JACK HOLLOWAY LEANED back in his chair, resting one ankle across
the corner of the desk and propping the other foot on a partly open
bottom drawer. If he had to work in an office, it was nice working
in a real one, and it was a big improvement to be able to use his
living quarters exclusively for living in again. The wide doors at
either end of the arched prefab hut were open and a little breeze
was drawing through, just enough to keep the place cool and carry
off his pipe smoke. There wasn’t so much noise outside
anymore; most of the new buildings were up now. He could hear a
distant popping of small arms as the dozen and a half ZNPF recruits
fired for qualification.
A hundred yards away, at the other end, Sergeant Yorimitsu was
monitoring screen-views transmitted in from a couple of cars up on
patrol, and Lieutenant Ahmed Khadra and Sergeant Knabber were
taking the fingerprints of a couple of Fuzzies that had come in an
hour ago. Little Fuzzy, resting the point of his chopper-digger on
the floor with his hands on the knob pommel, watched boredly.
Fingerprinting was old stuff, now. The space between was mostly
vacant; a few unoccupied desks and idle business machines scattered
about. Some of these days they’d have a real office force,
and then he’d be able to get out and move around among the
natives, the way a Commissioner ought to.
One thing, they had the Fuzzy Reservation question settled, at
least for now. Ben Rainsford was closing everything north of the
Little Blackwater and the East Fork of the Snake to settlement;
that country all belonged to the Fuzzies and nobody else. Now if
the Fuzzies could only be persuaded to stay there. And Gerd and
Ruth and Pancho Ybarra and the Andrews girl were here, now, and set
up. Maybe they’d begin to find out a few of the things they
had to know.
The stamp machine banged twice, putting numbers on the ID discs
for the two newcomers. Khadra brought the discs back and squatted
to put them on the two Fuzzies.
“How many is that, now, Ahmed?” he called down the
hut.
“These are Fifty-eight and Fifty-nine,” Khadra
called back. “Deduct three, two for Rainsford’s, and
one for Goldilocks.”
Poor little Goldilocks; she’d have loved having an ID
disc. She’d been so proud of the little jingle-charm Ruth had
given her, just before she’d been killed. Fifty-six Fuzzies;
getting quite a population here.
The communication screen buzzed. He flipped a switch on the edge
of his desk and dropped his feet to the floor, turning. It was Ben
Rainsford, and he was furiously angry about something. His red
whiskers bristled as though electrically charged, and his blue eyes
were almost shooting sparks.
“Jack,” he began indignantly, “I’ve just
found out that Victor Grego has a Fuzzy cooped up at Company House.
What’s more, he’s had the effrontery to have Leslie
Coombes apply to Judge Pendarvis to have him appointed
guardian.”
That surprised him slightly. To date, Grego hadn’t exactly
established himself as one of the Friends of Little Fuzzy.
“How did he get him, do you know?”
Rainsford gobbled in rage for a moment, then said:
“He claims he found this Fuzzy in his apartment, night
before last, up at the top of Company House. Now isn’t that
one Nifflheim of a story; does he think anybody’s silly
enough to believe that?”
“Well, it is a funny place for a Fuzzy to be,” he
admitted. “You suppose it might be one that was live-trapped
for Mallin to study, before the trial? Ruth says there were only
four, and they were all turned loose the night of the Lurkin
business.”
“I don’t know. All I know is what Gus Brannhard told
me that Pendarvis’s secretary told him, that Pendarvis told
her, that Coombes told Pendarvis.” That sounded pretty
roundabout, but he supposed that was the way Colonial Governors had
to get things. “Gus says Coombes claims Grego says he
doesn’t know where the Fuzzy came from or how he got into
Company House. That is probably a thumping big lie.”
“It’s probably the truth. Victor Grego’s too
smart to lie to his lawyer, and Coombes is too smart to lie to the
Chief Justice. Judges are funny about that; they want statements
veridicated, and after what you saw happen to Mallin in court, you
don’t suppose any of that crowd would try to lie under
veridication.”
Rainsford snorted scornfully. Grego was lying; if the
veridicator backed him up, the veridicator was as big a liar as he
was.
