Fuzzy Bones (v1.1)

by William Tuning (v1. 1) (html)

  “Parenthetically, land-prawns aren’t native to Zarathustra, either. They also fall under Garrett’s Theorem, by virtue of their preference for the Zarathustran moss, which only grades about ten atoms of titanium to the ton. Land-prawns are native to Fuzzyhome—where they are considered to be a culinary delicacy by Fuzzies. A dozen pairs of them were being shipped to a colony—the location of which we do not know—to be bred in captivity for expensive lobster dinners. On Fuzzyhome, it was well known that there is no hokfusine in land-prawns that can be converted into NFMp. Land-prawns utilized the titanium in their diet in a way that is non-nutritive to Fuzzies, but they taste good.”

  “With their simpler metabolism and a much less critical need for titanium in the diet, land-prawns managed to spread around quite a bit before the big drought. During the castaway period of Zarathustran Fuzzy history, the Fuzzies became quite adept at killing them—for two reasons. First, they tasted good, and had nourishment in them other than hokfusine. Second, they had to be kept out of the vegetable garden because of the crop damage they do. Thus, land-prawn hunting became a traditional chore of adolescent Fuzzies, and, hence, its universal adeptness among contemporary Fuzzy adults at this point in time, which is not quite three years after the start of the Big Blackwater Project.”

  After Ybarra called for questions, he sat down. That seemed odd to Jack Holloway; then he caught on. Napier was answering the questions—unless they were highly technical in nature.

  Jack held his pipe in his left hand, a little clumsily, since he wasn’t used to it, and since his left arm was in a sling and a cast that prevented articulation of the elbow, and raised his right hand.

  Napier rose suavely and nodded his head in Jack’s direction. “Mr. Commissioner Holloway, “he said deferentially.

  Jack stood. “Commodore,” he said, “it appears to me the Navy put this all together damned—I mean—in mighty quick order. Are your team and yourself certain that these deductions are correct?”

  “Reasonably so,” Napier replied. “Once we figured out how the Fuzzy instruments worked—that was the hardest part, by the way—we found their language to be not greatly different from the native speech of Fuzzy f. holloway zarathustra. The rest of the reconstruction was fairly simple. There were records, and passenger lists, and freight manifests, and mail, and official reports en route to what we might call the Fuzzy Colonial Office, and reference manuals, and—in short—just about everything you would expect to find on a hypership of the Terra-Baldur-Marduk Spacelines. Something, though, happened to the navigator’s station. We don’t know where Fuzzyhome is. After a thousand years, there may be no more Fuzzies alive there. Perhaps something happened to Fuzzyhome and its culture—since no rescue vessel ever appeared—so that the Zarathustran Fuzzy is the only surviving example of the race. But—Fuzzyhome is out there; somewhere.”

  Holloway was still standing. “How can we find it?” he asked.

  “Patiently,” Napier said. “Very patiently. We are now logging all the differentials we can isolate between recorded Actual Fuzzy morphology and Zarathustran Fuzzy morphology. By making detailed computer comparisons, we may be able to extrapolate how Fuzzies have evolved on Zarathustra to become slightly different from the parent group, and thus sketch a profile of Fuzzyhome and its star. If we can do that—and don’t make any mistakes—then we only have to make physical inspections of—maybe—as few as a hundred thousand star systems before we find Fuzzyhome and make contact with the parent culture. However, none of us in this room should figure on being around to shake hands with Pappy Fuzzy when we finally find him.”

  Napier looked around the room. “No more questions on this portion of the briefing?” There was silence. “Very well,” he said. “The next portion of the briefing will be conducted by Dr. Gerd van Riebeek, director and chief xeno-naturalist of Fuzzy Institute. Dr. van Riebeek…”

  He sat.

  Hmmmmmm, Holloway was thinking. Napier is keeping all this on a close leash. But, why not? If anything goes haywire out here, he’s the guy who’s going to have to stand good for it. Federation Constitution; Federation Citizen Colonists; legally defined sapient natives. I wouldn’t have his job for all the honey-rum on Baldur.

  There followed some rather complex comparisons by Gerd between the metabolisms of Zarathustran Fuzzies and the other eight extrasolar races of established sapience. He concluded on an explanation of how the difference between an antigen and an antibody had bearing on NFMp utilization in Fuzzy biochemistry and mentation. Jack didn’t understand most of it. Then, Gerd asked for questions.

  This time, George Lunt stood. He made no pretense at formality. “I don’t get it, Gerd,” he said. “How could the Fuzzies have dropped back so far? How could they have just forgotten everything?”

