Fuzzy Ergo Sum

by Diehr Wolfgang

Yes, Tony knew how Duncan felt about dogs, especially large breeds, ever since that time on Baldur. “Relax, Duncan. These dogs do not have our scent and they couldn’t track an aircar even if they did.”

  “You can bet they’ll get Brannhard’s scent, somehow,” Rippolone snarled. “They’ll get something out of his house and stick it under those damn dogs’ noses—”

  “And still not find us,” Anderson interrupted. “I never heard of a dog that could track a contra-gravity vehicle through the air. Plus, this hideout Laporte provided for us is shielded seven ways from Sunday and in a place nobody could ever find. The cops have been past here a dozen times already and never suspected a thing. Now sit down and let me think in peace.”

  “Why don’t we just stuff Brannhard in a mass/energy converter? We can record it and take it back for proof to collect the bounty.”

  “The contract says he has to be delivered alive and in one piece. Besides, he’s our insurance policy,” Anderson explained. “If things go south, we have a bargaining chip. Until we can be sure we’re in the clear we need him alive.”

  “Fine, it’s your show. There just better not be any damn dogs comin’ around here,” muttered Rippolone.

  * * * * * * * * *

  “How much do you think is in there?”

  The leader shrugged. “By volume I would say around 25,000,000 sols, give or take a mil. Of course, I’m no expert and none of these were professionally appraised, but I think that’s a safe estimate.”

  There were excited mutterings and somebody let out a low whistle.

  “Don’t spend your bonuses yet. There’s a lot more stones to dig up, and we have to ship these out without getting caught.”

  The room fell silent. The leader turned to Hendrix. “What’s the word?”

  Hendrix stood up and walked over to a hover-board resting on the floor in the back of the room. It was a special model designed for unmanned transport over long distances. “Gizmo here is all set to go. Charged up, fully cloaked, hypersonic sound baffles on-line, set for low-level flight, submersible, and programmed to avoid everything until it reaches its destination.”

  The leader nodded. “How long will that take?”

  “Barring unforeseen complications, 30 to 40 T-hours.”

  “All right, let’s get it done and get back to work. Hendrix, send the signal to the Alpha Party. Use encryption three on a burst transmission.”

  It was always a burst transmission but Hendrix simply nodded. For his cut of the thirty percent bonus he could stand a little redundancy.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Red Fur watched in amazement as a hole opened in the Big One’s burrow and a strange looking made-thing slowly moved out. It floated at about waist level, for a Jin-f’ke, and moved out at increasing speed. It was silent and its colors rippled, matching that of the terrain. It was long and shaped like the melon-seed flying things, but with a large lump on its back. In a hand of heartbeats, the strange made-thing accelerated out of sight.

  XIII

  John Morgan was, to all appearances, sitting comfortably with his hot green tea from a bucket-sized mug, but inside he was an emotional tempest. Victor Grego had invited him, along with Dr. Mallin, Leslie Coombes and Juan Jimenez, to his penthouse for drinks. Morgan didn’t want to insult his host by refusing to attend and realized the best way to join the search for Gus Brannhard was with Grego’s help. Still, after the previous night’s debauchery he refused to drink any alcoholic beverages.

  Instead, he brought along a supply of Earl Grey Green tea that he had picked up on his last trip to Terra. As it turned out, Grego had an impressive supply of tea varieties including the Earl Grey. When Grego asked if Morgan would like a small or large cup, Morgan quipped, “A bucket would be perfect.”

  Grego again surprised Morgan by producing a two-liter novelty mug with a logo on the side that said “Fuzzy Con One.”

  “Fuzzy Con?”

  Grego laughed. “I’m sure you’ve seen conventions on Mars…”

  “Oh, Nifflheim, yes! Burroughs Con, Wells Con, Bradbury Con…” John explained that Mars colonists were completely obsessed with early science fiction writers, especially those that wrote fanciful stories about Mars.

