“I hope the girl didn’t bother you none, Father,” he said. “I told her to meet me here after school. She ain’t been in the way, has she?”
“Not at all,” the Rev assured. “We’ve had a nice chat.”
“I got a job now,” Uncle Charley said, abruptly changing the subject and anxious to let the Rev know he was employed.
“That’s wonderful, Charley,” the Rev said. “What kind of job is it?”
Uncle Charley frowned slightly. “I don’t just exactly know, but Mr. Laporte gave me some money in advance. That shows he trusts me to report for work.”
“Raul Laporte?” the Rev asked.
“That’s right,” Uncle Charley said. “You know him, hunh?”
“Heard of him,” the Rev said.
“He hired a whole bunch of men yesterday—and I was one of ‘em,” Uncle Charley said. “Things are a-lookin’ up down here in Junktown. Lotsa guys got jobs now that didn’t have none before—” He paused. “—before you came here, Father. You’ve been good luck for Junktown, an’ I want you to know that I appreciate what you done for us.”
“That’s what I’m here for, Charley,” the Rev said, “to help people.”
Uncle Charley bid his farewell and the Rev watched from his office door as Uncle Charley and the Lurkin girl went out the front door. Uncle Charley stopped to slip five sols into the poor box before he opened the front door onto the esplanade.
Poor bugger, the Rev thought. He’s so bad off he’s got to go to work for Laporte—and con himself into believing it’s a good deal. The Rev smacked his right fist into his left palm with frustration. It’s not right, God. Dammit, it’s not right!
By late afternoon the newly-arrived remainder of Captain Casagra’s company of Marines had worked out a wide trench around the big titanium “it” on the side of Mount Fuzzy, using manipulators and power shovels.
The entire scene in Fuzzy Valley looked more like a country market fair than a serious attempt to uncover an ancient artifact—or meteorite—or metallic concentration— or whatever.
There were so many aircars grounded on the valley floor that several Marines had been detailed as traffic cops to keep the vehicles neatly parked in rows and make screen contact with incoming and outgoing traffic to keep people from running into each other.
Combat cars drifted overhead at four hundred feet, with orders to fire on any vehicle that did not acknowledge screen contact and obey orders to sheer away from the area and remain outside the air space above Fuzzy Reservation.
This was all too much for the Upland Fuzzies. They had conferred briefly with Commissioner Holloway, expressed gratitude for the additional supply of Extee-Three he gave them, and disappeared when the traffic began to get thick.
Little Fuzzy had flatly stated that the Uplanders would be back around sundown for a romp with Holloway’s Fuzzies.
“How can you be sure?” Jack asked him.
Little Fuzzy tilted his head and blew a plume of smoke from his tiny smoking-pipe. He pointed to his own chest. “Fuzzy,” he said. He reversed the hand so it pointed toward the woods at the south end of the valley. “Fuzzies,” he said, “Be back when sun go down.” He pointed to Mount Fuzzy. “When shadow come dis far—” He drew a line in the dirt with his shoppo-diggo. “—Fuzzies come back; see how you make do.”
Before lunch-time the power shovels had skinned off the surface soil from an area about the size of two football fields—some one thousand feet on each side—bigger than a square containing four city blocks.
Commander Bates and Lieutenant Gaperski in their khaki duty-uniforms, Sergeant Helton in Marine field greens and ankle boots; they were already on a first-name basis with Holloway’s group by the time the Marines grounded their vehicles and began to line up for lunch at the field kitchen scow.
Bates pointed to the excavation and moved his finger around its perimeter to describe the area. “You see what they’ve opened up there,” he said. “There was a rockfall from up the mountain slope—oh, several hundred years ago, judging by the depth of sedimentary material that’s washed down over it. Also, we can see the same rock specimens on the upper slopes.”
“I judge,” Gaperski interjected, “from the appearance of recently broken faces, there on the scarp, compared with the fall that’s been protected from weathering by silt deposits, and those compared with the weathered rock faces on the east slope, that the rockfall—a big one, too—must have come down about seven hundred years ago give or take a century.”