  Gerd smiled. “What you’re saying, I suppose,” he said, “is that you’re a little alarmed about the fragility of civilization, advanced though it may seem at a given moment?”

  George nodded. “I suppose that might be it.”

  “Well,” Gerd said, staring thoughtfully out over the room, “put yourself and a bunch of other Terran humans on a desert island for a couple of hundred years, during which time everything begins to wear out and what you can use is nothing more than what you can make with your hands. Then, bring along a typhoon, or something, and wipe out everything you have—all your tools. If you stay alive long enough to make a few simple weapons so you can get enough to eat, and if your natural enemies—most of whom are three times your size—don’t snap you up for breakfast, where do you think the thrust of your daily activity is going to be? What will be more important to you—showing the flag or getting a decent lunch; one which will provide you with the energy to get a decent dinner?”

  “You’ll keep alive some stories about the old days, but nothing more than can be passed by word of mouth. You don’t have anything to write on, and you don’t have anything to write with, and you can’t spare the time to do it if you had the equipment—you’re too busy staying alive.”

  “So, your stories become legends, and your legends become myths, and your myths gradually become fiction, and your fiction gradually becomes fairy tales.”

  “Finally, you become Little Fuzzy, and you’re damned glad to find a Hagga who is a strange and powerful creature, who lives in the Hoksu-mitto, and who is willing to help you for nothing.”

  “So you will love the Hagga and do everything you can to help him—because there is a dim memory buried in you of a time when you didn’t have to kick, bite, and scratch, and run from your enemies—just to keep breathing.”

  “Does that answer your question, George?” Gerd said.

  George nodded, but did not say anything.

  There were no more questions. A few people in the room had handkerchief tissues concealed in their hands and were dabbing unobtrusively at their faces. Jack Holloway was one of them.

  Suddenly a little hand—holding a little, smoldering pipe—shot up from the front row.

  When he was acknowledged, Little Fuzzy stood, realized that almost no one in the room could see him, and vaulted into a sitting position on the edge of the conference table, facing the assembled People Who Counted.

  There was a murmur from the fifty or so persons in the conference room. Little Fuzzy held up his hand for silence. Jack Holloway suppressed a grin. Ghu! He’s the original Herr Doktor Professor Fuzzy, all right.

  “Fuzzies,” Little Fuzzy said, indicating Diamond and Starwatcher, “heeva gashta so-washa. We so-say things we have found at Place where jump-so-high. I so-say for all Fuzzies: we do best can do to help; any way can. We must know who Fuzzies are, where come from…” His voice broke a little bit. “… what Fuzzy mean. Fuzzies make do learn anything—eve’ thing. So much for Fuzzies to learn. We so-say want to begin—now.”

  Holloway got slowly to his feet, favoring his left arm. “As a duly appointed official of the Colonial Government,” he said, “I here and now specify for the record of these proceedings tha
t this verbal petition is to be duly noted as a legitimate request from the other human race, id est Fuzzy f. holloway zarathustra. and I solemnly pledge the assets of my office to the fulfillment of the said request. Much for Big Ones to learn, as well. Big Ones must learn to be like Fuzzies—more and more. If we do not, the galaxy itself can drive us crazy.” He paused. “So log it.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then, Little Fuzzy came dashing down the aisle and flung his arms around Holloway’s knee. “Pa-pee Jaaak! Pa-pee Jaaak!” he said, in the same tone he had used at the sapience trial—the first time Jack had ever heard him speak Lingua Terra within the range of human hearing.

  He picked Little Fuzzy up and hoisted him onto his own shoulder,

  Ben Rainsford jammed his pipe in his jacket pocket and thumped the arm of his chair. “Concur!” he said. “So log it.”

  There was a few seconds’ pause. “Concur!” Victor Grego said. Christiana squeezed his arm warmly. (Grego had refused to attend the briefing if Christiana wasn’t included.) Diamond abandoned his chair in the front row, rushed back to Grego’s seat, leaped on his lap and began to pummel his stomach playfully. When he got his breath back, Grego said, “So log it.”

  From then on, the concurrences had to be taken in order by show of hands by the recording yeoman. The military all abstained, according to regulation. Frederic Pendarvis abstained, according to the oath of his office.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  “Well, I certainly have no objection to Napier’s suggestions.”

  “The meeting after the briefing seemed to go all right as far as I was concerned.”

  “Actually, he’s got a pretty good idea, there—an interim government, by the common consent of all involved—with a three-way authority involving the Navy, the CZC, and the Colonial Government.”