“Well, I don’t care how he got the Fuzzy; what
I’m concerned with is what he’s doing to him,”
Rainsford replied. “And Ernst Mallin; Coombes admitted to
Pendarvis that Mallin was helping Grego look after the Fuzzy. Look
after him! They’re probably torturing the poor thing, Grego
and that sadistic quack head-shrinker. Jack, you’ve got to
get that Fuzzy away from Grego!”
“Oh, I doubt that. Grego wouldn’t mistreat the
Fuzzy, and if he was, he wouldn’t apply for papers of
guardianship and make himself legally responsible. What do you want
me to do?”
“Well, I told Gus to get a court order; Gus told me you
were the Native Commissioner, that it was your job to act to
protect the Fuzzy . . . ”
Gus didn’t think the Fuzzy needed any protecting; he
thought Grego was treating him well, and ought to be allowed to
keep him. So he’d passed the buck. He nodded.
“All right. I’m coming in to Mallorysport now.
You’re three hours behind us here, and if I use Gerd’s
boat I can make it in three hours. I’ll be at Government
House at 1530, your time. I’ll bring either Pancho or Ruth
along. You have Gus meet us when we get in. And I’ll want to
borrow your Flora and Fauna.”
“What for?”
“Interpreters, and to interrogate Grego’s Fuzzy. And
I want them instead of any of our crowd here because they may have
to testify in court and they won’t have to travel back and
forth. And tell Gus to get all the papers we’ll need to crash
Company House with. This is the first time anything like this has
come up. We’re going to give it the full
treatment.”
He blanked the screen, scribbled on a notepad and tore off the
sheet, then looked around. Ko-Ko and Cinderella and Mamma Fuzzy and
a couple of the Constabulary Fuzzies were working on a jigsaw
puzzle on the floor near his desk.
“Ko-Ko,” he called. “Do-bizzo.” When
Ko-Ko got to his feet and came over, he handed him the note.
“Give to Unka Panko,” he said. “Make run
fast.”
VICTOR GREGO HAD Leslie Coombes on screen; the lawyer was
saying:
“The Chief Justice is not hostile. Hospitable, I’d
say. I think he’s trying to be careful not to establish any
precedent that might embarrass the Native Affairs Commission later.
He was rather curious about how the Fuzzy got into Company House,
though.”
“Tell him that makes two of us. So am I.”
“Have Steefer’s men found out anything
yet?”
“Not that he’s reported. I’m going to talk to
him shortly. The way things are, he’s spread out pretty
thin.”
“It would help a lot if we could explain that. Would you
be willing to make a veridicated statement of what you
know?”
“With adequate safeguards. Not for anybody to pump me
about business matters.”
“Naturally. How about Mallin and Jimenez?”
“They will if they want to keep on working for the
company.” It surprised him that Coombes would even ask such a
question. “You think it’s necessary?”
“I think it very advisable. Rainsford will certainly
oppose your application; possibly Holloway. How about getting a
statement from the Fuzzy?”
“Mallin and I tried, last evening. I don’t know any
of the language, and he only has a few tapes he got from Lieutenant
Ybarra at the time of the trial. We have hearing aids, now.
It’s a hell of a language; sounds like Old Terran Japanese
more than anything else. The Fuzzy was trying to tell us something,
but we couldn’t make out what. We have it all on tape.
“And we showed him audiovisual portraits of those two
Survey rangers who were helping Jimenez. He made both of them; I
doubt if he likes them very much. We’re looking for them. We
are also looking for a Company scout car that vanished along with
them.”
“Vehicle theft’s a felony; that will do to hold and
interrogate them on,” Coombes mentioned. “Well, shall I
see you for cocktails?”
“Yes. You’d better call me, say every half-hour. If
Rainsford gets nasty about this, I may need you before
then.”
After that, he called Chief Steefer. Steefer greeted him
with:
“Mr. Grego, how red is my face?”
“Not noticeably so. Should it be?”
Steefer swore. “Mr. Grego, I want your authorization to
make an inch-by-inch search of this whole building.”
“Good God, Harry!” He was thinking of how many
millions on millions of inches that was. “Have you found
something?”