“That’s reasonable,” Bates agreed. “We don’t know what the weather has been like, except for the past quarter-century.”
Phil Helton grinned at Jack—when Bates and Gaperski weren’t looking—and winked. Jack caught it and winked back. These Navy guys had never cracked rock with a vibrohammer, but they sure knew their geology. Jack had been earning his living with geology for longer than Gaperski had been alive, and here they were—with a crease in their pants—“explaining” it all to him.
Jack decided that he and Helton were going to get along.
The excavation went fast enough until the trench began to grow very close to the titanium “it.” There was a lot of geothermal heat in the ground on Mount Fuzzy. That was fine as long as the Marines were sitting in the engineer’s air-conditioned cab of a power-shovel, and the rest of the Marines were working on the surface. The slight breeze carried away the heat. But when it came time to get down in the trench with shovels and clear away the dirt and rock from “it” by hand—tossing it back to where the heavy equipment could pick it up without risk of damage—then the work became slow and unpleasant. It was hot and sticky down in the hole where the air didn’t circulate well.
Painstakingly, the diggers uncovered a long object, shaped rather like a capital letter “A” that had laid over on its face. As its shape was slowly revealed, there also emerged a spherical object that occupied the space between the legs of the “A.”
“That mustard-colored stuff all over it is the same sort of thing as rust,” Bates said.
“Except that it’s titanium ‘rust,’” Gaperski explained.
“I think you’re right,” Holloway said. “From here—and without my glasses—I’d say the stuff is mostly composed of the sesqueoxide—Ti2O2—and the sulfate—Ti2(SO4)3.”
Gaperski gawked for a moment, then realized he was not talking to a layman.
Holloway eyed the two Navy officers for a moment. “The sulfate is a by-product of local volcanic activity,” he said without expression.
Out of their range of vision, behind them, Helton was consumed with paroxysms of soundless mirth.
“My soil analyses show doubly, triply, and quad-ionized titanium, together with titanic acid and titanates, leaching down into the valley soil as the runoff water from the mountain percolated through the loose rock and soil covering the thing,” Gerd said to Rainsford. “That explains the organic molecule, very much like hokfusine, that we found in the plant samples from the valley.”
“I can see that,” Rainsford said solemnly. “I have a degree in Xeno-Sciences, you know.”
Gerd wasn’t certain what that meant, but knowing Ben, it could mean he was either stating the obvious or making fun of the Navy ordnance officers.
As it sank toward the horizon, the sun turned more reddish, touching off the spectacular Zarathustran sunset and sending out long, pastel shadows across the valley floor, shadows that slowly crept over the vehicle park and foretold a comfortable evening after the oppressively hot day that was almost past.
“I think,” Commander Bates said, “that we should knock off for the day. We ought to scan the thing thoroughly in the morning, before any additional excavating is done. There is no abnormal radioactivity, but we should proceed cautiously from here on.”
In the slanting, orangish light, Phil Helton suddenly exclaimed something that no one heard clearly. He bounded down the “steps,” left as the power shovels had reduced the size of the excavation with each successive la
yer of soil and rock removed, into the large hole, which was by this time several storeys deep.
The others followed curiously—and more slowly.
Helton walked up to the titanium thing, almost as though it might be alive. He ran his hands over the flaking, oxide-encrusted surface, sort of talking to himself. He picked up a square-point shovel that had been left by one of Casagra’s Marines when the work had stopped for the day and scaled off a patch of the titanium “rust” until he had exposed a seam in the metallic layer underneath. He banged at it a couple of times with the shovel, then cursed loudly and quite clearly enough for anyone to understand.
He turned to the group standing on the level above. “Toss down a geologist’s hammer, someone, will you?” he said. It was not so much a request as a command.
Soon, the specified tool landed in the fresh dirt a few meters from where he stood.
Helton waved, then bent and picked up the hammer. He measured off a distance from the seam with his fingers and then gave the surface a couple of smart, loud whacks.
