Fuzzy Bones (v1.1)

by William Tuning (v1. 1) (html)

  Jimenez stroked his chin. “Yes—yes, Victor, there is. I can’t recall it at the moment though—I mean to name or state it. I can find out for you. How soon do you need the data?”

  “Yesterday,” Grego said vigorously. “Can you have it by five—I mean everything about it.” It was not a question.

  Jimenez looked bemused. “Why—uh—I expect so. It’s likely stored in with the xenobiology bank. I’ll put someone right on it.”

  Grego frowned. “No, no, no, Juan. Do it yourself. Don’t let anyone know what you’re pulling out of the computer. And don’t discuss it with anyone.”

  “This must be pretty damned big,” Jimenez said. His face took on an aggravated look. “I mean, for common scientific data that’s available to anyone who wants to look it up.”

  “That’s not the point,” Grego said briskly. “Dig up everything you can and bring hard copies to my apartment at 1730. Then, if we have what I think we have, I’ll explain it all to you.”

  Jimenez frowned and pursed his lips.

  “—Honest,” Grego said.

  “You mean you want a barracks cover in a child’s size,” the supply sergeant said.

  “No, no, Sam,” Vidal Beltrán said exasperatedly. “When I say this big—” He held out both hands with thumbs and forefingers circled. “—I mean Fuzzy size.”

  The supply sergeant reared back in mock surprise. “Oh, well—why didn’t you say so? We don’t have those in regular issue. To get one that small you’ll have to go to officer’s supply.”

  Beltrán gnawed his cigar. “What I want you to do, Sam, is take one and cut it down to fit a Fuzzy.”

  “Which Fuzzy?” Sam asked.

  “The one that’s the drillmaster for the Fuzzies that live up here in this valley,” Beltrán said.

  “Kind of like a badge of office, you mean,” Sam said.

  Beltrán gnawed his cigar—more happily this time. “Yeah,” he said. “He oughta have a hat.”

  Sam leaned on the edge of his console. “Hmmmmm,” he said. “I can cut down the frame and the sweatband—and the cover. The visor, though; that’ll have to be completely redesigned. Hmmmmm.”

  “Come on, Sam,” Beltrán said. “You can do it from a component pattern.”

  “Hmmmm,” Sam said, shifting his weight to the other elbow.

  “Look, Sam,” Beltrán said, “I’ll get your section some goodies from the mess.”

  Sam straightened, suddenly more interested. “What kind of goodies?” he asked.

  As Juan Jimenez stepped out of the lift at the penthouse level, he was not thinking of the packet of data printout which was under his arm. He was not thinking of why Victor Grego was in such a hell of a rush to get the information.

  He was thinking about the inconvenience of shuffling around his cocktail date with Liana Bell. Probably better to push it up to dinner, anyway. There would be much more time to talk with her that way. He could demonstrate his savoir-faire with the wine list. Perhaps it would be appropriate to dine at Alfredo’s. It couldn’t hurt to start things off with a bit of a splash.

  Now, if I can just break loose from this meeting by—oh— 1930 or so…

  Jimenez was startled out of his ruminations by the sudden opening of the portal and the appearance of Leslie Coombes’ slender and suavely elegant self on the other side of the doorway.

  “Come in, Juan,” Coombes said. “Victor’s in the kitchen, just fixing cocktails. Would you care for one?”

  “Yes, Leslie; yes I would,” Jimenez said. “I had to juggle around a cocktail date to get this stuff over here.” He wanted to get that one in. He hadn’t been Director of Science Center all that long and it showed a certain devotion to the Company.

  When they were comfortably situated in the living room, Jimenez opened the packet and read over the main points which he had already highlighted on the printout that afternoon in his office. He laid down the sheaf of paper on the coffee table. “That’s all the data we have on it at Science Center,” he said. “I think I see what you’re driving at, Victor. The postulates of Garrett’s Theorem indicate the disturbing notion that Fuzzies may not be native to Zarathustra. There’s utterly no evidence to support such an idea, though…”

  “I knew it!” Grego interrupted. He smacked the table with his fist, hard enough to make the nibblements bowl jump about a centimeter off the surface.