“Not about the Fuzzy, but—You have no idea what’s
been going on here, on these unoccupied levels. We found places
where people had been camping for weeks. We found one place where
there must have been a nonstop party going on for a month; there
was almost a lifter scow full of empty bottles. And we found a tea
pad.”
“Yes? What was that like?”
“Nothing much; lot of mattresses thrown around, and the
floor covered with butts—mostly chuckleweed or opiate-impregnated
tobacco. I don’t think that was any of our people; everybody
and his girlfriend in Mallorysport seems to have been sneaking in
here. We have men at all the landing stages, of course, but there
aren’t enough to . . . ” His face hardened.
“I’ve just gone slack on the job. That’s the only
explanation I can make.”
“We’ve all gone slack, Harry.” He thought of
the mess in his pantry; that was symptomatic. “You know, we
may owe the Fuzzies a debt of gratitude, if what’s happened
to us will make us start acting like a business concern instead of
a bunch of kids in fairyland. All right; go ahead. Finding out how
the Fuzzy got in here is still of top importance, but clean house
generally while you’re at it and see that it stays cleaned
up.”
Then he called Juan Jimenez at Science Center. Jimenez had
gotten a new suit since yesterday, less casual, more executive. His
public face had been done over too, to emphasize efficiency rather
than agreeableness.
“Good morning, Victor.” He stumbled a little over
the first name, which was a prerogative of a division chief but to
which he was not yet accustomed.
“Good morning, Juan. I know you haven’t forgotten
we’re lunching together, but I wondered if you could make it
a little early. There are a couple of things we want to go over
first. In twenty minutes?”
“Easily; sooner than that if you wish.”
“As soon as you can make it. Just come in the back
way.”
Then he made another screen call. This was an outside call, for
which he had to look up the combination. When the screen cleared, a
thin-faced, elderly man with white hair looked out of it. He wore a
gray work smock, the breast pockets full of small tools and
calibrating instruments. His name was Henry Stenson, and he might
have been called an instrument maker, just as Benvenuto Cellini
might have been called a jeweler.
“Why, Mr. Grego,” he greeted, in pleased surprise,
or reasonable facsimile. “I haven’t heard from you for
some time.”
“No. Not since that gadget you planted in my globe stopped
broadcasting. Incidentally, the globe’s about thirty seconds
slow, and both moons are impossibly out of synchronization. We had
to stop it to take out that thing you built into it, and none of my
people has your fine touch.”
Stenson grimaced slightly. “I suppose you know for whom I
did that?”
“Well, I’m not certain whether you’re Navy
Intelligence, like our former employee, Ruth Ortheris, or Colonial
Office Investigative Bureau; but that’s minor. Whoever,
they’re to be congratulated on an excellent operative. You
know, I could get quite nasty about that; planting
radio-transmitted microphones in people’s offices is a
felony. I don’t intend doing anything, but I definitely want
no more of it. You can understand my attitude.”
“Well, naturally, Mr. Grego. You know,” he added,
“I thought that thing was detection proof.”
“Instrumentally, yes. My people were awed when they saw
the detection baffles on that thing. Have you patented them? If you
have, we owe you some money, because we’re copying them. But
nothing is proof against physical search, and we practically tore
my office apart as soon as it became evident that anything said in
it was known almost immediately on Xerxes Base.”
Stenson nodded gravely. “You didn’t call me just to
tell me you’d caught me out? I knew that as soon as the radio
went dead.”
“No. I want you to put the globe back in synchronization,
as soon as possible. And there’s another thing. You helped
the people on Xerxes design those ultrasonic hearing aids,
didn’t you? Well, could you attack the problem from the other
side, Mr. Stenson? I mean, design a little self-powered hand-phone,
small enough for a Fuzzy to carry, that would transform the
Fuzzy’s voice to audible frequencies?”
Stenson was silent for all of five seconds. “Yes, of
course, Mr. Grego. If anything, it should be simpler. Of course,
teaching the Fuzzy to carry and use it would be a problem, but not
in my line of work.”
“Well, try and get an experimental model done as soon as
possible. I have a Fuzzy available to try it. And if there’s
anything patentable about it, get it protected. Talk to Leslie
Coombes. This may be of commercial value to both of us.”
