“Don’t forget little rat pimps,” Harry Steefer chimed in, “with strings of cute rat whores.”
Chief Earlie accepted a fresh drink from the bartender. “Oh, yes,” he said, “we can count on a lot of new business from Bowlby, Heenan, and Laporte. Thaxter is too comfortably situated to risk much these days. He’s almost as well off as Ingermann.”
“Well, that’s one thing,” Fane said. “Now that the little porker can’t practice law any more, I won’t have to look at his superior smirk as he hustles in with a writ clutched in his fist to spring some thug employed by the gentlemen you just mentioned.”
“It won’t matter, Max,” Chief Earlie said, “he’ll just hire someone who can still practice law to do it for him.”
Fane gritted his teeth. “I know, but at least I won’t have to look at him.”
“Oh, I don’t think it will be too ‘boring,’ as you put it, for Sandra,” Juan Jimenez was saying to the tall sociologist from Science Center. He couldn’t recall having seen her before, and wondered if she was aware that she worked for him; no mention had yet been made that he was head of the Company Science Center.
“But, Holloway Station,” the sociologist said, “way the hell out on Beta. What is there for a wife to do out there, except—” she shrugged “—cook and keep house?”
Juan laughed. “I imagine she’ll help Dr. and Mrs. van Riebeek at Fuzzy Institute. Sandra’s knowledge of Fuzzy language is extensive and involves many subtleties she’s learned from looking after Diamond.”
“Fuzzy Institute?” the lady sociologist asked. “You mean there’s a college out there?”
He laughed again. “Almost,” he said. “Research labs. Medical Center. School for the Fuzzies. Permanent staff of twelve, plus about ten more on loan from the Company.”
I’m going to have to take this lady camping, sometime, Juan thought. I bet she hasn’t been out of high-heeled shoes since she got her diploma.
“It’s not exactly a wilderness, Miss—ah—Miss…”
“Bell,” she said and smiled at him. “Liana Bell.”
“Thank you. A lovely name. In any case, Miss Bell, Holloway Station is the headquarters of the Native Affairs Commission, so it’s quite a busy place, really.”
She looked off into the middle distance. “It’s beginning to sound very interesting. I think I’d like to go over there and do a short survey on the interface between Terran and Fuzzy culture. Do you think they’d mind?”
“Not at all,” Juan said. “I think they’d be overjoyed.”
She bobbed her head once, decisively. “Yes. I’ll ask Dr. Mallin about it right away. In fact, he’s at this reception, isn’t he? I thought I saw him earlier.”
“In fact, he is,” Juan said. “In the meantime, may I get you some more champagne?”
“I’d love it. Dr. Mallin is my immediate superior, you see, so I’ll need his permission.”
Juan chuckled. Ernst Mallin thought everyone had Fuzzies on the brain, did not approve, and thought people should get back to good old “hard” research. He had already made up his mind that the NFMp hormone had doomed Fuzzies to a genetic dead end and it was only a matter of time until the species died out in any case. He took Liana Bell’s glass. “Be right back,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, “but you haven’t told me your name.”
“Jimenez,” he said. “Juan Jimenez.”
She laughed. “Dr. Jimenez! And you let me stand here, rattling on like an ado-ditty about ‘my superior’. You run the Science Center!”
Juan smiled and shrugged. “They let me think so, anyway, “he said. “You’ll still have to get Dr. Mallin’s permission, although I think you would have an interesting project.”
“Thank you, Dr. Jimenez,” she said.
“Thank you, Miss Bell.”
“Liana,” she said.
“Juan,” he said.
“Champagne?” she reminded him, pointing at the empty glasses.
“Oh, yes,” he said, and started to turn in the direction of the buffet. “Don’t go away.”
Gus Brannhard parted his gray-brown whiskers carefully as he prepared to answer the question from the Clerk of the Colonial Courts. “Champagne, Mr. Wilkins, is very bad for the sinuses.” He inhaled deeply from the enormous brandy snifter easily cradled in his huge hand. “And that is why,” he concluded, “I never touch the stuff. No, no—all those bubbles hopping around inside a man’s head; must make a terrible racket. I imagine it would make my ears pop something fierce.”