  “Sure will put a stop to all this jockeying for power that’s been going on in the Constitutional Convention.”

  “What’d he mean with ‘troika,’ anyway?”

  “Oh, that’s some kind of three-headed animal from Old Terran mythology.”

  “It certainly cuts down on my paperwork. We won’t know what’s really happening until the whole thing has run through the courts, anyway…”

  “That’s going to take years, you bet.”

  “Besides, there’s commonality of assets—and the Terran Federation Navy has sols to burn.”

  “For a case with no precedents in Colonial Law, they do, you bet.”

  Gus Brannhard was standing with Jack Holloway as they listened to the conversations swirling around them on the terrace. Gus rumbled quietly as he quaffed a rather large belt of brandy. “Damned fools,” he muttered in Jack’s ear. “There’s nothing that has no precedent in Colonial Law. Well, Nifflheim with it—it’s certainly going to be the most interesting case I was ever a noble pleader for.”

  Holloway took a small sip of his highball. He was still so full of chemicals from surgery that he didn’t want to try anything too chancy. “So, Gus,” he said, “you want to stick to the limit?”

  “Are you kidding?” Brannhard asked incredulously. “Jack, this suit that’s coming up is a lawyer’s dream. I don’t even know for sure which side I’m going to be on—and won’t until I spend about four months poring over the body of case law. Does the Charterless Zarathustra Company get back its charter? Can it be demonstrated that sapient beings, to wit, Fuzzies who are not native to Zarathustra, but who have been living here for a thousand years—with de facto proof thereof—can be said to be natives de jure. Oh, Jack; young lawyers lay awake at night dreaming of a case like this one is going to be—and praying that they never get into it until they are old, experienced, cynical, and sodden appropriately.” He laughed a great, phlegmy laugh that seemed to shake the windows.

  “I take it,” Holloway said, “that you plan to be on the winning side.”

  “You bet your sweet—” Gus chopped the sentence short as Liana Bell came hurrying up to them.

  She had a ‘writer in her hand. Her cheeks were slightly Hushed and she appeared to be short of breath. “I just heard, Mr. Commissioner—”

  Holloway cut her off. “Jack,” he corrected.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Jack. I just heard how you got your arm hurt, and I want to know if you would mind if I signed my name on your cast.” She suddenly put her hands behind her and twisted nervously, swiveling at the ankles.

  Holloway smiled. The points of his mustache turned up and creases appeared at the corners of his eyes. “Why, no, Miss Bell—”

  She cut him off. “Liana,” she said. She looked him dead in the eye when she said it.

  “Yes,” he replied, “Liana. I think that would be very nice, and I appreciate the thought.”

  She slowly inscribed something in Latin on the upper part of his spray-web cast, and then very elaborately signed her name in a flourishing hand.

  He couldn’t quite read it, because he was looking at it upside down. And the Latin would have made no sense to him, anyway. But, no matter; he could get Ben Rainsford or Gus Brannhard to translate it for him later. They both made their living from Latin.

  She began to speak while she was still doing her signature. “You know that project with Fuzzy sociology we were talking about?” she asked.

  “I recall we mentioned something like that at the van Riebeek’s that night,” Jack said.

  “Well,” she said, “I’ve got approval from Dr. Mallin and Juan. Science Center is going to loan me out to Fuzzy Institute for a year to do a complete rundown on the system differences between Upland Fuzzies and Woods Fuzzies.” She finished and looked at him directly, again. “That means I’ll be moving in with Lynne Andrews next week.”

  Holloway smiled, again, holding her direct-gaze with his. “I’m very pleased to hear that, Liana,” he said.

  She tapped his cast with the ‘writer. “And I’m going to keep an eye on you and take care of you till this comes off—you poor old bear. You got yourself hurt doing something very fine, and I’m going to see that you get well.”

  Gus had been reading the inscription. He turned suddenly, rumbling into his beard as quietly as he could, and wandered off toward the bar.

  Nearby, Little Fuzzy, Diamond, and Starwatcher were seated in a circle on a table.

  Little Fuzzy leaned toward Diamond. “What Pappy Jack make do?” he said. “Have fun?”

  Diamond leaned closer. He said “Dishta,” then whispered something in Lingua Fuzzy. By this time, Starwatcher had leaned into the conversation to hear what was being said.

  A certain amount of giggling and shoulder-slapping followed the whispered conversation.

  Then Starwatcher leaned back upright and tilted his khaki barracks cover onto the back of his head. Then he shook his head slowly. “So many things for Fuzzies to learn,” he said.