  Leslie Coombes pursed his lips. “Knew what?” he asked in an irritated tone.

  Grego beamed. “Don’t you get the drift? All this crap about the North Beta Excavations… If the wrecked spaceship story is true, and if Garrett’s Theorem is true, and if Fuzzies aren’t native to Zarathustra, then that wrecked ship might be how they got here.”

  Jimenez sipped at his drink. “That’s all a little preposterous, Victor,” he said.

  Grego pierced him with a gaze. “So was hyperdrive—five hundred years ago,” he said evenly.

  “Now, now, chaps,” Coombes remarked. “We’re not arguing a court case or anything.”

  “I’m glad you brought that up, Leslie,” Grego said, “because I was just about to. Leslie; do you know if Garrett’s Theorem has ever been used as evidence in a court case?”

  Coombes chuckled. “I doubt it, Victor. It’s only a theory.”

  Grego was deadly serious. “Just the same,” he said, “I want you to check it out thoroughly in case law. Find out if it’s ever been raised as any kind of evidence in a court case.”

  Leslie Coombes averted his eyes. “I’ll look into it first thing tomorrow,” he said.

  Jimenez took another sip of his drink and fetched some nibblements for himself. He had never seen Victor Grego in such a state. “Victor,” he said hesitantly, “this is only a matter of speculation on the part of an obscure scientist. Why all the excitement?”

  Grego sloshed the brandy in his snifter irritably. “If we can mount a legal action which cites case law involving Garrett’s Theorem,” he said, “we may stand a chance of getting the Company’s charter back. Don’t you see?” He looked around the table, seeking a glimmer that the other two men seemed to follow his line of reasoning.

  Leslie Coombes was nervous. “Victor, “he said, “even if there is case law precedent on—ah—Garrett’s Theorem, we haven’t got anything resembling a chance of winning such a suit. There just isn’t enough evidence that we can prove.”

  Grego frowned deeply. “We don’t have to prove a confounded thing, Leslie,” he said. “All we have to do is—I believe the phrase in your business is—‘raise a reasonable doubt’ in the minds of a jury. The case will stay in the courts for years, anyway. In the meantime, maybe we can get some of the Company’s assets unfrozen and start showing a profit again.”

  “I can see that,” Jimenez said thoughtfully. “Why, the expert testimony alone will eat up hundreds of hours.”

  “You see?” Grego asked triumphantly. “It will buy us some time. While it’s all churning around in the legal system, new information may come to light which will help us. On the other hand, it may hurt us. But, at least we’ll be doing something. We can say that we’ve done something—and sooner or later we’ll have to be able to say that, because sooner or later somebody from the Board of Directors is going to come out here with a tar-bucket and a feather pillow and want to know why we’ve been carrying the Colonial Government with Company funds.”

  “And sitting on our hands while we do it,” Jimenez added.

  “Precisely,” Grego said.

  Coombes stroked his long, aristocratic jaw. “Hmmmmm,” he said. “There’re good points to what you say. But after I’ve done the check on case law in my computer. I’d like to talk to Fred Pendarvis and see how he would feel about such a case.”

  “No!” Grego said emphatically. “Judge Pendarvis is exactly the man I want to try the case. The law is his religion. If anyone talks to him about it before we file, he’ll disqualify himself from sitting. After it’s on the docket—and it will be on his docket—we can confer in cha
mbers. That’s the time to find out how he feels.”

  Jimenez was looking at his watch.

  A smile flickered over Grego’s face. “Got a date, Juan?” he asked.

  Jimenez looked up quickly.

  Coombes turned his thin features in Grego’s direction, with the half-amused expression he always wore. “He said something about that when he got here,” he said.

  Jimenez looked pained. He was being teased about Liana and he knew it, but he knew it was only teasing.

  “Well, no matter,” Grego said. “I think we’ve done about all there is to be done for the moment. We’ll get back on this as soon as Harry Steefer’s people come up with something we can put some weight behind about this hypership thing.”

