Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

revealed, there also emerged a spherical object that occupied the space between the legs of the "A."

"That mustard-colored stuff all over it is the same sort of thing as rust,"

Bates said.

"Except that it's titanium 'rust,' " Gaperski explained.

"I think you're right," Holloway said. "From here-and without my glasses-I'd say the stuff is mostly composed of the sesqueoxide-Ti2Oj-and the sulfate-Ti2(SO4)j."

Gaperski gawked for a moment, then realized he was not talking to a layman.

Holloway eyed the two Navy officers for a moment. "The sulfate is a by-product of local volcanic activity," he said without expression.

Out of their range of vision, behind them, Helton was consumed with paroxysms of soundless mirth.

"My soil analyses show doubly, triply, and quad-ionized titanium, together with titanic acid and titanates, leaching down into the valley soil as the runoff water from the mountain percolated through the loose rock and soil covering the thing," Gerd said to Rainsford. "That explains the organic molecule, very much like hokfusine, that we found in the plant samples from the valley."

"I can see that," Rainsford said solemnly. "I have a degree in Xeno^Sciences, you know."

Gerd wasn't certain what that meant, but knowing Ben, it could mean he was either stating the obvious or making fun of the Navy ordnance officers.

As it sank toward the horizon, the sun turned more reddish, touching off the spectacular Zarathustran sunset and sending out long, pastel shadows across the valley floor, shadows that slowly crept over the vehicle park and foretold a comfortable evening after the oppressively hot day that was almost past.

"I think," Commander Bates said,"that we should knock off for the day. We ought to scan the thing thoroughly in the morning, before any additional excavating is done. There is no abnormal radioactivity, but we should proceed cautiously from here on."

In the slanting, orangish light, Phil Helton suddenly exclaimed something that no one heard clearly. He bounded down the "steps," left as the power shovels had reduced the size of the excavation with each successive layer of soil and rock removed, into the large hole, which was by this time several storeys deep.

The others followed curiously-and more slowly.

Helton walked up to the titanium thing, almost as though it might be alive. He ran his hands over the flaking, oxide-encrusted surface, sort of talking to himself. He picked up a square-point shovel that had been left by one of Casagra's Marines when the work had stopped for the day and scaled off a patch of the titanium "rust" until he had exposed a seam in the metallic layer underneath. He banged at it a couple of times with the shovel, then cursed loudly and quite clearly enough for anyone to understand.

He turned to the group standing on the level above. "Toss down a geologist's

hammer, someone, will you?" he said. It was not so much a request as a command.

Soon, the specified tool landed in the fresh dirt a few meters from where he stood.

Helton waved, then bent and picked up the hammer. He measured off a distance from the seam with his fingers and then gave the surface a couple of smart, loud whacks.

No one had the slightest idea what he was doing-except Master Gunnery Sergeant of Fleet Marines Philip Helton, who knew exactly what he was doing.

Helton retrieved his shovel and forced it into the seam. Then he drove it in like a wedge, using the hammer. He pried a little, to open the seam. Then he drove the shovel point a bit farther in and repeated the process. Finally, he pried a lot. The others could see the shovel handle bend under the strain of force-applied by Helton.

Laboriously, he forced open a small "hatch," a little over two feet square in the surface of "it." He threw down his tools and stuck his head inside.

Presently, his head popped out. There was a strange smile on his face. "Throw me a light!" he shouted. WhenJie had the light, he stuck his head back inside, wriggled his shoulders into the "hatch," and was still for not more than two minutes. It seemed like an eternity to the watchers.

Helton pulled back out into the light, brushed some dust off his face, and sneezed twice. He stood back, almost reverently, his eyes fixed on the scaly titanium surface of "it."

Finally, he turned his face up to the group on the step. There was still a strange smile on his face. "I know what it is," he said clearly and evenly.

The silence was thick and heavy. A trickle of sweat wandered down Helton's cheek, ran along the line of his jaw, and dripped off his chin onto his shirt.

He took several steps closer to the dirt parapet where Holloway 's group and the two Navy officers stood. Instinctively, they drew back, as though the glitter in Helton's eyes and the strange smile on his face were both some kind of contamination he had acquired when his head and shoulders had been poked inside the "it."

"I know what it is," he repeated.

Holloway wanted to scream "What?" but he was as spellbound as the others by the scene at the bottom of the dig-washed by the eerie sunset shadows of Zarathustra.

Finally, Helton stopped, seemed to regain control of himself, and took a deep breath. He looked up at the group again.

"It's a hyperdrive star ship," he said. Then, his voice broke and wavered a little. "Somewhere," Helton said, "there is another star-traveling race."

Chapter 21

The Mess Sergeant re-located his cigar at the exact mathematical center of his mouth. "I don't care if they 're all Grand High Poo-Bahs of Shesha," he said.

"They ain't military. I can't feed 'em. I gotta justify everything on my head-count sheet. If they ain't military, there's no square on the form for me

to tally their meals."

Helton grimaced, more out of embarrassment than anything else. He had sort of attached himself to this battalion- and "adopted" it while he was kicking around on Xerxes. Of course, he knew all the principal NCOs and the officers and trusted most of them to know their jobs.

"Vee-dahl, dammit," Helton said. "If you look very closely at TFMC Reg 30-1, you will notice that it provides for the feeding of officials of the civilian government at a field mess facility, and that they are to be accorded treatment at a level equivalent to full colonel or above."

Vidal Beltran glared at Helton. "Well, then, why in hell isn't there a space on the form?" he exploded.

Lesser Sergeants Major quailed before the authority of a Master Gunnie. Fleet Admirals and Force Generals were uneasy about his opinions of their operation.

Field grade officers deferred to his judgement. If there was anyone in the armed forces who would never be cowed by a Master Gunnie, it was certain to be a Mess Sergeant. Like the captain of a man-o'-war, his kitchen was his quarterdeck. He held the only authorized command power within the walls of his chow hall-it was written that way in the regulations.

Helton smiled at him. There was nothing so elegantly elemental as a Mess Sergeant in the full flower of a temper tantrum.

"Because," Helton said, "there are perhaps two times per decade when such a notation would be necessary on your Form 3033. There's a supplemental and you foot it out on the 3033. Reg says you can attach a D.F. signed by the commander of the mess-that's you."

Beltran jerked the cigar out of his mouth. "Well, how the hell do you know so much about it, Phil?"

Helton held up the first two fingers of his right hand and ticked off each one of them with his left hand. "Because," he said, "I've audited enough mess halls to cover this planet." His face softened abruptly. "And I ran one for two years; that's how I got my seven," he finished.

"You-?" Beltran said.

"That's right," Helton interrupted.' "There's hope for you yet."