“Maybe they came on that hypership you guys claim is being dug up on North Beta,” Ruth said.
“Oh, for Ghu’s sake, Ruth!” Gerd exploded. “That’s the confoundedest nonsense I’ve heard all week—and I’ve been hearing some pretty weird ideas.”
“Well!” Ruth sniffed. “I was just trying to make you feel better.”
Ahmed waved his hand. “You can fight later. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“You’re falling for him, aren’t you?” The Rev leaned back in his chair and ran the heel of his hand over the graying hair at his temple.
Christiana’s eyes blinked once, then grew large. “Oh, Father Gordon!” she said, flustered. “It’s just that he’s— well—he’s a very nice man, and I—I—”
The Rev leaned forward again. “… And you’ve never had a man be nice to you before, without he was expecting to get something for it.” He finished the sentence for her.
She frowned and thought hard for a moment. “I guess you’re right about that part.” A short, choking laugh escaped from her. “All my life. With Daddy it was good treatment for good behavior; bad treatment for bad behavior—except that it was a shell game. I never knew which number was coming up. Then there were all the boys in school when I was growing up…”
Still a lot of that to be done. The Rev thought to himself.
The Rev pushed the box of tissues across the desk. She jerked out two of them and blew her nose.
“So, now you’ve got a pretty nifty job uptown, working for the CZC,” The Rev said, “and you think you need my advice about whether you should move to a better address?”
She squinted at him. “Well, I’m not sure about that.”
“You know you’re going to have to do it,” he said. “You just told me that you’re changing for this—ahh—dinner date before you pick up Diamond because you don’t want Diamond to know you live in a cheap hotel in Junktown. What you’re saying, of course, is you’re afraid Diamond will tell Grego and Grego will start wondering why.”
“You see what I mean?” she said, with a note of anguish in her voice. “I’m not sure I can cut it. I’ve tried running with those fine-haired dogs at the top of the pile and they’ve walked all over me. I don’t know if I can take another round of that.”
The Rev fitted the ends of his fingers together and studied the pattern they made. “Have you had a payday, yet?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” she sniffed.
“You take your pile of money and put down the rent on a nice little apartment—preferably within spitting distance of Company House,” he said, “even if you have to sleep on the floor until next payday. I told you before, you don’t belong down here—you like people too much.”
“Well, what are you doing down here?” she asked. “You like people.”
The Rev grinned at her. “My job is to help people. That’s why I’m down here. It don’t make a damn whether I like them or not.”
“If you think that’s the thing to do,” she said, “I’ll try it. I just had to have someone else’s opinion. I—I’m kind of confused right now.”
“Course you are, m’dear,” The Rev said. “That’s because you’re falling for him. Didn’t I just tell you that?”
“What make do?”
Sergeant Beltrán looked up suddenly from his cubbyhole desk in a back corner of the kitchen scow. Four Fuzzies were peeping bashfully around the edge of the open back hatch.
“What make do?” Little Fuzzy repeated.
Beltrán had never seen a Fuzzy up close. He was fascinated. Like many men who were extremely tough, he turned to goo at the sight of those wide, appealing eyes. “Why— ah—I’m planning tomorrow’s menu for a bunch of unappreciative slobs,” he said.
Little Fuzzy and the three Upland Fuzzies stepped through the hatch into the back of the kitchen, sensing that Beltrán was an all-right Hagga.
“S’ob?” Little Fuzzy said. “What’s a s’ob?”
“Marines,” Beltrán said.
“Greensuit Hagga?” Little Fuzzy asked.
Beltrán nodded affirmatively.
“Greensuit Hagga—Mahreen—s’ob? All same thing?” Little Fuzzy asked with his usual intent stare of inquisitiveness.
Beltrán thought for a moment. “Pretty much—yes,” he said, “but some of them might not understand if you called them ‘slob’.”
Little Fuzzy turned to his companions and yeeked to them in Lingua Fuzzy for a few moments, then turned back to Beltrán. “They no speak Hagga, yet, but I say them what you say.”