  Grego glanced up at the readout on the wall. “Besides,” he said, “Christiana will be bringing Diamond home from Government House any time now.” He got to his feet. “Anyone for a refill before we break up?”

  “I’ve got to be going,” Jimenez said.

  “I’ll have just a splash with you,” Coombes said, “until Miss Stone arrives.”

  No sooner were they comfortably situated in the living room than Christiana did arrive with Diamond. Grego leaped to his feet and took her wrap.

  Leslie Coombes was bemused. This was the only occasion he could recall when he had ever seen Victor Grego rise to greet one of his own employees.

  As the screen cleared, a young man in gray semi-formals looked out of it at Ivan Bowlby. For a moment, Bowlby did not recognize him. Then he said, “Good evening, Anthony.”

  “Hello, Mr. Bowlby,” Anthony said. “I thought I’d give you a call before the dinner-hour rush started.”

  Bowlby concealed his irritation. “What is it, Anthony?”

  “Well,” Anthony said, “when you helped me out of that bind over the chuckle weed last year, I told you I’d keep my eyes open for you. I think I may have something that would interest you. I don’t know.”

  “Yes?” Bowlby said.

  “You remember that prostie you put out of business in Junktown?” Then he added quickly, “The one I helped you out on?”

  “Yes.” Bowlby said.

  “She was in here a couple nights ago for dinner—with Victor Grego.” Anthony paused to let the remark soak in.

  Bowlby sat straight up in his chair. “Are you sure?” he asked sharply.

  “Sure I’m sure,” Anthony said. “They sat on my station—and there was a Fuzzy with them. They was all very friendly.”

  “How do you think she’s connected with Grego?” Bowlby asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I gotta go now. Walter’s looking at me with the bad eye.” Anthony broke the connection.

  Ivan Bowlby sat back in his chair and peered at the ceiling. Whatever it is, he thought, she’s connected with Grego. Ingermann has been foaming at the mouth to get an information source inside the CZC, and I think—if she’s trying to turn straight—that it shouldn’t be too big a job to persuade her to help out. Hmmmmm. I think I can turn this one into ready cash.

  Phil Helton jumped down from the edge of the ramp about two feet from the bottom. He had two pair of coveralls slung over his arm. “Here,” he said to the van Riebeeks. “Slip these on. It’s pretty dirty and dusty in there.”

  “What if we get lost?” Ruth asked as they both started shucking on the coveralls.

  Helton smiled. “Can’t happen, “he said. “We’ve strung engineer’s tape to the locations of the remains. Just follow it in and follow it out.”

  Ruth and Gerd climbed the steps up the portable scaffolding and picked up two power-lights from the pile of equipment there. They took a look around the rim of the excavation, where Marine guards were posted to restrict access to the wreck, looked down at Helton and Holloway, then bent down and crawled into the aft hatch of the whatever-it-was.

  “What kind of drive system did this thing have, Phil?” Holloway asked. “Any idea yet?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” Helton replied. “What we do know is that it was housed in the sphere part, there, that’s aft and between the legs of the rear-extending nacelles. It’s going to be a puzzle, because it’s just about all melted together into one big lump.”

  “And that’s what forced the ship to land here.” Holloway said. “Am I right?”

  “Likely,” Helton said. “It used to be larger than what we see now. The ship may have been intending to land and what melted down the drive was the cause of it crashing on the mountainside. From examining the lower decks, I’d say she was in trouble and making an emergency set-down—this isn’t the ideal spot to land something that big.”

  “So you think the lift drive—or whatever their equivalent was—finally quit, maybe a hundred meters up,” Holloway suggested.

  Helton nodded. “Yep,” he said. “The helmsman was a good one, though. He brought her in on forward momentum toward the valley floor and used the mountain slope as a ramp to brake mass-velocity against gravity. Kept her pretty much in one piece.”

  “Do you think you can ever figure out what kind of drive it was?” Holloway asked. “If it didn’t operate on the same principle as the Dillingham, we could learn a lot from it.”

  Helton shrugged. “We can but try,” he said. “We’ll dope out as much as we can by taking the drive apart as far as possible—until we get to the fused parts. Then we’ll do test borings of the melted areas and map the core samples. Maybe we can work out a crude plan of what the guts of the thing used to look like.”