“You think there’ll be a demand?” Stenson
asked. “How much do you think a Fuzzy would pay for
one?”
“I think the Native Affairs Commission would pay ten to
fifteen sols apiece for them, and I’m sure our electronics
plant could turn them out to sell profitably for that.”
Somebody had entered the office; in one of the strategically
placed mirrors, he saw that it was Juan Jimenez keeping out of the
field of the screen-pickup. He nodded to him and went on talking to
Stenson, who would be around the next morning to look at the globe.
When they finished the conversation and blanked screens, he
motioned Jimenez to his deskside chair.
“How much of that did you hear?” he asked.
“Well, I heard that white-haired old Iscariot say
he’d be around tomorrow to fix the globe . . . ”
“Henry Stenson is no Iscariot, Juan. He is a Terran
Federation secret agent, and the Federation is to be congratulated
on his loyalty and ability. Now that I know just what he is, and
now that he knows I know it, we can do business on a friendly basis
of mutual respect and distrust. He’s going to work up a
gadget by which the Fuzzies can speak audibly to us.
“Now, about Fuzzies,” he continued.
“We’re sure that your two helpers, Herckerd and Novaes,
brought this Fuzzy of mine here to Mallorysport. You say they
didn’t have him when they came back with you?”
“Absolutely not, Mr. Grego.”
“Would you veridicate that?”
Jimenez didn’t want to, that was plain. But he did want to
work for the Company, especially now that he had just been promoted
to chief of Scientific Study and Research. He was as close to the
top of the Company House hierarchy as he could get, and he wanted
to stay there.
“Yes, of course. I’d hoped, though, that my word
would be good enough . . . ”
“Nobody’s word’s going to be good enough.
I’m going to veridicate what I know about it, myself;
so’s Ernst Mallin. There will be quite a few veridicated
statements taken in the next few days. Now, I want you to meet this
Fuzzy. See if you know him, or if he knows you.”
They went out to the private lift and up to the penthouse. In
the living room, Sandra Glenn was lounging in his favorite chair,
listening to something from a record player with an earphone, and
smoking. As they entered, she shut off the player and closed her
eyes. “Sojosso-aki; you give me,” she said.
“Aki-jossoso; I give you. So-noho-aki dokko; you tell me how
many.”
They tiptoed past her and out onto the terrace. Ernst Mallin was
sitting on a low hassock, with his hearing aid on; Diamond was
squatting in front of him, tying knots in a length of twine. An
audiovisual recorder was set up to cover both of them. Diamond
sprang to his feet and ran to meet them, crying out: “Pappy
Vic! Heeta!” and holding up the cord to show the knots he had
been learning to tie.
“Hello, Diamond. Those are very fine knots. You are a
smart Fuzzy. How do I say that, Ernst?” Mallin said
something, haltingly; he repeated it, patting the Fuzzy’s
head. “Now, how do I ask him if he’s ever seen this Big
One with me before?”
Mallin asked the question himself. Diamond said something; he
caught “Vov,” a couple of times. That was
negative.
“He doesn’t know you, Juan. What I’m sure
happened is that Herckerd and Novaes came in with you, just before
the trial, then went back to Beta, probably in the aircar they
stole from us, and picked up this Fuzzy. We won’t know why
till we catch them and question them.” He turned to Mallin.
“Get anything more out of him?”
Mallin shook his head. “I’m picking up a few more
words, but I still can’t be sure. He says two Hagga, the ones
we showed him the films of, brought him here. I think they brought
some other Fuzzies with him; I can’t be sure. There
doesn’t seem to be any way of pluralizing in his language. He
says they were tosh-ki gashta, bad people. They put him in a bad
place.”
“We’ll put them in a bad place. Penitentiary place.
I don’t suppose you can find out how long ago this was?
During or right after the trial, I suppose.”
Sandra Glenn came out onto the terrace.
“Mr. Grego; Miss Fallada’s on screen. She says
representatives of all the press-services are here. They’ve
heard about Diamond; they want the story, and pictures of
him.”
“That was all we needed! All right, tell her to have a
policeman show them up. I’m afraid our lunch’ll have to
wait till we get through with them, Juan.”
