Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

Ahmed looked past the group. "Didn't George come along?" he asked, with a note of disappointment in his voice.

Jack shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Ahmed," he said. "I tried to bully him into it, but he's off chasing some mare's nest on the Fuzzy Reservation. Said he had to re-assign all his patrol sectors and clear some equipment. I don't know why the watch commander couldn't have handled it, but George insisted he had to do it personally."

"He said to apologize for him," Gerd van Riebeek said. "Said he would toss a little shindig for you and Sandra himself when you get over to the station on Tuesday."

"Is the bungalow finished yet?" Sandra asked anxiously.

"All operational," Ruth said."Very nearly ready to move in."

"We all dug in and scared up some furniture for you," Lynne explained.

"Enough to get started with, anyway. And we all chipped in some pots and pans and dishes."

Sandra brightened. "That was very thoughtful of you. We've got some inflatables we're taking along."

"Well, you're all set, then," Ruth said. "When Gerd and I went over there, we had to sleep in the boat and mooch food off Jack until we could get into Red Hill and buy some things."

Victor Grego's kitchen had been turned into a bedlam of portable equipment, food handlers, waiters, and busboys, with part of the caterer's entourage and supplies spilling out the service entrance and onto the penthouse's private landing stage.

Being careful not to trail his jacket cuffs through any glop, Grego wound his way through the confusion until he found Jerry Panoyian out on the landing stage, running an expert eye over a hand-held terminal-much like a general deploying troops and materiel during a battle.

Panoyian was a short man upon whose long nose perched a pair of old-fashioned spectacles. He shook his head slightly, making his crown of iron-gray hair bobble slightly, and pushed the audio pickup more tightly into his ear. "No, no, Melvin." he said into a voco-leader, "It's bar number three that's out of gin. And when you get back in here, I want you to handle the ice run. Yes, I'll have it ready to wheel."

He looked up, instantly recognizing someone not in his own livery. "Ah, Mr.

Grego," he said, smiling. "How is everything going?"

"Couldn't be better, Mr. Panoyian," Grego replied. "I just wanted to let you know that we have a few late guests. You might want to refurbish the buffet a bit."

Panoyian held up a hand. "It's being attended to, sir. My headcounter spotted them as their airboat arrived. By the time they get to the salad bar, everything will be crisp, fresh, replenished. Hot roast veldbeest, chilled fruit-the works." Briskly efficient when dealing with his own help, Panoyian's voice shifted gears when talking to a client. He thought of it as suave and smooth; most listeners found the tone oily.

"Privately, you understand," Judge Pendarvis was saying-he paused and looked about, to make sure no one could overhear-"I'm quite pleased to see Mr.

Ingermann's credentials to practice before Zarathustran courts revoked. He's been a stench in the nostrils of the courts, decent men, and honest attorneys since the day he set foot on Zarathustra."

Ben Rainsford fussed with his pipe. "I'm beginning to think there are no honest lawyers," he said. Then he said, "Unnnh!" as Gus Brannhard gave him an elbow in the ribs. "I'm a lawyer," he said. "The Judge is a lawyer. You think we're dishonest?"

Rainsford rubbed his side. "You? Humph, No offense, Judge."

"None taken," Pendarvis replied. "I can only speak for myself, you understand.

Mr. Brannhard's reputation when he practiced on Beta Continent seemed to revolve around an astounding ability to secure aquittal for obviously guilty clients." The Chief Justice winked broadly at Jack Hollo-way.

"To say nothing," Jack remarked,"of the ability to match any given three men drink for drink and still put them all under the table."

"Welllll," Brannhard grumped."All that plea bargaining gives a man a helluva thirst."

"I trust you gentlemen understand the confidentiality of what I just said regarding Mr. Ingermann," Pendarvis said. Then, in an obvious change of subject, "What a grand party this is! Victor Grego is to be congratulated."

"Well, the man is a very thorough manager," Ben Rainsford said. "I wouldn 't expect him to miss a single detail in anything."

"Do I detect notes of grudging admiration?" Brannhard said. "A year ago you wanted to tie him up by his thumbs."

"That was a year ago," Rainsford fiddled with his pipe some more, then looked Brannhard straight in the eye. "The older you grow, sonny, the more you learn."

Jack chuckled. "I guess you can consider yourself cut down to size, Gus."

"Never knew much about Ingermann myself," Rainsford said, "but what I knew, I didn't like. I'll tell you right now that him getting disbarred is a load off my mind-for one very simple reason." They all looked at him expectantly.

"He'll be so damned busy trying to take vengeance on all of us, now, that he won't have time to try packing the new legislature with his own henchmen."

"There's something to that," Pendarvis said gloomily.

"Something else that will slow him down in that department," Gus said, "is voter eligibility and candidate certification. When I say my prayers at night, I thank Ghu that none of the new immigrants pass residence requirements for either. Think what a grand opportunity that would be for him to logroll his own people in those seats."

"That's true, "Rainsford said, wagging a finger, "only if they don't get that year's extension for the constitutional convention. That mess has me tearing my hair every day. And it's up to you and me, Gus, to get them off their butts. This government won't last another year without tax revenues."

"Do you think Ingermann might be behind all the stalling in the convention?"

Jack asked.

"It's possible," Gus said, "but if he is, it's a cinch the connection is so tangled we 'd never be able to hang it on him-much as I'd like to."

Rainsford jammed his pipe in his jacket pocket. "I been tellin' you all along-Ingermann wants to bring down the government and try to get control of the planet during the chaos. If you're hell-bent to get him deported, that charge ought to be enough to get the job done."

Gus Brannhard snorted derisively. "Ben, you can jail him; you can deport him; you can shoot him in the foot, and you can make him eat sand out of the road.

But, first you gotta catch him; then you gotta make the charge stick long enough to drag him into a courtroom and slip him under a veridicator.

Personally, I'd rather try to take a bone away from a bush-goblin-but, we are working at it; we are working at it."

The hors d' oeuvres chef had just run another dozen blue-labeled tins through the opener. As he wielded his thin-bladed knife to slice the cake and cut it into fancy shapes, he shook his head from side to side and muttered to himself.

Jerry Panoyian leaned over his shoulder. "What's the matter, Emile?" he asked.

Emile's eyebrows shot up, nearly to his hairline. "Over twenty years I have been in this business, sir," he said, "and, so help me, this is the first formal wedding reception I've ever worked where canned Extee-Three was served to the guests."

Panoyian chuckled. "You might as well get used to it, Emile. I have a feeling that Fuzzies are going to be part of the social scene in Mallorysport from now on."

Down the wide valley below Mallorysport the brilliant oranges and reds of a Zarathustran sunset were spreading low against the horizon as the sun sank slowly toward Beta. It was as though the K0 star that gave life to all things on Zarathustra was pointing back in time to Beta-Beta, where the Fuzzies had been discovered-Beta, where the murder of a Fuzzy named Goldilocks by a CZC