No one had the slightest idea what he was doing—except Master Gunnery Sergeant of Fleet Marines Philip Helton, who knew exactly what he was doing.
Helton retrieved his shovel and forced it into the seam. Then he drove it in like a wedge, using the hammer. He pried a little, to open the seam. Then he drove the shovel point a bit farther in and repeated the process. Finally, he pried a lot. The others could see the shovel handle bend under the strain of force applied by Helton.
Laboriously, he forced open a small “hatch,” a little over two feet square in the surface of “it.” He threw down his tools and stuck his head inside.
Presently, his head popped out. There was a strange smile on his face. “Throw me a light!” he shouted. Where he had the light, he stuck his head back inside, wriggled his shoulders into the “hatch,” and was still for not more than two minutes. It seemed like an eternity to the watchers.
Helton pulled back out into the light, brushed some dust off his face, and sneezed twice. He stood back, almost reverently, his eyes fixed on the scaly titanium surface of “it.”
Finally, he turned his face up to the group on the step. There was still a strange smile on his face. “I know what it is,” he said clearly and evenly.
The silence was thick and heavy. A trickle of sweat wandered down Helton’s cheek, ran along the line of his jaw, and dripped off his chin onto his shirt. He took several steps closer to the dirt parapet where Holloway’s group and the two Navy officers stood. Instinctively, they drew back, as though the glitter in Helton’s eyes and the strange smile on his face were both some kind of contamination he had acquired when his head and shoulders had been poked inside the “it.”
“I know what it is,” he repeated.
Holloway wanted to scream “What?” but he was as spellbound as the others by the scene at the bottom of the dig—washed by the eerie sunset shadows of Zarathustra.
Finally, Helton stopped, seemed to regain control of himself, and took a deep breath. He looked up at the group again.
“It’s a hyperdrive star ship,” he said. Then, his voice broke and wavered a little. “Somewhere,” Helton said, “there is another star-traveling race.”
FUZZY BONES
PART TWO
Chapter Twenty-One
The Mess Sergeant relocated his cigar at the exact mathematical center of his mouth. “I don’t care if they’re all Grand High Poo-Bahs of Shesha,” he said. “They ain’t military. I can’t feed ‘em. I gotta justify everything on my head-count sheet. If they ain’t military, there’s no square on the form for me to tally their meals.”
Helton grimaced, more out of embarrassment than anything else. He had sort of attached himself to this battalion— and “adopted “it while he was kicking around on Xerxes. Of course, he knew all the principal NCOs and the officers and trusted most of them to know their jobs.
“Vee-dahl, dammit,” Helton said. “If you look very closely at TFMC Reg 30-1, you will notice that it provides for the feeding of officials of the civilian government at a field mess facility, and that they are to be accorded treatment at a level equivalent to full colonel or above.”
Vidal Beltrán glared at Helton. “Well, then, why in hell isn’t there a space on the form?” he exploded.
Lesser Sergeants Major quailed before the authority of a Master Gunnie. Fleet Admirals and Force Generals were uneasy about his opinions of their operation. Field grade officers deferred to his judgment. If there was anyone in the armed forces who would never be cowed by a Master Gunnie, it was certain to be a Mess Sergeant. Like the captain of a man-o’-war, his kitchen was his quarterdeck. He held the only authorized command power within the walls of his chow hall—it was written that way in the regulations.
Helton smiled at him. There was nothing so elegantly elemental as a Mess Sergeant in the full flower of a temper tantrum.
“Because,” Helton said, “there are perhaps two times per decade when such a notation would be necessary on your Form 3033. There’s a supplemental and you foot it out on the 3033. Reg says you can attach a D.F. signed by the commander of the mess—that’s you.”
Beltrán jerked the cigar out of his mouth. “Well, how the hell do you know so much about it, Phil?”
Helton held up the first two fingers of his right hand and ticked off each one of them with his left hand. “Because,” he said, “I’ve audited enough mess halls to cover this planet.” His face softened abruptly. “And I ran one for two years; that’s how I got my seven,” he finished.
“You—?” Beltrán said.