JACK HOLLOWAY LEANED back in his chair, resting one ankle across
the corner of the desk and propping the other foot on a partly open
bottom drawer. If he had to work in an office, it was nice working
in a real one, and it was a big improvement to be able to use his
living quarters exclusively for living in again. The wide doors at
either end of the arched prefab hut were open and a little breeze
was drawing through, just enough to keep the place cool and carry
off his pipe smoke. There wasn’t so much noise outside
anymore; most of the new buildings were up now. He could hear a
distant popping of small arms as the dozen and a half ZNPF recruits
fired for qualification.
A hundred yards away, at the other end, Sergeant Yorimitsu was
monitoring screen-views transmitted in from a couple of cars up on
patrol, and Lieutenant Ahmed Khadra and Sergeant Knabber were
taking the fingerprints of a couple of Fuzzies that had come in an
hour ago. Little Fuzzy, resting the point of his chopper-digger on
the floor with his hands on the knob pommel, watched boredly.
Fingerprinting was old stuff, now. The space between was mostly
vacant; a few unoccupied desks and idle business machines scattered
about. Some of these days they’d have a real office force,
and then he’d be able to get out and move around among the
natives, the way a Commissioner ought to.
One thing, they had the Fuzzy Reservation question settled, at
least for now. Ben Rainsford was closing everything north of the
Little Blackwater and the East Fork of the Snake to settlement;
that country all belonged to the Fuzzies and nobody else. Now if
the Fuzzies could only be persuaded to stay there. And Gerd and
Ruth and Pancho Ybarra and the Andrews girl were here, now, and set
up. Maybe they’d begin to find out a few of the things they
had to know.
The stamp machine banged twice, putting numbers on the ID discs
for the two newcomers. Khadra brought the discs back and squatted
to put them on the two Fuzzies.
“How many is that, now, Ahmed?” he called down the
hut.
“These are Fifty-eight and Fifty-nine,” Khadra
called back. “Deduct three, two for Rainsford’s, and
one for Goldilocks.”
Poor little Goldilocks; she’d have loved having an ID
disc. She’d been so proud of the little jingle-charm Ruth had
given her, just before she’d been killed. Fifty-six Fuzzies;
getting quite a population here.
The communication screen buzzed. He flipped a switch on the edge
of his desk and dropped his feet to the floor, turning. It was Ben
Rainsford, and he was furiously angry about something. His red
whiskers bristled as though electrically charged, and his blue eyes
were almost shooting sparks.
“Jack,” he began indignantly, “I’ve just
found out that Victor Grego has a Fuzzy cooped up at Company House.
What’s more, he’s had the effrontery to have Leslie
Coombes apply to Judge Pendarvis to have him appointed
guardian.”
That surprised him slightly. To date, Grego hadn’t exactly
established himself as one of the Friends of Little Fuzzy.
“How did he get him, do you know?”
Rainsford gobbled in rage for a moment, then said:
“He claims he found this Fuzzy in his apartment, night
before last, up at the top of Company House. Now isn’t that
one Nifflheim of a story; does he think anybody’s silly
enough to believe that?”
“Well, it is a funny place for a Fuzzy to be,” he
admitted. “You suppose it might be one that was live-trapped
for Mallin to study, before the trial? Ruth says there were only
four, and they were all turned loose the night of the Lurkin
business.”
“I don’t know. All I know is what Gus Brannhard told
me that Pendarvis’s secretary told him, that Pendarvis told
her, that Coombes told Pendarvis.” That sounded pretty
roundabout, but he supposed that was the way Colonial Governors had
to get things. “Gus says Coombes claims Grego says he
doesn’t know where the Fuzzy came from or how he got into
Company House. That is probably a thumping big lie.”
“It’s probably the truth. Victor Grego’s too
smart to lie to his lawyer, and Coombes is too smart to lie to the
Chief Justice. Judges are funny about that; they want statements
veridicated, and after what you saw happen to Mallin in court, you
don’t suppose any of that crowd would try to lie under
veridication.”
Rainsford snorted scornfully. Grego was lying; if the
veridicator backed him up, the veridicator was as big a liar as he
was.
