Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

Gus eyed the young man solemnly. "Why, as an official of the colonial government, I have no thoughts on the subject at all. As public employees, we should have no comments-not public ones, anyway-on the fortunes of any private citizen. Do you get my meaning, son?"

Wilkins sipped his champagne nervously. "Oh, I understand perfectly, sir. It's just that-I mean-that is-I didn't intend it to sound-exactly-like I rejoiced in Mr. Ingermann's disbarment."

Gus eyed him some more, then his face broke into a smile and he winked broadly.

" 'Course you didn't. People in our position just have to be prudent." Wilkins nodded. One lesson learned. "There is something, though, that I would like your opinion on, Mr. Wilkins-professionally."

Opinion? This legendary giant who was the Attorney General wanted his opinion on something? Gosh!

"What," Gus Brannhard asked, "is the scuttlebutt on the coffeepot telegraph

around your offices about the constitutional convention? Interworld News and the rest show the delegates all busily roaring like wounded damnthings every night on the screen, but as far as actual resolutions and articles filed, it's as dry as a temperance meeting. I just wondered if they were actually generating documents and someone forgot to send me review copies. What are they doing?"

"Well, sir, I can't rightly say. I do know that we 've copied and sent over about a metric ton of colonial case law which they 've requested."

"And they haven't sent any of it back?" "No, sir."

"And they haven't filed any draft articles or resolutions?"

"No, sir," Wilkins said. "Well, sir, that is, with one exception."

"Which is?"

"They sent me a draft request to extend the convention for a year, and wanted to know if it was properly framed."

Gus jabbed his finger at the ceiling triumphantly. "Now I know what they've been doing. The buggers have studied everything to death. Now they see that their year is almost up and they aren 't even close to framing a constitution, so they want us to give them another year-another year during which the government can't levy taxes.

"Well, I guess it's time for Governor Rainsford and myself to pay these dedicated foot-draggers a visit in open session-in situ as it were-and sort of explain the facts of life to them."

Wilkins pushed his glasses up his nose, again, hesitated, then gulped and spoke. It was not the usual thing for the Clerk of the Court to correct the Attorney General on process, even at a party. "But, sir," he said, "colonial law forbids any appointed official of colonial government being in attendance at the site of a constitutional convention-uh-to prevent sandbagging, I guess."

Gus took another swig of brandy while Wilkins spoke, and glowered at him through the snifter glass as he did so. He lowered the glass and fluffed his beard. "Of course it does, Mr. Wilkins, but only in an uninvited capacity. I

'm sure the intrepid colonists in that body will be pleased-once the matter is explained to some of the leaders-to invite us in for some 'advice.' "

While Gus Brannhard guffawed at Roy Wilkins, a slender man who stood nearby, chatting with Ernst Mallin, frowned and pursed his lips.

"That man's a perfect example, Ernst," Dr. Jan Chris-tiaan Hoenveld said.

"Refinement and breeding are out the airlock in Mallorysport so long as the Governor General still wears bush clothes and his colonial officials are a bunch of bumpkins like Brannhard. Rainsford's offices and quarters in Government House have animal skins all over the floors. It's just not civilized."

Mallin sipped his champagne and smiled. "I suppose, Chris, that you preferred Nick Emmert's administration- cocktail parties sparkling with mindless chatter, and all those damned canapes. Personally, I don't care if I never see creamed cheese again."

"Well, at least the man had some style," Hoenveld sniffed.

"I used to like those parties of Emmert's, too," Mallin mused,

"until-something-I guess it was me-changed. I can tell you one thing, Chris, Rainsford's administration is one hundred percent honest, even if the men in it are a little rough around the edges."

"Oh, don't talk to me about 'rough around the edges,' Ernst. This mob of ragged vagabonds that's immigrating to Zarathustra is ruining what little grace we had developed in Mallorysport. My tailor is feeling the pinch already; no one has any standards, any more. And why should they-when the Governor always looks like he's been sleeping in his clothes? One just throws on any old flak jacket one finds wadded up in the back of the closet and one is in perfect style."

Mallin smiled. "I 'm sure refined taste will survive, Chris. It's come through worse setbacks than this.

"Excuse me, will you? One of my people is waving frantically for me to join her."

Mallin had to get away from Hoenveld; he wasn 't sure how much longer he could keep a straight face. Chris Hoenveld was the best biochemist ever to set foot on Zarathustra, but he sure had some strange ideas about what was important.

Besides, Liana Bell really was signaling him to come over and join her and Juan Jimenez.

As he threaded his way through the guests, he caught a scrap from another conversation that was refreshingly balanced against Hoenveld's notions about genteelness.

Colonel Ian Ferguson, commander of the Colonial Constabulary, had joined the other law enforcement types gathered around the bar. "Well, I'll tell you one thing," he was saying, "with Ben Rainsford in the governor's chair, you never have to wonder what the hell he's talking about. The man doesn't know how to beat around the bush."

"Amen to that," Al Earlie said. "Nick Emmert always wanted people to get gussied up like a pet owl-just for cocktails, mind you-and then he 'd talk your ear off and you never knew what he'd said afterwards. That was the part I hated-climbing into that monkey suit with the sandpaper collar. And there's no way to carry a gun in one of those things without it showing."

"Not yours, anyway," Harry Steefer said, thinking of Al Earlie's favorite sidearm-a long barreled .45 revolver that pitched a 271-grain slug.

"Say, that reminds me," Max Fane said, "did I tell you somebody took a shot at me the other day-right down here on the esplanade?"

Max's story was cut short as a thundering herd of Fuzzies galloped through the middle of the group, yeeking with delight. Hot on their heels was a group of young women who worked in the Executive Offices of the CZC. "Come back here, you little devils!" "So-josso-aki tai washa!" "Give me back my things!"

The Fuzzies shrieked with mock terror. "Do-Bizzo! Fazzu! Hagga catch us!"

"Sp'it up!" "Faster!"

Apparently the Fuzzies had pulled a heist for the fun of the chase. Leading the pack in pursuit was a laughing strawberry blonde who had kicked off her shoes and was making better speed than anyone else.

The next lap around the terrace, the Fuzzies were gaining distance-and their numbers had increased by ten. The late arrivals didn't know what the chase was all about, but it looked like fun; and if there's one thing a Fuzzy can't resist it's fun-so they had joined in immediately.

The new Fuzzies were Little Fuzzy, Mamma Fuzzy, Mike, Mitzi, Ko-Ko, Cinderella, Id, Superego, Complex, and Syndrome-a clear indication to anyone who knew them that Jack Holloway, the van Riebeeks, and Lynne Andrews had arrived.

The tenth Fuzzy-Baby Fuzzy-waddled along behind the mob for a while, but couldn't keep up. He soon lost interest and struck a course for Diamond's play area-where he could see a fascinating array of bright-colored objects and interesting junk.

The reception line was just breaking up as Holloway and his party arrived.

Greetings were exchanged and congratulations conveyed to the newly weds.

"I'm sorry we're so late," Jack said. "We had some trouble with the airboat on the way over. Lost some power on the main lift-and-drive and had to limp in on the Abbotts."