The Mess Sergeant leaned down from his stool to get a closer look at these little people. The Upland Fuzzies drew back a bit, nervously fingering their brand-new steel chopper-diggers.
Little Fuzzy threw out his chest and pulled his chin back. He reached out a tiny hand and fingered the texture of Beltrán’s uniform sleeve. “Cook food this place?” he asked, sniffing curiously. “Give to greensuit Hagga?”
“Every damned day,” Beltrán sighed. Then he added, “Would you guys like something to eat?”
Little Fuzzy nodded.
“What do you want?” Beltrán asked.
A light came into Little Fuzzy’s eyes. “Esteefee?” he asked. “You give esteefee?”
Beltrán scratched his head. “S.T. Fee, “he said. “What’s that?”
“All Hagga have esteefee,” Little Fuzzy said. “I show.” He shouldered Beltrán aside—at about kneecap level—and began looking up and down the stowage shelves. Finally, he spotted a group of the familiar, blue-labeled tins. He pointed with his chopper-digger. “Esteefee,” he said triumphantly.
Beltrán looked, then looked again. “You mean you want to eat that?” he exclaimed.
Little Fuzzy nodded. “Esteefee—big t’heet,” he said. “You make do?”
Sergeant Beltrán shook his head, wiped his hands on the seat of his pants, relocated the cigar in his mouth, and dug a can of the emergency rations off the shelf. He blew the dust off it and ran it through the opener. He got a metal plate from the drying rack and divided the slightly oily, slightly rancid-smelling, gingerbread-colored cake into eight portions—two (ugh!) helpings each for the Fuzzies.
As the Fuzzies were digging into the Extee-Three, yeeking with delight, Beltrán continued to shake his head in disbelief. Then he rummaged around in a drawer and dug out four of his one hundred milliliter measuring cups—about right for a Fuzzy—and set them down, filled with water from the ionization tanks that serviced the kitchen.
At the time Alfredo’s opened its doors in Mallorysport— some twelve years earlier—it had been the most rigidly elegant spot to dine on the planet. At the time it opened it had been the only remotely elegant place to dine on the planet. Alfredo’s had maintained its standards, growing in status and reputation as Zarathustra itself grew. The staff was impeccable. The cuisine was excellent. The management showed an uncanny ability to obtain rare delicacies near and dear to the Terran palate—delicacies that could not be had anywhere else on the planet. When, for example, a shipment of frozen oysters would arrive from Terra, the gourmets of Mallorysport would cheerfully stand in line during a driving rainstorm for the privilege of paying an astronomical price for a taste of home.
The interior was a symphony of red sylkon drapery, crimson carpeting, and raised paneling of native woods. Elegance—ah—the elegance of a fine, quiet old restaurant back on Terra. Colonists became uncontrollably hungry for such an environment from time to time, so why not assuage two hungers at the same time?
The maître-d’ did not turn a hair at the sight of a Fuzzy in the company of a heavy-set gentleman and a good looking strawberry blonde. His establishment had been graced by the presence of non-Terran diners before, and its resources were available to the task of dealing with any requirements any of them might have. So was the maître-d’. He was a huge African who had more the look about him of a bouncer in a Junktown dive, but was so at ease in his tuxedo and so in place with hi
s environment that he seemed not at all out of place in this luxurious dining room.
He picked up three scarlet menus and stepped from behind his station. “Your reservation, please, sir,” he said. “Mr. Grego, I believe.”
“Good evening, Walter,” Grego said. He extinguished his cigarette in the stand next to the velvet roped archway. “We will be three for dinner.”
Walter cleared his throat deferentially. “There is one problem, Mr. Grego,” he said.
Grego’s eyebrows shot up. “If you mean the Fuzzy—” he began.
Walter held up a placating hand. “That, sir, is not a problem at all. Alfredo’s is accustomed to an occasional non-Terran—and we have no prejudice in the matter at all.”
“Then what’s the difficulty?” Grego asked.
“Well, Mr. Grego,” Walter said, “the rules of the house are totally inflexible in one respect.”
“And that is—?” Grego began to bristle.
