Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

"How do you think they got in there?" Holloway asked.

Helton shrugged. "Like I said before-weapons systems and hardware are my specialty. What I can tell you is that we have mapped the entire ship. A lot of it was caved in by the landing, but we have precise locations for you of the remains. You won't have to spend much time inside, and it's safe-as long as you don't start tearing out bulkheads."

Gerd was tapping his nose with his index finger. "How closely can we date the ship with the remains? We might have something very interesting, there."

"We've done that," Helton said. "The remains are younger than the ship is."

"Which doesn't prove a damned thing," Holloway said.

"That's my thought," Helton said.

Gerd took on an irritable look. ' "That's not what I mean," he said. "How old are they?"

Helton's face brightened. He saw what Gerd meant immediately. "The remains are ten to twelve centuries old-" Then he held up a cautioning finger. "-unless there are hydrocarbon accelerations we know nothing about. That's why I dragged you good people out of bed at such an ungen-teel hour."

"What about the ship?" Ruth asked. "How old is it?"

Helton looked down at the deck under his feet for a moment. "We can't say anything definite about that. Maybe less than two thousand years old-maybe more. We have to do a long rundown on the oxides to get anything close to a guess."

"You realize, of course," Gerd said, "that trying to accurately date the remains while they're still inside the ship is pretty unreliable."

Helton nodded. "Yes, and I also realize that we have no one at the site with anything resembling the skill to do a proper job of removing them and making a thorough analysis-which, I suppose, explains O'Bannon *s instant approval of my idea to import some Fuzzyologists and do the job correctly."

"Colonel O'Bannon is an intelligent man," Gerd said, nodding affirmatively.

"For a Marine," Helton said.

After the general laughter had subsided, Jack Holloway chuffed thoughtfully on his pipe for a moment, then looked seriously at Helton. "Phil;" he said,

"remember what I said about you not 'sirring' very many people?"

"Yes, sir," Helton replied with a broad grin.

"Aside from the fact that he's obviously a competent man," Holloway said, "why do you show him that kind of respect?"

Helton's face took an immediate change of expression. "Because he's not in awe of me," Helton said. "Captains jump when I growl. Senior officers solicit my opinion before they proceed. O'Bannon always knows exactly what he's doing.

He's not about to be dazzled by the mystique of the omnipotent Master Gunnie.

So, I defer to him-unless I think he's wrong."

Victor Grego had slogged his way through a luncheon meeting in the Board Room with several of his division managers, solving problems and making decisions in areas they should have been able to manage without his advice. That was, he thought, why they were called "managers." Now he sat behind the large desk in his own office, leaned back in his chair, and lit a cigarette. It might just be time to shake up the leadership in a few departments-a wonderful way to convey the idea to everyone that the Manager-in-Chief was not just sitting on his duff, reading reports.

Of course, this thing on North Beta had everyone up in the air-rumors and rumors of rumors. Harry Steefer's overflight readouts on the excavation and the "object" indicated that it was likely made of titanium, but none of the spies from the CZC Police who had been shunted over to Beta had come up with anything positive on just what the thing was.

Grego blew smoke at the ceiling and watched his lazily turning globe of

Zarathustra. It would be just about morning coffee-break time at the North Beta Excavations. He formed a mental picture of dusty Marines lining up to get their coffee and pastry. A whole battalion of Marines. . .

Suddenly, he sprang forward in his chair and tapped the switch on his private communication screen. After the swirling burst of color dissolved, Myra Fallada 's face appeared in it. He could tell he had interrupted her at some task. "Myra!" he said. "Get me Juan Jimenez at Science Center- instantly."

Myra frowned. "Yes, Mr. Grego," she said.

Grego stubbed out the cigarette. In less than a minute, Juan Jimenez appeared as Myra switched in the channel. "What is it, Victor?" Jimenez asked.

"Juan," Grego said, "isn't there a scientific principle which states an organism does not evolve a need for any element that isn't fairly plentiful in the environment?"

Jimenez stroked his chin. "Yes-yes, Victor, there is. I can't recall it at the moment though-I mean to name or state it. I can find out for you. How soon do you need the data?" -

"Yesterday," Grego said vigorously. "Can you have it by five-I mean everything about it." It was not a question.

Jimenez looked bemused. "Why-uh-I expect so. It's likely stored in with the xenobiology bank. I'll put someone right on it."

Grego frowned. "No, no, no, Juan. Do it yourself. Don't let anyone know what you're pulling out of the computer. And don't discuss it with anyone."

' "This must be pretty damned big," Jimenez said. His face took on an aggravated look. "I mean, for common scientific data that's available to anyone who wants to look it up."

"That's not the point," Grego said briskly. "Dig up everything you can and bring hard copies to my apartment at 1730. Then, if we have what I think we have, I'll explain it all to you."

Jimenez frowned and pursed his lips.

"-Honest," Grego said.

"You mean you want a barracks cover in a child's size," the supply sergeant said.

"No, no, Sam," Vidal Beltran said exasperatedly. "When I say this big-" He held out both hands with thumbs and forefingers circled. "-I mean Fuzzy size."

The supply sergeant reared back in mock surprise. "Oh, well-why didn 't you say so? We don't have those in regular issue. To get one that small you'll have to go to officer's supply."

Beltran gnawed his cigar. "What I want you to do, Sam, is take one and cut it down to fit a Fuzzy."

"Which Fuzzy?" Sam asked.

"The one that's the drillmaster for the Fuzzies that live up here in this valley," Beltran said.

"Kind of like a badge of office, you mean," Sam said.

Beltran gnawed his cigar-more happily this time. "Yeah," he said. "He oughta have a hat."

Sam leaned on the edge of his console. "Hmmmmm," he said. "I can cut down the frame and the sweatband-and the cover. The visor, though; that'll have to be completely redesigned. Hmmmmm."

"Come on, Sam," Beltran said. "You can do it from a component pattern."

"Hmmmm,"TSam said, shifting his weight to the other elbow.

"Look, Sam," Beltran said, "I'll get your section some goodies from the mess."

Sam straightened, suddenly more interested. "What kind of goodies?" he asked.

As Juan Jimenez stepped out of the lift at the penthouse level, he was not thinking of the packet of data printout which was under his arm. He was not thinking of why Victor Grego was in such a hell of a rush to get the information.

He was thinking about the inconvenience of shuffling around his cocktail date with Liana Bell. Probably better to push it up to dinner, anyway. There would be much more time to talk with her that way. He could demonstrate his savoir-faire with the wine list. Perhaps it would be appropriate to dine at Alfredo's. It couldn't hurt to start things off with a bit of a splash.

Now, if I can just break loose from this meeting by-oh- 1930 or so. . .

Jimenez was startled out of his ruminations by the sudden opening of the portal and the appearance of Leslie Coombes' slender and suavely elegant self on the other side of the doorway.

"Come in, Juan," Coombes said. "Victor's in the kitchen, just fixing cocktails. Would you care for one?"