  “Well, Gus Brannhard made an offhand remark that we should host a Fuzzy Convention. I’m sure he meant it as a joke, but I ran with it. I invited non-company vendors and used an empty warehouse to throw it in. I’ll have to show you some footage of that. Most people were dressed up like giant Fuzzies with homemade chopper-diggers to scale. One enterprising young man made a contra-gravity surfboard into a giant mechanical land-prawn and stuffed it with various cooked meats. He made quite a show of killing and eating it. The real Fuzzies were very excited about the whole thing and only a little disappointed to learn that under all the fur was just another normal Big One. I use the word ‘normal’ a bit loosely, of course.”

  “And you made a killing on these mugs, I’ll bet.” Morgan hefted the mug he was holding and concluded it was made of super- nsolating plastic. The tea would stay hot for quite a while in there.

  “Not just the mugs. Where do you think the vendors bought most of their supplies?”

  Morgan began to wonder if there wasn’t anything that Grego couldn’t make profitable. He was about to say so when the communication screen beeped. Grego excused himself.

  “Gus had quite a time at the convention,” Ernst Mallin said. “He came in wearing bush gear that showed off his incredibly hairy legs and arms.”

  Morgan was surprised. Dr. Mallin didn’t seem like a conventioneer. “You attended the con?”

  “Surprised?” Mallin smiled. “It was a joy to observe people in that situation. You can learn a lot about people when they let their hair down… in a manner of speaking.”

  Grego returned looking grim. “That was Chief Steefer. They are moving the search out of the city. They’ve already sent men to Beta and Gamma continents.”

  “Maybe you should rethink allowing us to join in on the search,” Jimenez suggested. “I know the terrain on Beta better than just about anybody short of Gerd or Jack.”

  “I wouldn’t mind joining in,” Morgan added. He couldn’t believe his luck. It took an effort not to look too enthusiastic. “I was a fair tracker back on Freya. I got in some hunting on other planets, too.”

  “I’d like to get out there myself, but Chief Steefer won’t allow it,” Grego said, “and I have to back him up on this. Anybody high in the company as well as the Colonial Government could be another target. And Zarathustra is a lot more hazardous than Freya when you get out into the wilderness, John. You’re still too green to be running around in the wild. Damnthings aren’t the only dangerous fauna out there.”

  “He’s right about that,” Jimenez agreed. “I’ve been out there enough to know. You don’t want to run afoul of a nest of tunnel- worms, believe me! Are your vaccinations up-to-date?”

  “I can take care of that, today.” Morgan made a mental note to look up tunnel-worms before heading out to Beta.

  “Well, I am a little embarrassed to admit that I am not at all anxious to go wandering about in the bush on a manhunt,” Dr. Mallin said. “I possess neither the training nor the physique for such an endeavor. I know my limitations.”

  “I’m afraid that applies to me as well,” Leslie Coombes added. “But I will cheerfully step into the role of prosecutor when we find the miscreants. With yours and the Governor’s permission, of course.”

  “You have mine,” Grego said. “I just hope it won’t be a murder trial.”

  “I just realized something,” Jimenez said. “Jack Holloway would also qualify as a high government official as the Native Affairs Commissioner. Maybe he shouldn’t be out on the hunt, either.”

  “A good point, but a moot one,” Grego said. “Nobody but nobody would get anywhere telling Jack to stay home. Besides, if he finds the kidnappers first, they’ll be the ones needing protection.”

  “Perhaps I could go to Beta and join Ja
ck’s team,” Morgan suggested. “I’m a fair hand with a gun and Jack could keep me out of trouble.”

  And technically, John Morgan doesn’t work for the Company; he is a part owner, Grego mused, making him immune to orders. “If Jack is fine with it,and Chief Steefer doesn’t hear about it, I guess that would be okay.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  “The ground search hasn’t yielded any results, yet,” George Lunt explained. “We still have a lot of area to cover, but I think the wilderness areas are a dead-end.”

  Jack Holloway leaned closer to the viewscreen. “Why is that?”

  “If I was going to grab somebody up, I’d hide them in the city where satellite surveillance had no chance of spotting me.” He went on further to explain the advantages of being in a crowded city where confederates could give the abductors support that would be unworkable in an isolated area. “We have come across some illegal sunstone miners and a few poachers on the reservation, though, so it hasn’t been a total waste of time.”

