"Tuning, William - Terro-Human - Fuzzy 04 - Fuzzy Bones 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tuning William)

When they were just getting this thing together, Holloway hadn't thought of himself as the Commissioner of Native Affairs, and he hadn't thought of the ZNPF as his private police force, although it was. There was a job to be done looking out for the Fuzzies' interests and it was too important to entrust to anyone else. In the early days he and George Lunt had shared a makeshift hut and called it an office, communicating by shouting back and forth from their desks. Now they had to hike through a hundred-twenty-foot stretch of desks and office machines and roboclerks and human secretaries to get to each other's offices.

"When I put this deal together in my head," Jack said, "Ben Rainsford was very busy being the new Governor General and very busy hating Victor Grego and the CZC as the unscrupulous enemy. Now that I've finally got them doing business with each other, the royalties we'll get from the Company for mining that rich patch of sunstones Gerd and I found in Fuzzy territory just might be enough to keep everything afloat until after the constitutional elections. The government can't levy taxes till then. In the meantime, I want to get the mining operation underway."

"Might be more than we can chew, Jack," George said. "I'm stretched pretty thin, now. We'll have to monitor that operation mighty close; make sure nobody goes sneaking off on his own inside the Reservation. Have to keep track of everything going in or out, watch that they don't bother any of the Fuzzies-that sort of thing."

"I know, George," Holloway said.

"Have to patrol the borders-tight electronic surveillance-be certain no one goes in or out except at our check-points. Take more men than I've got right now just to do that."

"I know, George," Holloway repeated. "Start working something up for me in the way of what you'll need, both men and equipment, if we have crews up there cracking- say-three hundred tons of flint a month."

"Jack-we can't afford it!"

Holloway nodded. "We can't, but the Company can. The CZC is going to reimburse us for what we spend policing their leasehold."

Major Lunt chuckled. "I see. Do they know it yet?"

"No," Holloway said, "but Grego will see the wisdom of it once it's explained to him. In the long run, it's a toss-up as to whether it's cheaper for the Company Police do the job or for the Company to hire us to do it. Besides, I won't grant the lease unless our own people are specified to do the law enforcement.

"Grego knows a good thing when he sees it. His bottom line won't be much different at the end of the year. This deal will be good for the Company, good for the Fuzzies, and good for the Government-all the way around."

"Okay," George agreed. "111 get something together that you can take to Grego-maybe not down to the last paper clip, but in general terms of how much it's going to cost."

"Good," Holloway said. "Grego won't say yes or no right away. He'll take the breakdown to his own Company Police Chief first-have Harry Steefer look over the figures to see whether we're gouging the Company."

He turned to leave, then added a question. "Today, George?"

Lunt nodded. "I imagine so."

"Hokay, bizzo," Holloway said, lapsing into Lingua Fuzzy. "How about bringing it over to the house-right around cocktail time. That way we can talk it over without being interrupted by more than four or five screen calls."

After Mr. Commissioner Holloway had left, George sat down at his desk and sighed; not in aversion to this new task, but in the realization that he was mentally waving goodbye to any immediate chance of getting rid of Lieutenant Paine and his Marines.

I've got to get Ahmed back over here, he thought. It's very good public relations to have Captain Ahmed Khadra, Chief of Detectives, ZNPF, acting as the Mallorysport liaison with the Company Police, and the Constabulary, and the Mallorysport P.D., and all that, but I've got to have a strong Exec over here if we're going into another expansion phase. He'll just have to set the date with Sandra, get hitched, and bring her over here permanently.

Then, I've got to start getting the manpower strength up-send John over to Mallorysport and goose up the recruiting office-and beef up my training program with more instructors and cadre sergeants, scrounge up some more uniforms and equipment, and. . . .

Chapter 8

Victor Grego sat in the lawn chair on his penthouse apartment's terrace and thought. He leaned back, with his eyes closed, and thought.

To look at him, one would think he was a gentle, heavy-set man who was dozing in the sun on his day off. One would not immediately think that this man was the Manager-in-Chief of the Zarathustra Company or that he was hard at work. One might suppose that running a colonial company which did about a quarter of a billion sols in gross annual business was little more than presiding over luncheon meetings with subordinate executives and reading reports.

That was what one would think if one went to work each day, worked one's shift, and then went home-conveniently leaving the job at the office.

Victor Grego's office was inside his head, and he carried it with him night and day.

The meat-packing plants on Delta Continent were working around the clock, now. With all this influx of population, there was a constant and heavy demand for prepared and packaged foodstuffs of all kinds. Not only was mat a blessing for the general profit picture, but it kept the supervisors so busy they didn't have time to worry about the Company losing its charter or to pester the Manager-in-Chief with minor problems.