Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

Fuzzies are persons, too, you know."

Young broke in. "This all seems a bit melodramatic, Major. Do you mean to tell me that the public welfare comes before the Navy's interests in this matter?"

Telemann spread his hands, as though to show there was nothing concealed in them. "The briefest reading of the Federation Constitution will show that, Mr.

Young." Abruptly, he leaned forward. "Besides that, this object is on the Fuzzy Reservation. The Marines are there at the express request of Commissioner of Native Affairs Holloway, and on the concurrance of Governor General Rainsford. It's quite normal procedure-policing the safety of friendly natives. I can't quote the regulation to you, but I'll be glad to furnish a copy so you may pass it on to your viewers."

Young settled in for the "heavy shot" that would round out the interview.

Climb back in the ring and hope for a technical knockout, he thought.

"As you may be aware, Major Telemann," he said, "there have been many speculations about this affair, some of them involving stories from fairly reliable sources, to the effect that this entire-ahh-scenario which you have recited is only an elaborate coverup for something else."

"Do you mean that balderdash about a sunstone strike?" Telemann said, as he leaned back relaxedly in his chair.

"For one," Young said. "Are you prepared to comment on that?"

"I don't have to be prepared to comment on it," Telemann said,"because it's nonsense. It's true there are some remarkable sunstone deposits on the Fuzzy Reservation, and I can see quite easily that some people might connect mining rumors with our archeological dig. If you stop to think, though, the Navy has no interest-and no authority-to engage in mining operations."

Young broke in quickly. "How about 'policing the safety of friendly natives,'

upon whose reservation territory such a sunstone strike might have been made?"

Telemann laughed with genuine amusement. "I don't know, Mr. Young, whether or not you are acquainted with Mr. Commissioner Holloway. If not, then I'm certain you've heard of the bulldog tenacity with which he guards the rights and interest of the Fuzzies." He paused for a reply.

Young nodded agreement.

"Well then, there you are," Telemann said, again spreading his hands. "That's the purpose of this interview; to inform the public of the facts as we know them. There is a need to restrain public reaction to these unfounded rumors about the activity on North Beta. Why, I heard a story just the other day that this is all tied in with an impending invasion by aliens in battle cruisers.

Have you heard that one yet?"

"Yes," Young said, "yes, I'm afraid I have."

"Well, then, "Telemann said, "it's plain that we both have the same kind of ridiculous rumors to deal with-and they spread faster than we can get the truth to the people."

"I certainly agree with that," Young said gloomily. "Well, our time is just about up. Thank you for being with us, Major. Our guest today on Your News has been Major Max Telemann, TFMC, Public Information Officer for the North Beta Excavations, as they are coming to be called. This is Franklin Young for Zarathustra News Service. . ."

Victor Grego stubbed out his cigarette as he shut off the screen. "If they want to 'inform the public,' as they so grandiosely refer to what they're doing, why in blazes do they run this program at the mid-morning coffee-klatch hour, when no one is watching but insomniac night-shift workers and indolent household help?"

Leslie Coombes assumed a look of mock astonishment. "Why, Victor," he said.

"The news services are fulfilling their responsibilities to present all sides of any given story- but, of course, in such a way that they can keep it best stirred up in the public mind. Now, they have run this very fair representation of the Navy's side of things. It's 'unfortunate' that the only time available for the 'cast happened to be at this rather inopportune hour-in terms of wide audience. But, be of good cheer; they'll run some roaring nonsense-designed to foment riots, if possible-around 1900 tonight when everyone on the planet will be watching."

"I'm sad to say you 're probably in close proximity to the truth, Leslie,"

Grego said. He yawned. "Well, I have a company to run, and you have a legal department to run. We've loafed away the biggest end of an hour, here, and I must say I 'm not any closer to sniffing out the trail than I was to begin with."

Coombes rose to leave Grego's office.

Grego held up one hand, with the index finger pointing toward the ceiling.

"There's something, though- dammit-something I can't put my finger on." He looked up at Coombes. "Tell you what, Leslie," he said. "Drop 'round my place about 1730 for cocktails. I'll either have it figured by then-or-maybe you can jog this old brain a bit."

"I'll see you then," Coombes said.

Chapter 26

"Results! You dolts! I want results!" Hugo Ingermann angrily slapped the off switch on his communications screen just as Franklin Young was signing off on the Telemann interview.

He hurled himself back in his office chair and propped his chin on one fist.

"Biggest sunstone strike since the planet was opened, and you bungling louts can't find out anything about it beyond this-this-" He waved his other hand petulantly. •"-this cover story about them digging up some damned old spaceship."

He looked around the room, eyes glittering. "More men!" He leaped to his feet.

"That's the ticket! We must send more men to Beta and spy this thing out!"

Hugo Ingermann was alone in his office.

The hard-backed ridge between the upland plateau of North Beta and the Piedmont and woods of South Beta was already beginning to show up on new maps as "Fuzzy Divide."

The sun that warmed Zarathustra was creeping up over the Cordilleras, filling the Marine command car with shafts of orange light and shifting shadows as Fuzzy Divide slid under its nose five thousand feet below.

Gerd van Riebeek yawned. "It's barbaric, is what it is. It's kidnapping-drag a man out of his bed at dawn."

"What it is, is fame," Holloway remarked, his smile making the points of his mustache turn upwards. "Whether you know it or not, you and Ruth are likely the foremost Fuzzyologists on the planet."

"Hmmph," Gerd said. "What about Juan Jimenez?"

Holloway wagged his hand, with the fingers spread.

"Good point, but I wouldn't give you six to five one way or the other."

"Immaterial," Helton said.

"Why so?" Ruth asked.

"Jimenez is a CZC Company man. That's the last thing I want around this place-for a while, anyway." Helton smiled. "You people are involved with the Native Affairs Commission. That means you're under a certain amount of government control in your research-and in the way you release information about it."

"Intimidating, isn't he?" Gerd sniffed as he sipped at his coffee.

"Businesslike, is the word I 'd use," Jack said. "We don't know what kind of interest the CZC might have in this-or, for that matter, just what it's about.

When we know that, there'll be plenty of time to share data with them." "On our terms," Ruth remarked. Gerd sipped at his coffee, again. "Mummified Fuzzies," he said to no one in particular. "Are you sure?"

Helton shrugged. "Weapons systems are what I *m sure of. I can't say."

"How long can they have been there?" Gerd asked, again of no one in particular.

"Might have been a very long time," Helton said.

Gerd chuckled. "Thought you couldn't say."

Helton gave him a level look. "That's what I said," he remarked. "I didn't say I had no opinion."

Jack laughed out loud. "There for you, Dr. Fuzzyologist."

Gerd waved a hand to indicate that he yielded the point and was ready to listen.