  “Well, we’ll keep sweeping the area anyway,” Jack said. “It can’t hurt and you never know what anybody crazy enough to grab up the Chief Prosecutor might be thinking. They could hole up in the wilderness thinking that the police will concentrate on the city for the reasons you mentioned. Besides, we might catch some more illegal miners and poachers if nothing else.”

  “What do you want me to do with the confiscated sunstones?”

  “Tag them as evidence for now and turn them over to the prosecutor’s office.” There will be a lot of debate what to do with the stones later. Technically, only the CZC was authorized to dig up sunstones on the Reservation, and Fuzzies, of course, if they ever bothered. The question would be; who gets the stones, the Fuzzies or the CZC? Jack was surprised the issue never came up before. Chalk that up to George Lunt’s efficiency; he tended to catch the illegal prospectors before they broke ground. Searching for Gus Brannhard has stretched his manpower to the breaking point allowing trespassers to get in. He would have to discuss the sunstone and manpower issue with Ben and Victor. “We’ll talk some more tomorrow, George.”

  George Lunt said his “good night” and screened-off. It had been a long week of flying around, coordinating part of the search and sleeping in the aircar. But Jack was the Native Affairs Commissioner and had work to do so he came back to do it before returning to the search. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was just after midnight. He’d missed cocktail time and dinner.

  He was still debating on having a sandwich before turning in when the screen beeped. Late for a call, he thought. He turned on the screen and found Victor Grego staring out at him. “Jack! I thought you would still be out on the search. I was going to leave you a message.”

  “I just got in to catch-up on paperwork.”

  “I know how that is. I was wondering if you would mind my sending John Morgan over to join you?” Victor asked without preamble. “He says that he’s a fair tracker and good with a sidearm.”

  And a tenderfoot as far as Zarathustra was concerned. Well, so was I once, Jack thought. “Sure, why not? We’ll be in the air more than on the ground and I’ll keep him out of trouble when we land. As long as he doesn’t take a ‘how bad can it be if a Fuzzy can survive out there’ attitude.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem.” Grego turned from the screen and spoke to somebody out of range then turned back. “He promises to be on his best behavior and do as he’s told.”

  “I’ll settle for his not shooting himself in the foot,” Jack said with a smile. “When will he be out?”

  “Is 0800 Beta time good?”

  “He would have to get up mighty early in the morning over there. Make it noon so I can get some work done before heading out,” he suggested. “No point in his sitting around waiting for me to finish shuffling papers.”

  The two men exchanged a few pleasantries then screened-off. Jack got up and walked into the bedroom. Just before sleep took him he remembered that he’d never had that sandwich.

  XIV

  Juan Jimenez sat in his office trying to concentrate on work, but was unable to do so. As a general naturalist he was accustomed to spending most of his time outside in the open air. In the last two years since his promotion he spent most of his work time behind a desk. He had seriously wanted to go on the search for Gus Brannhard on Beta. He understood Chief Steefer’s position, and by extension Victor Grego’s, in not allowing him to go, but the idea of staying behind while a stockholder went made him restless.

  He had just finished signing the reports from the day before when Dr. Hoenveld walked in with Zorro on his shoulder. On his heels came Dr. Mallin. Neither of them thought to knock before entering.

  “Gentlemen, is there something I can do for you?” he added a touch of irony to his voice, but neither man seemed to pick up on it. “Heyo, Zorro.”

  “Heyo, unka Juan,” the Fuzzy replied.

  “Dr. Jimenez,” Hoenveld stated, remembering the proper honorific for a change, “I have discovered the reason our little friend here dislikes Extee-Three.”

  “Late onset sanity?” Jimenez quipped. Dr. Mallin chuckled but Hoenveld failed to get the joke. “What is it, Chris?”

  “Zorro, here, does not produce the NFMp hormone.” Hoenveld set the Fuzzy down on Juan’s desk. “I ran every non-invasive test I could think of and couldn’t find a trace of the NFMp.”

  Juan stood up and came around the desk. “That’s amazing, Chris! Wait, previous tests showed that disabling the glands that produced the hormone led to sterility. Is that the case, here?”