  Light was reflecting off the inside surface of the open hatch. The van Riebeeks emerged and stood up on the scaffold platform. Even from the distance Holloway could tell they were shaken.

  Once back on the ground, Gerd turned to Helton. “We’re going to have to get some equipment and technicians up here,” he said.

  Helton nodded. “I can authorize that. What do you think?”

  “We can’t be positive,” Ruth said, “until we move the skeletons and remains back to Holloway Station, take measurements, and make comparisons with our own Fuzzy data under laboratory conditions…”

  She paused and Gerd finished the sentence for her. “It looks like we have found some Fuzzy bones.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lieutenant Colonel James O’Bannon stroked his beard and looked at Major Max Telemann in a way that not even that expert reader of human character could fathom. “I watched your ‘screen interview in Mallorysport with that young news analyst,” he said.

  Telemann’s face brightened into a warm smile. “And how did you like it, Colonel?”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Max—lying to that kid on the air—even if it is in our best interests at the moment.”

  Telemann put on his astonished look. “Lie? Me lie? Of course I didn’t lie!”

  O’Bannon leaned forward slightly. “It sounded that way from my end,” he said.

  “Oh, heavens, no,” Telemann said. “Of course not. Every word I said was a perfectly truthful example of some line of speculation that we’re working on. The interviewer merely assumed that I was talking about exclusively Terran vessels.” Telemann shrugged. “It’s not my fault if his attention is so preoccupied with the Federation that he never thought of the notion there might be another race with hyperdrive.” He shrugged again.

  A faint smile played over O’Bannon’s face. He was silent for a moment as he flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the toe of his boot. “Telemann, “he said finally, “If I’m ever stupid enough to stand for public office, will you be my press agent?”

  “Why, certainly, sir,” Telemann said, “but I can’t imagine why a man of your intelligence would want to run for elected office.”

  Ben Rainsford stormed back and forth in his office, chuffing madly on his pipe. “Why can’t they run this like a proper dig?” he demanded. “Regardless of what they’ve got—or think they’ve got. Archeology is an exact science. You don’t go in and conduct a dig with manipulators and power shovels, for Ghu
’s sake!”

  Gus Brannhard was excited about exactly nothing. He rested his huge frame in an easy chair. Only his eyes followed Rainsford as he paced. “Be realistic, Ben,” he said. “You know as well as I do that there isn’t a really trained archeologist on the whole planet.”

  Rainsford jabbed his index finger toward the ceiling. “It’s an affront to science and the scientific method! That’s what it is!”

  “And there isn’t time,” Brannhard added quietly.

  “If you don’t have time to do it right the first time,” Rainsford said as he noisily knocked out his pipe in the ashtray, “when will you have time to do it correctly?”

  Brannhard chuckled, which made Rainsford even madder. “Be practical, Ben,” he said. “The TFMC helped out the ZNPF when they were short-handed. Then they found this whatsis up in Fuzzy Valley. The Navy became very interested and wanted to know all about it and damned quick, so they butted into the situation. Now, you know as well as I do that when the Navy thinks it’s important to find out something, archeology, or any other science, is going to be sucking hind tit.”

  “Oh, Nifflheim with it!” Rainsford said as he hurled himself into the chair behind the desk. “Now then, what the blazes are we going to do about this range war on Delta Continent? Who do we indict and how do we catch them?”

  “Sir,” Helton said, “the scanner crew’s report from yesterday has a very interesting item in it.”

  Scanner crews had been combing Fuzzy Valley, looking for more buried titanium. They had found some, and dug it up, but it was mostly scraps—presumably debris from the wreck. Not very interesting.

  O’Bannon rubbed the first two fingers of his right hand back and forth across his expressionless forehead. “Go on,” he said.

  “It seems there is a large cavern behind the rockfall on the mountainside,” Helton said. “There are several good-sized titanium objects inside.”

  “Mmmmmm,” O’Bannon said. “What’s your recommendation?”

  “I think we should tunnel in and find out about it,” Helton said flatly.