Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

Sandra stuck to her point. "I'm not attacking your theory, Gerd, but if it's correct wouldn't that mean there used to be more titanium on Zarathustra? In order for Fuzzies to develop this critical need for it in their diet? Are you saying there used to be more titanium on Zarathustra than there is now? Isn't there a rule or something about that?"

Gerd thought for a moment, smiling as he felt around for the governing principle Sandra was referring to. "Oh, no," he said. "Titanium is too heavy to be carried off as the planet developed. That wouldn't apply to Zarathustra-the gravity is almost the same as Terra." Suddenly, he realized what he was saying. "Great galloping holy Dai-Butsu!" he exclaimed. "I've been digging up the wrong rabbit hole all along! All the titanium ever formed on Zarathustra is still here, in its crust, and that's damned little. That point was established very early in comparative extraterrestrial planetography by-what's his name?-MacKenzie 's Law." "You mean it's constant on all planets?" Sandra asked. "Sure it is," Jack said.

"Do you remember it, Jack?" Gerd asked. "You're the closest thing here to a

geologist."

"I can't state it mathematically," Jack said, "but I know it. That tells us beforehand something of what a planet's geology is likely to be all about.

Let's see now-'The rate of escape of a substance from a planetary mass will vary inversely with the gravity of that mass, varies directly with its temperature, and-" He scratched his head. "-and varies indirectly with the boiling or sublimation point of the substance in question.' That's the gist of it."

"All right, then," Sandra said. "If there's so little titanium on Zarathustra, how did Fuzzies come to have such a specific need for it in their metabolism?"

"Now, you're getting back toward my specialty," Gerd said. "That point is only theoretically defined in xeno-biology. Remember Garrett's Theorem? It states that 'A need for an element does not arise in evolution unless the element is available in reasonable amounts and in assimilable form.' In other words-in soluble form." Gerd thought about that for a moment, too, then shook his head.

"That doesn't get me out of the woods, either, does it? There's still the possibility that Fuzzies might not have evolved here at all."

"Pish-tush," Lynne said. "That's along the line of crackpot theories from the First Century that man was not native to Terra-none of which were ever taken seriously by the scientific community."

"That makes sense to me," George said. "How would a low Paleolithic people get to Zarathustra from another planet? Somebody take them for a joy-ride?"

"Which ones?" Ahmed asked. "The low Paleolithic Fuzzies living in the woods, or the agricultural, house-building Fuzzies that are still in the Uplands of North Beta?"

"Or," Jack chimed in, "the reading-and-writing, communication-screen-watching, machinery-operating Fuzzies that are living at Holloway Station and Mallorysport?"

Chapter 17

"Charming," The Rev muttered as he opened the shop door. A tiny bell, suspended on a piece of spring steel so that the door would brush it into action when opened, jingled brightly. I've never seen one of those things outside a period-piece screenplay, he thought, but one might expect it here.

The white haired proprietor appeared, coming from a well-equipped back room that was many times the size of the tiny front portion of the shop. He smiled in sudden recognition. "Why, Tom," he said, "It is you. From the descriptions I've heard about the Junktown Rescue Mission, I rather thought you might be on Zarathustra."

They shook hands warmly. "It is myself, Henry. It has been a while, indeed, since I saw you. Fenris, I think- wasn't it? After a while all colony worlds begin to look alike."

"I believe it was Fenris, Tom," Henry Stenson said, "although I couldn't begin to tell you how long ago it was. I do recall it was during that squabble when the Couperin Cartel had bought up the old, original colonial company's charter-for about six-and-a-half sols and a bag of jelly beans-and tried to start running the planet. Nasty business, that one."

The Rev smiled. "I remember. The colonists and the Hunters' Co-operative ;

both a little unhappy about that. They captured the port authority docks and were going to blow up the City of Malverton on her stand if the Federation Resident-General and the new company Manager-in-Chief tried to disembark.

"I must say, Henry," The Rev continued, "You don't seem to have aged a day in the years since."

Stenson chuckled. "At my age, Tom, there's simply nothing left to wrinkle or go gray. One reaches a kind of optimum state of deterioration and stays there."

Henry Stenson was the finest instrument-maker on Zarathustra-by definition, since he was the only instrument-maker on Zarathustra. However, he would still have been the finest, even if the town was crawling with them. To call Henry Stenson an instrument-maker was about the same thing as calling Michelangelo Buonarroti an interior decorator.

Elderly and thin, with a tight mouth and a face that was a spider web of wrinkles, he was the last man one would think of as being a Federation agent.

He was, though, and had figured pivotally in the great upheaval following the discovery of Fuzzies-the Fuzzy Flap, as local historians now called it.

He was also the only person to ever successfully bug Victor Grego's private office.

"And what brings you to my humble establishment, Tom?" Stenson asked.

The Rev produced a thin sheaf of folded papers, covered with engineering sketches. "Are you familiar with the Bal-lard Diagnostic Reader?" "I am,"

Stenson said.

"Well, I need one," The Rev said, "and there isn't one to be had on the whole planet-and I can't afford to wait a year to get one out here from Terra."

"That's a pretty exotic piece of medical gear for a rescue mission, Tom."

The Rev shook his head. "I know, Henry, but I've got to have one. I just don't have the time or the trained workers to run medical checks on all these poor souls down here using multiple-station methods-even with good quality manual electronic sensing and metering equipment. Blood pressure here, coronary profile there, hematology somewhere else-it just takes too bloody long. Why, do you know there are people in Junktown who have never seen a doctor in their entire adult lives?"

"Shocking," Stenson said. "Shocking thing for the Seventh Century. I thought we had excellent public health programs, here."

"We do," the Rev said. "That's the hell of it. The health care is there, all right, but the people won't use it because experience has taught them that the less contact they have with the government the less trouble the government can make for them. That's what's shocking."

"Well, don't make too much of it, Tom," Stenson said. "The way people are pouring into Mallorysport for the so-called great land boom, you've got to expect that most of them will be the kind that doesn't trust the government."

"And why should they, Henry?" the Rev asked. "For the most part they're the disillusioned and disadvantaged. If a man is prosperous, he's more apt to stay home. That's what makes any immigration movement a built-in heartbreaker. Most of these people wind up broke and hungry when they find the streets aren't paved with sunstones-and where a lot of them wind up is at my mission. So, I

dispense porridge and medical care, and try to patch up their souls enough for them to climb back in the ring for another round."

"I've been watching it, too," Stenson said, "and things are beginning to show signs of strain."

"That's what I 'm trying to do," the Rev said, "give them a little hope, a little help, and keep them from becoming desperate."

"It's a dangerous situation, Tom," Stenson said. "Yes, dangerous enough-even without Hugo Ingermann and his gang of thugs constantly haranguing the mob.