  “Not at all.” Hoenveld actually smiled. “I expect this fellow to father many strong children.” He turned to Zorro. “Do you have a gir…ah, mate?”

  The Fuzzy looked confused.

  “Not yet. Well, a fine figure of Fuzziness like yourself should find a mate in no time.”

  Zorro didn’t appear to understand what Dr. Hoenveld meant, but nodded anyway.

  “But what caused this?” Jimenez pressed. “Environment, steady infusion of hokfusine, mutation—”

  “There’s no evidence of any chemicals in his body that don’t belong there,” Hoenveld interrupted. “Of course, many things are flushed through the body that leave no trace after a couple of days, so we cannot be sure that isn’t the cause. We also can’t rule out radiation exposure or beneficial mutation.”

  He thought for a moment before asking, “Is there a chance that this is permanent, maybe even hereditary?”

  Hoenveld’s smile faded. “We won’t know any time soon, I’m afraid. First, Zorro here will have to produce progeny, then we’ll have to wait for them to get through puberty which is generally when their bodies begin to produce the hormone…”

  “Wait, they don’t start producing the hormone until puberty? When did we learn this?”

  Hoenveld shifted into lecture mode. “Oh, a few months ago. I was measuring the NFMp levels of various Fuzzies hoping to find a better solution to the problem than hokfusine. I found that while the levels matched the mothers in newborns, which was very low, of course, or the fetus would not have developed normally, it dropped off sharply in the next few weeks down to zero, then began to buildup again with the onset of puberty. I documented and filed the report on my findings.”

  And I missed the report because it was buried under a hundred others, he thought. “In the future, please deliver any reports connected to the Fuzzies directly to me, Chris. Good job with Zorro, by the way.”

  He addressed the Fuzzy, “Are you ready to go back home to your Pappy and Mummy?”

  “Yes, unka Juan. Can Zorro come back an’ visit unka Chris?”

  Jimenez suppressed a laugh and looked at Hoenveld, who told Zorro that he could visit as often as he liked. He had a mental image of Hoenveld becoming Pappy Chris. It wasn’t as bizarre as he thought it would be.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Jack Holloway signed the last paper then dropped it into the out box. He looked up at the wall clo
ck and saw it was 11:30. No time for anything fancy for lunch, Jack thought, before John Morgan gets in. He got up to make something to eat when he heard the sound of an aircar coming in.

  Outside a Native Protection Force vehicle was coming to rest next to Jack’s personal aircar. George Lunt and a dark-haired man in his mid-twenties to early thirties stepped out of the vehicle.

  Lunt waved. “Hi, Jack, I brought in your visitor.”

  “Mr. Holloway,” the dark-haired man said, as he extended a hand. “I am John Morgan. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  He took the hand and shook it firmly. He noticed that Morgan had a good firm grip, the type of grip a man who is accustomed to working with his hands develops. “Pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Morgan.”

  “John will do,” insisted the younger man. He stared intently at Jack’s face for a moment.

  “Then call me Jack. I understand you fancy yourself a fair tracker. What planet?” Now what is he staring at? Do I have something in my teeth?

  “Freya and Terra, mostly, though I’ve done some tracking and hunting on several other worlds. I’ve tracked wild oukry and kholph on Freya.”

  “Now what would anybody track a kholph for,” Lunt asked. “Not to eat, I hope.”

  “Lab animals, intelligence tests, exotic pets,” Morgan explained. “That sort of thing.”

  “You must be pretty good to get a kolph,” Lunt said. “I hear that they’re smarter than Terran chimps.”

  “For my money kholphs are smarter than Khooghras,” Jack added with a smile. “I used to have one for a pet. What did you track on Terra?”

  “A jaguar, once. It was a rogue so the usual protections didn’t apply. Some antelope, rabbit, whatever wasn’t on the endangered species list.”

  “Maybe we can bag some zarabuck after Gus is back,” Jack suggested. “Hope the trip over wasn’t too rough.”

  “I came in with some Junktown volunteers last night and slept on the ride over.”

  “You were able to sleep surrounded by that crowd?” Jack shook his head. “I hope you kept one hand on your wallet and the other on your gun.”