“Well, I don’t care how he got the Fuzzy; what
I’m concerned with is what he’s doing to him,”
Rainsford replied. “And Ernst Mallin; Coombes admitted to
Pendarvis that Mallin was helping Grego look after the Fuzzy. Look
after him! They’re probably torturing the poor thing, Grego
and that sadistic quack head-shrinker. Jack, you’ve got to
get that Fuzzy away from Grego!”
“Oh, I doubt that. Grego wouldn’t mistreat the
Fuzzy, and if he was, he wouldn’t apply for papers of
guardianship and make himself legally responsible. What do you want
me to do?”
“Well, I told Gus to get a court order; Gus told me you
were the Native Commissioner, that it was your job to act to
protect the Fuzzy . . . ”
Gus didn’t think the Fuzzy needed any protecting; he
thought Grego was treating him well, and ought to be allowed to
keep him. So he’d passed the buck. He nodded.
“All right. I’m coming in to Mallorysport now.
You’re three hours behind us here, and if I use Gerd’s
boat I can make it in three hours. I’ll be at Government
House at 1530, your time. I’ll bring either Pancho or Ruth
along. You have Gus meet us when we get in. And I’ll want to
borrow your Flora and Fauna.”
“What for?”
“Interpreters, and to interrogate Grego’s Fuzzy. And
I want them instead of any of our crowd here because they may have
to testify in court and they won’t have to travel back and
forth. And tell Gus to get all the papers we’ll need to crash
Company House with. This is the first time anything like this has
come up. We’re going to give it the full
treatment.”
He blanked the screen, scribbled on a notepad and tore off the
sheet, then looked around. Ko-Ko and Cinderella and Mamma Fuzzy and
a couple of the Constabulary Fuzzies were working on a jigsaw
puzzle on the floor near his desk.
“Ko-Ko,” he called. “Do-bizzo.” When
Ko-Ko got to his feet and came over, he handed him the note.
“Give to Unka Panko,” he said. “Make run
fast.”
VICTOR GREGO HAD Leslie Coombes on screen; the lawyer was
saying:
“The Chief Justice is not hostile. Hospitable, I’d
say. I think he’s trying to be careful not to establish any
precedent that might embarrass the Native Affairs Commission later.
He was rather curious about how the Fuzzy got into Company House,
though.”
“Tell him that makes two of us. So am I.”
“Have Steefer’s men found out anything
yet?”
“Not that he’s reported. I’m going to talk to
him shortly. The way things are, he’s spread out pretty
thin.”
“It would help a lot if we could explain that. Would you
be willing to make a veridicated statement of what you
know?”
“With adequate safeguards. Not for anybody to pump me
about business matters.”
“Naturally. How about Mallin and Jimenez?”
“They will if they want to keep on working for the
company.” It surprised him that Coombes would even ask such a
question. “You think it’s necessary?”
“I think it very advisable. Rainsford will certainly
oppose your application; possibly Holloway. How about getting a
statement from the Fuzzy?”
“Mallin and I tried, last evening. I don’t know any
of the language, and he only has a few tapes he got from Lieutenant
Ybarra at the time of the trial. We have hearing aids, now.
It’s a hell of a language; sounds like Old Terran Japanese
more than anything else. The Fuzzy was trying to tell us something,
but we couldn’t make out what. We have it all on tape.
“And we showed him audiovisual portraits of those two
Survey rangers who were helping Jimenez. He made both of them; I
doubt if he likes them very much. We’re looking for them. We
are also looking for a Company scout car that vanished along with
them.”
“Vehicle theft’s a felony; that will do to hold and
interrogate them on,” Coombes mentioned. “Well, shall I
see you for cocktails?”
“Yes. You’d better call me, say every half-hour. If
Rainsford gets nasty about this, I may need you before
then.”
After that, he called Chief Steefer. Steefer greeted him
with:
“Mr. Grego, how red is my face?”
“Not noticeably so. Should it be?”
Steefer swore. “Mr. Grego, I want your authorization to
make an inch-by-inch search of this whole building.”
“Good God, Harry!” He was thinking of how many
millions on millions of inches that was. “Have you found
something?”