Diamond sidled up to Christiana and she placed a protecting hand down over his back.
Walter looked uncomfortable. “During the entire history of this room, Mr. Grego, no male creature has ever been seated unless he was wearing a neckcloth. Your guest does not have one.”
“Well, for Ghu’s sake!” Grego exploded. “I’m sure you keep a couple around in the checkroom to avoid this kind of embarrassment to people who are not aware of the rule.”
Diamond tugged at Grego’s trouser leg, a sad look upon his face. “Pappy Vic,” he said. “We go home?”
“Indeed we do, sir,” Walter said, “but I cannot see how a neckcloth designed for a Terran will be of any service to a being who is only sixty or so centimeters tall.”
Grego tapped his foot impatiently. He was not a man who was accustomed to problems he could not dissolve with his own mental assets.
Diamond again tugged at Grego’s trouser leg, his face sadder than before.
“Just a minute,” Christiana said quietly.
She picked up Diamond and seated him on the counter at the maître-d’s station. She placed her index finger under his chin and lifted it up. “Now, hold still, Diamond,” she said. She reached behind her head and pulled loose the black velvet ribbon that was holding her hair. As her strawberry blonde hair fell loose about her shoulders, she shook it free and unfurled the ribbon. Then, stooping slightly, she pulled the ribbon around Diamond’s neck, snugged it down, and tied it into a bow knot. “There;” she said, “not only a neckcloth, but a very formal one, at that.”
She picked Diamond up and set him on his feet on top of the counter. “Take a look, Diamond,” she said, as she turned him around to face the mirror behind the counter.
Victor Grego and Walter exchanged glances.
Diamond looked at himself in the mirror, registered broad approval, and then took each end of the little bow tie between a tiny thumb and index finger, snugging down the knot. “Hoksu,” he said simply. Then he turned and hugged Christiana, although his little arms only went about half way around her.
Walter raised his hand, displaying the appropriate number of fingers to indicate the waiter’s station. A young man in gray semi-formals began bustling toward them.
What a remarkable young woman, Grego was thinking.
The two Marines were dirty and dusty. Sweat streaks stained the front of their shirts and spread down along their backs, as well as under their arms.
“Are you absolutely sure?” Phil Helton said intently.
One of them puffed noisily on the cigarette he had just lighted. “We’re sure, “he said. “And, we’ve got chips in the pola-pack to prove it.”
The other Marine spread out the photo images on the table in front of Helton. A mild breeze flapped the tent they were sitting under.
Helton looked, then stroked his chin. He thought for a moment, then looked back at the two technicians. “Okay,” he said, “you guys go get something to eat, right now. Tell Beltrán I said so. Grab some sleep. I’ll wake you up at midnight, we’ll have some breakfast—then you’re coming with me. We’ll leave for Holloway Station at 0100.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jack Holloway rolled over in bed and cuddled the nine-millimeter automatic into his fist.
“Now what the hell—” he grumbled.
There was a furious thrumming of fists on the front door of his bungalow. Jack looked out the window at the brightening sky. It was just about dawn. “They better have a warrant,” he muttered to himself as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
He crept through the darkened house to where he could see the front door. There were three Marines there. That made no sense to him, until he recognized Phil Helton.
Holloway opened the door, the pistol still hanging in one hand. He yawned. “Morning, Phil,” he said.
Helton was excited. He motioned for the two Marines to wait outside, then stepped into Holloway’s living room as Jack waved him inside with the pistol.
“Now, what’s this all about?” Holloway asked as he shambled into the kitchen and moved the coffee pot control to IM. “Coffee’ll be out in a minute, “he said. “Want some?”
That all happened so fast that Helton had no chance to reply. “Put your pants on, Jack, “he said, “while I wake up whoever you want to take with you. We need some Fuzzyologists—and fast.”
Holloway was bemused. “Why, you could have given me a call on the screen, Phil. I’d be glad to send a couple of people up there. What’s all this bugle-blowing about?”
