Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

"Well," Gerd said, exhaling noisily, "the irritating aspect of what we might rather grandiosely call 'The van Riebeek Theory,' is that the observations and deductions involved in its formulation keep coming back to Garrett's Theorem-that the need for an element does not arise in evolution unless the element is readily available. If you admit the applicability of Garrett's Theorem to Fuzzy biochemistry-which, by the way, I never tumbled to until Sandra raised the question-you keep landing back on square one, where resides that alarming idea that FMzzies did not evolve on Zarathustra. It just doesn't make sense, but it keeps haunting the data we've developed."

"Maybe they came on that hypership you guys claim is being dug up on North Beta," Ruth said.

"Oh, for Ghu 's sake, Ruth!" Gerd exploded. "That's the confoundedest nonsense I've heard all week-and I've been hearing some pretty weird ideas."

Well Ruth sniffed. "l was Just trying to make you feel better."

Ahmed waved his hand. "You can fight later. Dinner's almost ready.

Chapter 24

"You're falling for him, aren't you?" The Rev leaned back in his chair and ran the heel of his hand over the graying hair at his temple.

Christiana's eyes blinked once, then grew large. "Oh, Father Gordon!" she said, flustered. "It's just that he's- well-he's a very nice man, and I-I-"

The Rev leaned forward again. "... And you've never had a man be nice to you

before, without he was expecting to get something for it." He finished the sentence for her.

She frowned and thought hard for a moment. "I guess you're right about that part. "A short, choking laugh escaped from her. "All my life. With Daddy it was good treatment for good behavior; bad treatment for bad behavior-except that it was a shell game. I never knew which number was coming up. Then there were all the boys in school when I was growing up. . ."

Still a lot of that to be done, The Rev thought to himself.

The Rev pushed the box of tissues across the desk. She jerked out two of them and blew her nose.

"So, now you've got a pretty nifty job uptown, working for the CZC," The Rev said, "and you think you need my advice about whether you should move to a better address?"

She squinted at him. "Well, I'm not sure about that."

"You know you 're going to have to do it," he said. "You just told me that you're changing for this-ahh-dinner date before you pick up Diamond because you don't want Diamond to know you live in a cheap hotel in Junktown. What you

're saying, of course, is you 're afraid Diamond will tell Grego and Grego will start wondering why."

"You see what I mean?" she said, with a note of anguish in her voice. "I 'm not sure I can cut it. I 've tried running with those fine-haired dogs at the top of the pile and they've walked all over me. I don't know if I can take another round of that."

The Rev fitted the ends of his fingers together and studied the pattern they made. "Have you had a payday, yet?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," she sniffed.

"You take your pile of money and put down the rent on a nice little apartment-preferably within spitting distance of Company House," he said,

"even if you have to sleep on the floor until next payday. I told you before, you don't belong down here-you like people too much."

"Well, what are yew doing down here?" she asked. "You like people."

The Rev grinned at her. "My job is to help people. That's why I 'm down here.

It don't make a damn whether I like them or not."

"If you think that's the thing to do, "she said, "I'll try it. I just had to have someone else's opinion. I-I'm kind of confused right now."

"Course you are, m'dear," The Rev said. "That's because you're falling for him. Didn't I just tell you that?"

"What make do?"

Sergeant Beltran looked up suddenly from his cubbyhole desk in a back corner of the kitchen scow. Four Fuzzies were peeping bashfully, around the edge of the open back hatch.

"What make do?" Little Fuzzy repeated.

Beltran had never seen a Fuzzy up close. He was fascinated. Like many men who were extremely tough, he turned to goo at the sight of those wide, appealing eyes. "Why- ah-I'm planning tomorrow's menu for a bunch of unappreciative slobs," he said.

Little Fuzzy and the three Upland Fuzzies stepped through the hatch into the back of the kitchen, sensing that Beltran was an all-right Hagga.

"S'ob?" Little Fuzzy said. "What's a s'ob?"

"Marines," Beltran said.

"Greensuit Hagga?" Little Fuzzy asked.

Beltran nodded affirmatively.

"Greensuit Hagga-Mahreen-s'ob? All same thing?" Little Fuzzy asked with his usual intent stare of inquisitiveness.

Beltran thought for a moment. "Pretty much-yes," he said, "but some of them might not understand if you called them 'slob'."

Little Fuzzy turned to his companions and yeeked to them in Lingua Fuzzy for a few moments, then turned back to Beltran. "They no speak Hagga, yet, but I say them what you say."

The Mess Sergeant leaned down from his stool to get a closer look at these little people. The Upland Fuzzies drew back a bit, nervously fingering their brand-new steel chopper-diggers.

Little Fuzzy threw out his chest and pulled his chin back. He reached out a tiny hand and fingered the texture of Beltran's uniform sleeve. "Cook food this place?" he asked, sniffing curiously. "Give to greensuit Hagga?"

"Every damned day," Beltran sighed. Then he added, "Would you guys like something to eat?" Little Fuzzy nodded. "What do you want?" Beltran asked. A light came into Little Fuzzy's eyes. "Esteefee?" he asked. "You give esteefee?"

Beltran scratched his head. "S.T. Fee,"he said. "What's that?"

"All Hagga have esteefee," Little Fuzzy said. "I show." He shouldered Beltran aside-at about kneecap level-and began looking up and down the stowage shelves. Finally, he spotted a group of the familiar, blue-labeled tins. He pointed with his chopper-digger. "Esteefee," he said triumphantly. Beltran looked, then looked again. "You mean you want to eat that?" he exclaimed.

Little Fuzzy nodded. "Esteefee-big t'heet," he said. "You make do?"

Sergeant Beltran shook his head, wiped his hands on the seat of his pants, relocated the cigar in his mouth, and dug a can of the emergency rations off the shelf. He blew the dust off it and ran it through the opener. He got a metal plate from the drying rack and divided the slightly oily, slightly rancid-smelling, gingerbread-colored cake into eight portions-two (ugh!) helpings each for the Fuzzies.

As the Fuzzies were digging into the Extee-Three, yeek-ing with delight, Beltran continued to shake his head in disbelief. Then he rummaged around in a drawer and dug out four of his one hundred milliliter measuring cups-about right for a Fuzzy-and set them down, filled with water from the ionization

tanks that serviced the kitchen.

At the time Alfredo's opened its doors in Mallorysport- some twelve years earlier-it had been the most rigidly elegant spot to dine on the planet. At the time it opened it had been the only remotely elegant place to dine on the planet. Alfredo's had maintained its standards, growing in status and reputation as Zarathustra itself grew. The staff was impeccable. The cuisine was excellent. The management showed an uncanny ability to obtain rare delicacies near and dear to the Terran palate-delicacies that could not be had anywhere else on the planet. When, for example, a shipment of frozen oysters would arrive from Terra, the gourmets of Mallorysport would cheerfully stand in line during a driving rainstorm for the privilege of paying an astronomical price for a taste of home.

The interior was a symphony of red sylkon drapery, crimson carpeting, and raised paneling of native woods. Elegance-ah-the elegance of a fine, quiet old restaurant back on Terra. Colonists became uncontrollably hungry for such an environment from time to time, so why not assuage two hungers at the same time?