“Not about the Fuzzy, but—You have no idea what’s
been going on here, on these unoccupied levels. We found places
where people had been camping for weeks. We found one place where
there must have been a nonstop party going on for a month; there
was almost a lifter scow full of empty bottles. And we found a tea
pad.”
“Yes? What was that like?”
“Nothing much; lot of mattresses thrown around, and the
floor covered with butts—mostly chuckleweed or opiate-impregnated
tobacco. I don’t think that was any of our people; everybody
and his girlfriend in Mallorysport seems to have been sneaking in
here. We have men at all the landing stages, of course, but there
aren’t enough to . . . ” His face hardened.
“I’ve just gone slack on the job. That’s the only
explanation I can make.”
“We’ve all gone slack, Harry.” He thought of
the mess in his pantry; that was symptomatic. “You know, we
may owe the Fuzzies a debt of gratitude, if what’s happened
to us will make us start acting like a business concern instead of
a bunch of kids in fairyland. All right; go ahead. Finding out how
the Fuzzy got in here is still of top importance, but clean house
generally while you’re at it and see that it stays cleaned
up.”
Then he called Juan Jimenez at Science Center. Jimenez had
gotten a new suit since yesterday, less casual, more executive. His
public face had been done over too, to emphasize efficiency rather
than agreeableness.
“Good morning, Victor.” He stumbled a little over
the first name, which was a prerogative of a division chief but to
which he was not yet accustomed.
“Good morning, Juan. I know you haven’t forgotten
we’re lunching together, but I wondered if you could make it
a little early. There are a couple of things we want to go over
first. In twenty minutes?”
“Easily; sooner than that if you wish.”
“As soon as you can make it. Just come in the back
way.”
Then he made another screen call. This was an outside call, for
which he had to look up the combination. When the screen cleared, a
thin-faced, elderly man with white hair looked out of it. He wore a
gray work smock, the breast pockets full of small tools and
calibrating instruments. His name was Henry Stenson, and he might
have been called an instrument maker, just as Benvenuto Cellini
might have been called a jeweler.
“Why, Mr. Grego,” he greeted, in pleased surprise,
or reasonable facsimile. “I haven’t heard from you for
some time.”
“No. Not since that gadget you planted in my globe stopped
broadcasting. Incidentally, the globe’s about thirty seconds
slow, and both moons are impossibly out of synchronization. We had
to stop it to take out that thing you built into it, and none of my
people has your fine touch.”
Stenson grimaced slightly. “I suppose you know for whom I
did that?”
“Well, I’m not certain whether you’re Navy
Intelligence, like our former employee, Ruth Ortheris, or Colonial
Office Investigative Bureau; but that’s minor. Whoever,
they’re to be congratulated on an excellent operative. You
know, I could get quite nasty about that; planting
radio-transmitted microphones in people’s offices is a
felony. I don’t intend doing anything, but I definitely want
no more of it. You can understand my attitude.”
“Well, naturally, Mr. Grego. You know,” he added,
“I thought that thing was detection proof.”
“Instrumentally, yes. My people were awed when they saw
the detection baffles on that thing. Have you patented them? If you
have, we owe you some money, because we’re copying them. But
nothing is proof against physical search, and we practically tore
my office apart as soon as it became evident that anything said in
it was known almost immediately on Xerxes Base.”
Stenson nodded gravely. “You didn’t call me just to
tell me you’d caught me out? I knew that as soon as the radio
went dead.”
“No. I want you to put the globe back in synchronization,
as soon as possible. And there’s another thing. You helped
the people on Xerxes design those ultrasonic hearing aids,
didn’t you? Well, could you attack the problem from the other
side, Mr. Stenson? I mean, design a little self-powered hand-phone,
small enough for a Fuzzy to carry, that would transform the
Fuzzy’s voice to audible frequencies?”
Stenson was silent for all of five seconds. “Yes, of
course, Mr. Grego. If anything, it should be simpler. Of course,
teaching the Fuzzy to carry and use it would be a problem, but not
in my line of work.”
“Well, try and get an experimental model done as soon as
possible. I have a Fuzzy available to try it. And if there’s
anything patentable about it, get it protected. Talk to Leslie
Coombes. This may be of commercial value to both of us.”