It was the eyes that were popping for Roy Wilkins. He had never dreamed that a human being could drink as much as the Colonial Attorney General and still retain his faculties. Wilkins shoved his glasses back up his nose to a firmer footing and plunged back into the conversation.
“And what,” he asked, “do you think about this business of Hugo Ingermann being disbarred? Personally, I’m tickled pink.”
Gus eyed the young man solemnly. “Why, as an official of the colonial government, I have no thoughts on the subject at all. As public employees, we should have no comments—not public ones, anyway—on the fortunes of any private citizen. Do you get my meaning, son?”
Wilkins sipped his champagne nervously. “Oh, I understand perfectly, sir. It’s just that—I mean—that is—I didn’t intend it to sound—exactly—like I rejoiced in Mr. Ingermann’s disbarment.”
Gus eyed him some more, then his face broke into a smile and he winked broadly. “‘Course you didn’t. People in our position just have to be prudent.”
Wilkins nodded. One lesson learned.
“There is something, though, that I would like your opinion on, Mr. Wilkins—professionally.”
Opinion? This legendary giant who was the Attorney General wanted his opinion on something? Gosh!
“What,” Gus Brannhard asked, “is the scuttlebutt on the coffeepot telegraph around your offices about the constitutional convention? Interworld News and the rest show the delegates all busily roaring like wounded damnthings every night on the screen, but as far as actual resolutions and articles filed, it’s as dry as a temperance meeting. I just wondered if they were actually generating documents and someone forgot to send me review copies. What are they doing? “
“Well, sir, I can’t rightly say. I do know that we’ve copied and sent over about a metric ton of colonial case law which they’ve requested.”
“And they haven’t sent any of it back?”
“No, sir.”
“And they haven’t filed any draft articles or resolutions?”
“No, sir,” Wilkins said. “Well, sir, that is, with one exception.”
“Which is?”
“They sent me a draft request to extend the convention for a year, and wanted to know if it was properly framed.”
Gus jabbed his finger at the ceiling triumphantly. “Now I know what they’ve been doing. The buggers have studied everything to death. Now they see that their year is almost up and they aren’t even close to framing a constitution, so they want us to give them another year—another year during which the government can’t levy taxes.”
“Well, I guess it’s time for Governor Rainsford and myself to pay these dedicated foot-draggers a visit in open session—in situ as it were—and sort of explain the facts of life to them.”
Wilkins pushed his glasses up his nose, again, hesitated, then gulped and spoke. It was not the usual thing for the Clerk of the Court to correct the Attorney General on process, even at a party. “But, sir,” he said, “colonial law forbids any appointed official of colonial government being in attendance at the site of a constitutional convention—uh—to prevent sandbagging, I guess.”
Gus took another swig of brandy while Wilkins spoke, and glowered at him through the snifter glass as he did so. He lowered the glass and fluffed his beard. “Of course it does, Mr. Wilkins, but only in an uninvited capacity. I’m sure the intrepid colonists in that body will be pleased—once the matter is explained to some of the leaders�
�to invite us in for some ‘advice.’ “
While Gus Brannhard guffawed at Roy Wilkins, a slender man who stood nearby, chatting with Ernst Mallin, frowned and pursed his lips.
“That man’s a perfect example, Ernst,” Dr. Jan Christiaan Hoenveld said. “Refinement and breeding are out the airlock in Mallorysport so long as the Governor General still wears bush clothes and his colonial officials are a bunch of bumpkins like Brannhard. Rainsford’s offices and quarters in Government House have animal skins all over the floors. It’s just not civilized.”
Mallin sipped his champagne and smiled. “I suppose, Chris, that you preferred Nick Emmert’s administration— cocktail parties sparkling with mindless chatter, and all those damned canapes. Personally, I don’t care if I never see creamed cheese again.”
“Well, at least the man had some style,” Hoenveld sniffed.
“I used to like those parties of Emmert’s, too,” Mallin mused, “until—something—I guess it was me—changed. I can tell you one thing, Chris, Rainsford’s administration is one hundred percent honest, even if the men in it are a little rough around the edges.”