“That’s right,” Helton interrupted. “There’s hope for you yet.”
“Well, hell,” Beltrán said deferentially, “them guys got their own camp set up over there. Why they need to eat with us, anyway?”
Helton held up the same two fingers. “Common courtesy, for one thing. There’s something in the hymn about Marines being kind to civilians. For another, if we’ve found what I think we’ve found, we’re going to have to violate some of their territorial rights; and a man who’s sat at your table is easier to talk to about that kind of thing.”
Beltrán nodded affirmatively. “Yeah, I get you, Phil. You think I should lay on something special?”
“Not a chance,” Helton said. “You just run the menu and make sure it’s cooked right. Those are a bunch of smart old ducks. If they think we’re trying to butter them up we could get a lot of political blowback. Just be nice and don’t ‘sir’ them to death.”
Beltrán clenched his cigar back in his teeth. “Got it,” he said. “No D.R.O.s. Let ‘em go through the line.”
“Now you’re cooking, Sarge,” Helton said. “I have to go collect my two tame officers and join the governor and his friends at their airboat for cocktails. We’ll be wandering back over here around 1800, so start one of your veldbeest roasts a little late.”
As the senior officer, Commander Bates preferred the casual invitation after they were all comfortably situated and starting to chat. “By the way, gentlemen; since you will likely be staying over tonight, we would be honored if you could join us in the mess for dinner.”
“Why that’s very kind of you, Commander,” Ben Rainsford said. “I was just thinking about that. I’ve got to get back to Mallorysport, but there’s no point in my starting out this late in the day. Better to arrive early tomorrow.”
“We won’t know a great deal about this until we get reports from Helton, Bates, and Gaperski,” Pancho Ybarra said.
There was a pause of silence, during which the soft clicking sounds of the sunscreens which kept direct radiation out of Space Commodore Alex Napier’s domed office could be heard.
“Our own satellite readouts show that they’ve dug up something pretty big. It’s made of titanium, mostly. But we have no idea yet as to what it is. We’ll probably get reports tonight that contain estimates of the situation.” Lieutenant Commander Ybarra was keen on his job—Liaison Officer: Extraterrestrial Li
fe-Forms. He had originally been stuck with deciding for the Navy if Fuzzies were sapient; now he had a chance to get some of the “glory” back from that ghastly job—ghastly because it could have been a career-buster for him if he had made the wrong decision.
Captain Conrad Greibenfeld, the Exec, sighed. “Well, I hope we get something out of it. We have a company of Marines and a heavy equipment section tied up in it.”
“Bosh, Connie,” Napier said. “There’s nothing on the property book about it. As for Casagra’s company, that comes under ‘Friendly Natives, Policing Safety Of.’”
“What about this Marine enlisted man?” Greibenfeld said. “Bit unusual to put him in charge of auditing the dig, isn’t it?”
“Master Gunnies are a bit unusual,” Napier remarked drily. “Their job requires abilities of inductive reasoning and intuition that would crack the skull of the best Intelligence officer in The Fleet.”
“‘Steve Aelborg wouldn’t be glad to hear that,” Greibenfeld remarked.
Ybarra cleared his throat. He sensed one of those little senior officer tiffs coming and felt obliged to try and head it off lest he get hit with a wild shot. “I think what the Captain means, sir, has to do with credibility, or credentials, or experience, or something like that.” He looked expectantly at Greibenfeld.
“Yes, Alex,” Greibenfeld said. “Is this guy really as good as they say he is?”
Napier carefully knocked the heel out of his pipe and stared into the air for a moment. “He is, “he said. “I knew him on Baldur when I was a boot lieutenant and he was a master sergeant. He pulled my bun out of the fire; probably saved my career in the bargain.”
Greibenfeld raised his eyebrows. He had the notion that enlisted men had to be watched all the time and that the officer corps was something like a mother hen who had to keep the ratings from injuring themselves. “How in Nifflheim could a Master Sergeant—” he began.
Napier cut him off. “It had to do with some foolishness over a woman, as such matters often do,” he said. “Let’s leave it at that.”
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