“You think there’ll be a demand?” Stenson
asked. “How much do you think a Fuzzy would pay for
one?”
“I think the Native Affairs Commission would pay ten to
fifteen sols apiece for them, and I’m sure our electronics
plant could turn them out to sell profitably for that.”
Somebody had entered the office; in one of the strategically
placed mirrors, he saw that it was Juan Jimenez keeping out of the
field of the screen-pickup. He nodded to him and went on talking to
Stenson, who would be around the next morning to look at the globe.
When they finished the conversation and blanked screens, he
motioned Jimenez to his deskside chair.
“How much of that did you hear?” he asked.
“Well, I heard that white-haired old Iscariot say
he’d be around tomorrow to fix the globe . . . ”
“Henry Stenson is no Iscariot, Juan. He is a Terran
Federation secret agent, and the Federation is to be congratulated
on his loyalty and ability. Now that I know just what he is, and
now that he knows I know it, we can do business on a friendly basis
of mutual respect and distrust. He’s going to work up a
gadget by which the Fuzzies can speak audibly to us.
“Now, about Fuzzies,” he continued.
“We’re sure that your two helpers, Herckerd and Novaes,
brought this Fuzzy of mine here to Mallorysport. You say they
didn’t have him when they came back with you?”
“Absolutely not, Mr. Grego.”
“Would you veridicate that?”
Jimenez didn’t want to, that was plain. But he did want to
work for the Company, especially now that he had just been promoted
to chief of Scientific Study and Research. He was as close to the
top of the Company House hierarchy as he could get, and he wanted
to stay there.
“Yes, of course. I’d hoped, though, that my word
would be good enough . . . ”
“Nobody’s word’s going to be good enough.
I’m going to veridicate what I know about it, myself;
so’s Ernst Mallin. There will be quite a few veridicated
statements taken in the next few days. Now, I want you to meet this
Fuzzy. See if you know him, or if he knows you.”
They went out to the private lift and up to the penthouse. In
the living room, Sandra Glenn was lounging in his favorite chair,
listening to something from a record player with an earphone, and
smoking. As they entered, she shut off the player and closed her
eyes. “Sojosso-aki; you give me,” she said.
“Aki-jossoso; I give you. So-noho-aki dokko; you tell me how
many.”
They tiptoed past her and out onto the terrace. Ernst Mallin was
sitting on a low hassock, with his hearing aid on; Diamond was
squatting in front of him, tying knots in a length of twine. An
audiovisual recorder was set up to cover both of them. Diamond
sprang to his feet and ran to meet them, crying out: “Pappy
Vic! Heeta!” and holding up the cord to show the knots he had
been learning to tie.
“Hello, Diamond. Those are very fine knots. You are a
smart Fuzzy. How do I say that, Ernst?” Mallin said
something, haltingly; he repeated it, patting the Fuzzy’s
head. “Now, how do I ask him if he’s ever seen this Big
One with me before?”
Mallin asked the question himself. Diamond said something; he
caught “Vov,” a couple of times. That was
negative.
“He doesn’t know you, Juan. What I’m sure
happened is that Herckerd and Novaes came in with you, just before
the trial, then went back to Beta, probably in the aircar they
stole from us, and picked up this Fuzzy. We won’t know why
till we catch them and question them.” He turned to Mallin.
“Get anything more out of him?”
Mallin shook his head. “I’m picking up a few more
words, but I still can’t be sure. He says two Hagga, the ones
we showed him the films of, brought him here. I think they brought
some other Fuzzies with him; I can’t be sure. There
doesn’t seem to be any way of pluralizing in his language. He
says they were tosh-ki gashta, bad people. They put him in a bad
place.”
“We’ll put them in a bad place. Penitentiary place.
I don’t suppose you can find out how long ago this was?
During or right after the trial, I suppose.”
Sandra Glenn came out onto the terrace.
“Mr. Grego; Miss Fallada’s on screen. She says
representatives of all the press-services are here. They’ve
heard about Diamond; they want the story, and pictures of
him.”
“That was all we needed! All right, tell her to have a
policeman show them up. I’m afraid our lunch’ll have to
wait till we get through with them, Juan.”