“Oh, don’t talk to me about ‘rough around the edges,’ Ernst. This mob of ragged vagabonds that’s immigrating to Zarathustra is ruining what little grace we had developed in Mallorysport. My tailor is feeling the pinch already; no one has any standards, any more. And why should they—when the Governor always looks like he’s been sleeping in his clothes? One just throws on any old flak jacket one finds wadded up in the back of the closet and one is in perfect style.”
Mallin smiled. “I’m sure refined taste will survive, Chris. It’s come through worse setbacks than this.”
“Excuse me, will you? One of my people is waving frantically for me to join her.”
Mallin had to get away from Hoenveld; he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep a straight face. Chris Hoenveld was the best biochemist ever to set foot on Zarathustra, but he sure had some strange ideas about what was important. Besides, Liana Bell really was signaling him to come over and join her and Juan Jimenez.
As he threaded his way through the guests, he caught a scrap from another conversation that was refreshingly balanced against Hoenveld’s notions about genteelness.
Colonel Ian Ferguson, commander of the Colonial Constabulary, had joined the other law enforcement types gathered around the bar. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” he was saying, “with Ben Rainsford in the governor’s chair, you never have to wonder what the hell he’s talking about. The man doesn’t know how to beat around the bush.”
“Amen to that,” Al Earlie said. “Nick Emmert always wanted people to get gussied up like a pet owl—just for cocktails, mind you—and then he’d talk your ear off and you never knew what he’d said afterwards. That was the part I hated—climbing into that monkey suit with the sandpaper collar. And there’s no way to carry a gun in one of those things without it showing.”
“Not yours, anyway,” Harry Steefer said, thinking of Al Earlie’s favorite sidearm—a long barreled .45 revolver that pitched a 271-grain slug.
“Say, that reminds me,” Max Fane said, “did I tell you somebody took a shot at me the other day—right down here on the esplanade?”
Max’s story was cut short as a thundering herd of Fuzzies galloped through the middle of the group, yeeking with delight. Hot on their heels was a group of young women who worked in the Executive Offices of the CZC. “Come back here, you little devils!” “So-josso-aki tai washa!”
“Give me back my things!”
The Fuzzies shrieked with mock terror. “Do-Bizzo! Fazzu! Hagga catch us!”
“Sp’it up!”
“Faster!”
Apparently the Fuzzies had pulled a heist for the fun of the chase. Leading the pack in pursuit was a laughing strawberry blonde who had kicked off her shoes and was making better speed than anyone else.
The next lap around the terrace, the Fuzzies were gaining distance—and their numbers had increased by ten. The late arrivals didn’t know what the chase was all about, but it looked like fun; and if there’s one thing a Fuzzy can’t resist it’s fun—so they had joined in immediately.
The new Fuzzies were Little Fuzzy, Mamma Fuzzy, Mike, Mitzi, Ko-Ko, Cinderella, Id, Superego, Complex, and Syndrome—a clear indication to anyone who knew them that Jack Holloway, the van Riebeeks, and Lynne Andrews had arrived.
The tenth Fuzzy—Baby Fuzzy—waddled along behind the mob for a while, but couldn’t keep up. He soon lost interest and struck a course for Diamond’s play area—where he could see a fascinating array of bright-colored objects and interesting junk.
The reception line was just breaking up as Holloway and his party arrived. Greetings were exchanged and congratulations conveyed to the newlyweds.
“I’m sorry we’re so late,” Jack said. “We had some trouble with the airboat on the way over. Lost some power on the main lift-and-drive and had to limp in on the Abbotts.”
Ahmed looked past the group. “Didn’t George come along?” he asked, with a note of disappointment in his voice.
Jack shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Ahmed,” he said. “I tried to bully him into it, but he’s off chasing some mare’s nest on the Fuzzy Reservation. Said he had to re-assign all his patrol sectors and clear some equipment. I don’t know why the watch commander couldn’t have handled it, but George insisted he had to do it personally.”
“He said to apologize for him,” Gerd van Riebeek said. “Said he would toss a little shindig for you and Sandra himself when you get over to the station on Tuesday.”
“Is the bungalow finished yet?” Sandra asked anxiously.