“I couldn’t put it on screen,” Helton said. “We’ve been going through the interior of the ship, and we’ve found— remains. They’re about a meter tall. To my uneducated eyes they look like mummified Fuzzies—except for the fact that they’re a little bit too big.”
Holloway was suddenly wide awake. “Did you say inside the ship?” he snapped.
“I did,” Helton replied.
“How in hell did they get in there?” Jack asked as he poured two cups of coffee. “… Wander in and get trapped when the avalanche buried the ship?”
Helton accepted one of the coffee mugs. He shrugged. “I don’t know, Jack. Hardware is my business. That’s why we need some Fuzzyologists.”
Holloway picked up his mug and went toward the communication screen. “I’ll wake up Gerd and Ruth. They’ll be the ones to figure it out.”
“No.” Helton held up a hand. “No transmissions— especially not on civilian screens. O’Bannon will have my ass if word of this gets out before we know what it’s all about. We’re on total scramble for communications. You tell me where their bungalow is; I’ll go get them up.”
Holloway looked at Helton curiously. “It doesn’t seem to me that all this security is necessary, Phil,” he said.
Phil Helton gave Holloway a flat stare. “Better to use it and not need it than to need it and not have used it,” he said. “Now, where’s the van Riebeek bungalow?”
Holloway was a little startled to see that the two Marines with Helton were parked outside the front door of his bungalow, at parade rest, and at sling arms.
He pointed across Holloway’s Run toward Fuzzy Institute. “You go across the footbridge, there, and—you see the bungalow just to the left of the big building—behind the featherleaf tree?”
Helton nodded. “Okay. Remember, Jack—no screen calls,” he said. “Heusted, you come with me. Strauss, you stay here.”
Heusted fell into step behind Helton.
“Say, Phil,” Holloway called after him. “Is it okay if I give this guy a cup of coffee?”
Helton grinned back over his shoulder. “Sure,” he said. “He won’t bite.”
The face of a serious young man looked intently from the communications screen. “Serious charges were leveled at the Colonial Government today in a statement from the Federated Sunstone Cooperative—”
“That’s one of Ingermann’s gangs,” Leslie Coombes said to Grego.
Grego nodded.
“—that the cloak of secrecy dropped over the Bet
a excavations form part of a conspiracy between the Colonial Governor’s office and the Navy to strip Zarathustra of much of its native wealth, in the form of a huge sunstone deposit which has been uncovered on Northern Beta Continent. Spokesmen for the Cooperative stated that a decision is yet to be made as to filing legal actions on behalf of the citizens of Zarathustra, but insisted that the Co-op will ‘look after its own interests’ and not stand for any more—to use the words of its president—’neo-fascist invasions of Zarathustran surface territory by Terran Federation Marines.”
“Governor Rainsford’s office could not be reached for commentary, but a news conference is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, and insiders suspect that this topic will be the dominant one.”
“This has been Dawson Foley, with today’s update on that story, returning you now to All-Planet News Central.”
Grego chuckled. “I bet Ben Rainsford is cleaning his pistol right now.”
“If he heard this ‘cast, he is,” Coombes acknowledged.
“Turn over to the ZNS,” Grego said. “Planetwide Publications is going to interview this public relations guy the Marines sent down to Beta to keep the press shooed away from the entire operation.”
“… and now here to introduce today’s guest is analyst Franklin Young. Frank…”
“Thank you, Ed,” said a young man—extraordinarily young to be a news analyst, Victor Grego thought.
Franklin Young rearranged his gangly frame in the chair as he checked which pickup was on. “Our guest today is Major Max Telemann, TFMC, who is the Public Information Officer for the North Beta excavations.”
Telemann had a youthful exuberance about him, with an open and affable face that smiled easily. He was perfectly at ease, relaxed and jovial, and, one suspected, extremely competent in his job—which was to act in the best interests of the Terran Federation Marine Corps.
“Now, then, Major,” Young said, “what exactly is it that has been found on Northern Beta?”
Telemann laughed amiably. “We don’t know yet.” He paused for the remark to soak in. “We think it’s an old wrecked space ship—one which has been there a long, long time.”
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