well, I was reading the company reports and I saw where you justified using Company resources to make Terran Federation Space Forces Emergency Ration, Extraterrestrial Type Three…”
“Make that Terran Federation Armed Forces Emergency Ration, Extraterrestrial Type Three,” interrupted Grego. “A slight name change to avoid copyright infringement.”
“Ah, yes…but the ingredients are the same? Isn’t there a patent on that, as well?”
“I had legal look into that. The patent expired long ago. I guess nobody thought to spend money to protect a product that was universally despised.”
“I can well believe that! Anyway, then there was the research and development of Hoenveldzine… I see it has two names here.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt again, John, but the brand name is different because Dr. Hoenveld discovered the long-chain molecule in the Extee-Three, but the name got hijacked before he could name it. I mollified him by putting his name on the scientific nomenclature, and slapping the publicity accepted name on as the brand. He gets his name in the history books and we keep the brand name for the public.”
“And the brand name comes from… ?”
“From the Fuzzy language meaning ‘Wonderful Food’.”
Morgan grimaced. Apparently he had tried Extee-Three at some point. “In the reports you claimed that these actions were to generate good will from the colonial government and put a good face on the CZC, something you desperately needed after word got out that you had planned on putting a bounty on Fuzzy fur hoping to trap them out before their sapience could be proven.”
Grego visibly winced at being reminded of some of his actions prior to the Fuzzy Trial. “I barely escaped being brought up on charges for some of my…activities at that time.”
“I can imagine. But I would like to know what you were really thinking when you used the company’s resources to, ah, help the enemy, so to speak.”
Grego considered the question for a moment then decided to give a straight answer. When in doubt, tell the truth and be prepared for early retirement. “Truth be told, I didn’t think about much of anything other than helping the Fuzzies. It was easy to plan atrocities against them when they were in the abstract, but when I found Diamond in my quarters and got to know him I realized just what I had done and was going to do—and felt more than a little sick about it. The Fuzzies needed food and medicine and the Company was the only thing on the planet that could provide it.”
“You also said that you simply heated up some farina in a titanium skillet and the Fuzzies accepted it as Extee-Three. Why go to the trouble of reproducing the entire formula when it would be much cheaper to simply produce titanium heated wheat?”
“Ah, well, I considered it, but Fuzzies have almost identical nutritional requirements that we do. Simple wheat cakes wouldn’t meet those needs and might cause digestion and evacuation problems over time. Fuzzies are carnivorous omnivores, just like humans, but tend to go heavier on the meat than we do. Feeding Fuzzies bulk wheat, even if they like it, would be much like a bread and water diet for us. The complete Extee-Three recipe would keep them healthy.”
“I see,” Morgan nodded. “You did a good job of justifying it in your report.” Morgan flipped through his notes. “You also commissioned the ‘Fuzzy Phone’ with a Mr. Stenson, but then cancelled it after one run.”
“I don’t know how well you studied our recent history, but Fuzzies used to speak exclusively in the ultrasonic range,” Grego explained, “The Fuzzy Phone translated their voices into the human audible range. Then Diamond, a Fuzzy I adopted, learned how to pitch his voice so that the phone was no longer needed. I did still pull a small profit by selling them to Jack Holloway as training aids at on the Rez.” Grego explained the name and function of the Fuzzy welcome training center.
“You also managed to get the concession on Extee-Three here on Zarathustra, which is the only planet in the Federation where you can turn a profit on that stuff. I fed some to my pet kholph on Freya, once. He didn’t like it worth a damn.”
Grego laughed out loud. “That’s what my chief chemist at Synthetic Foods, Malcolm Dunbar, said when he fed it to the kholph over in Science Division.”
Now it was Morgan’s turn to lean forward in his seat. “You have a Freyan kholph, here?”
“I’ll check with the lab and see if we still have any. I guess I should mention that we are starting a new product line aimed at Fuzzies.”
“Oh? Different varieties of Extee-Three?”
Grego sat a bit straighter. “That’s not a bad idea, actually.” Grego scribbled a note on his office pad. “Maybe land-prawn flavor…but no, it’s the Fuzzy Flush.” Grego explained about the sanitation needs of the Fuzzies and the problems involved. “When Fuzzies still lived a nomadic life-style, it wasn’t a problem, but with all the Fuzzies adopted into Terran families and the population density on the Rez, the Piedmont and the various Fuzzy villages, more effective sanitation measures need to be taken. And we can expect a good return on the investment, too. Seat adapters will be simple formed plastic. That will have the highest return, I think.”
Morgan scribbled a note on his pad. “Fuzzies and humans have been interacting for two years and this is the first time this issue came up?”
“Well, Fuzzies typically see to themselves, unlike Terran infants and pets. If a Fuzzy needs a little…personal time, he simply goes outside with his chopper-digger and attends to it on his own. I have heard that some people install something like a cat-box…”
“You seem to be doing well with products aimed at Fuzzies.”
Grego smiled his overly toothy grin. “You better believe it. Profits are actually up a good ten percent over our pre-Fuzzy days. Sa
ddles for the dog mounts, lint brushes for collecting loose Fuzzy hair, the Extee-Three…hell, at a tin of Extee-Three per Fuzzy a day, with 5,500 Fuzzies currently living on the Rez, the Piedmont and Alpha Continent villages, we sell almost a ton and a half worth a day, not counting the military and emergency supplies sales or the purchases made by people who adopted Fuzzies. “And, that number is climbing almost daily as more Fuzzies come in from the wild. Shoulder-bag and chopper-digger production alone keeps us hopping. We’re also testing alternative weapons and accessories for the Fuzzies; halberds, swords, crossbows…Diamond is very fond of his epee, for example. Instructional games and toy sales are also way up.”
The two men went over a few more reports until Morgan ran out of questions.
Grego leaned back and affected an air of calm. “So, did I pass?”
Morgan closed his notepad and stuffed it into a pocket. “I really shouldn’t discuss it until my research is done, Victor. I have a lot more snooping to do, if it wouldn’t be too inconvenient.”
“Fair enough,” Grego agreed. “Have you found a place to stay, yet?”
“Not yet. I came in straight from the spaceport.”
“The apartment below my penthouse suite is kept available for visiting dignitaries. It is easily as good as any five star hotel accommodations. You must stay there and I will not take no for an answer. I can also set you up with a company aircar and driver. Meanwhile, how about a guided tour of the company? Chief Steefer can take you around and even get you into the lab to see the kholph, if you like.”
Victor Grego is a very forceful individual, Morgan thought. “Very well, I accept both offers, provided the Chief isn’t too busy…”
Fuzzy Ergo Sum Page 4