“All operational,” Ruth said. “Very nearly ready to move in.”
“We all dug in and scared up some furniture for you,” Lynne explained. “Enough to get started with, anyway. And we all chipped in some pots and pans and dishes.”
Sandra brightened. “That was very thoughtful of you. We’ve got some inflatables we’re taking along.”
“Well, you’re all set, then, “Ruth said. “When Gerd and I went over there, we had to sleep in the boat and mooch food off Jack until we could get into Red Hill and buy some things.”
Victor Grego’s kitchen had been turned into a bedlam of portable equipment, food handlers, waiters, and busboys, with part of the caterer’s entourage and supplies spilling out the service entrance and onto the penthouse’s private landing stage.
Being careful not to trail his jacket cuffs through any glop, Grego wound his way through the confusion until he found Jerry Panoyian out on the landing stage, running an expert eye over a hand-held terminal—much like a general deploying troops and materiel during a battle.
Panoyian was a short man upon whose long nose perched a pair of old-fashioned spectacles. He shook his head slightly, making his crown of iron-gray hair bobble slightly, and pushed the audio pickup more tightly into his ear. “No, no, Melvin.” he said into a voco-leader, “It’s bar number three that’s out of gin. And when you get back in here, I want you to handle the ice run. Yes, I’ll have it ready to wheel.”
He looked up, instantly recognizing someone not in his own livery. “Ah, Mr. Grego,” he said, smiling. “How is everything going?”
“Couldn’t be better, Mr. Panoyian,” Grego replied. “I just wanted to let you know that we have a few late guests. You might want to refurbish the buffet a bit.”
Panoyian held up a hand. “It’s being attended to, sir. My headcounter spotted them as their airboat arrived. By the time they get to the salad bar, everything will be crisp, fresh, replenished. Hot roast veldbeest, chilled fruit—the works.”
Briskly efficient when dealing with his own help, Panoyian’s voice shifted gears when talking to a client. He thought of it as suave and smooth; most listeners found the tone oily.
“Privately, you understand,” Judge Pendarvis was saying—he paused and looked about, to make sure no one could overhear—“I’m quite pleased to see Mr. Ingermann
’s credentials to practice before Zarathustran courts revoked. He’s been a stench in the nostrils of the courts, decent men, and honest attorneys since the day he set foot on Zarathustra.”
Ben Rainsford fussed with his pipe. “I’m beginning to think there are no honest lawyers,” he said. Then he said, “Unnnh!” as Gus Brannhard gave him an elbow in the ribs.
“I’m a lawyer,” he said. “The Judge is a lawyer. You think we’re dishonest?”
Rainsford rubbed his side. “You? Humph. No offense, Judge.”
“None taken,” Pendarvis replied. “I can only speak for myself, you understand. Mr. Brannhard’s reputation when he practiced on Beta Continent seemed to revolve around an astounding ability to secure acquittal for obviously guilty clients.” The Chief Justice winked broadly at Jack Holloway.
“To say nothing,” Jack remarked, “of the ability to match any given three men drink for drink and still put them all under the table.”
“Welllll,” Brannhard grumped. “All that plea bargaining gives a man a helluva thirst.”
“I trust you gentlemen understand the confidentiality of what I just said regarding Mr. Ingermann,” Pendarvis said. Then, in an obvious change of subject, “What a grand party this is! Victor Grego is to be congratulated.”
“Well, the man is a very thorough manager,” Ben Rainsford said. “I wouldn’t expect him to miss a single detail in anything.”
“Do I detect notes of grudging admiration?” Brannhard said. “A year ago you wanted to tie him up by his thumbs.”
“That was a year ago,” Rainsford fiddled with his pipe some more, then looked Brannhard straight in the eye. “The older you grow, sonny, the more you learn.”
Jack chuckled. “I guess you can consider yourself cut down to size, Gus.”
“Never knew much about Ingermann myself,” Rainsford said, “but what I knew, I didn’t like. I’ll tell you right now that him getting disbarred is a load off my mind—for one very simple reason.”
They all looked at him expectantly.
Fuzzy Bones (v1.1) Page 7
