Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

"Yen, Sahge; what make do?"

Beltran pulled down a bag from above his desk. "Ahem," he said. "Inasmuch as Starwatcher, here, is the leader of the Upland Fuzzies, and inasmuch as he has graciously allowed us to camp within his territory, the men of the First Battalion would like to present this badge of office to him."

He drew out the tiny barracks cover, expertly cut down to fit a Fuzzy, with a handmade twelve-pointed star for an insignia badge, and ceremoniously placed it on Starwatcher's head.

The Fuzzies were delighted. They whooped and howled, and some of them lapsed into loud yeeks within their own speech range.

"Lemme think," Beltran said absently. "Mirror. Mirror. Where's a mirror?" Ah, there was a mirror over the lavatory where the cooks washed their hands. But, it was screwed to the bulkhead. Well, no matter.

He picked up Starwatcher and held him up in front of the mirror. Let's see, that was too high, and standing him on the edge of the lavatory was too low.

He hoisted the Fuzzy up on his shoulder and steadied him with one hand.

Starwatcher sat back and regarded his own reflection very seriously. Then he looked side wise at Beltran. Then he reached up with tiny hands and cocked the

barracks cover over to one side and snugged the little visor down above his right eye. He contemplated this for a moment before nodding approval. Then he threw his arms around Beltran's neck and hugged it vigorously.

Beltran's cigar fell into the sink, but he didn't care. He had made a Fuzzy very happy.

Hugo Ingermann's eyes lighted up with unconcealed glee. "An inside man at the CZC you say? One with a direct pipeline to Grego, himself?"

Ivan Bowlby preened himself, like the proud little bird he was. "Yes, Mr.

Ingermann, and I don't think the information we'll be getting will be too outrageously expensive- considering."

"Well, who, man," Ingermann asked eagerly, "who?" Bowlby wagged a finger.

"Now, now, "he said. "It's my contact. You '11 have to be content to work through me on this matter."

Ingermann's neck began to swell. The expression of joy on his face was replaced with one of rising anger. "Why, you son of a Khooghra! You 're trying to put the squeeze on me, aren't you?"

Bowlby took the hankie from his jacket pocket and sniffed at it. "Sticks and stones, Mr. Ingermann," he said. "Sticks and stones. If I 'm forced to put this information out to the highest bidder, you '11 see how utterly reasonable I 'm being in my offer of it to you exclusively."

Ingermann's face began to redden.

"And no rough stuff, either," Bowlby cautioned. "There is another go-between below my level. If something happens to me, then you '11 be forced to deal with him, and he may not feel the generosity toward you that I have come to know during our long and profitable association together."

"All right!" Ingermann said suddenly. "I'll give your 'inside man' a try for two weeks. Two weeks-no more. If I'm not satisfied, then you can both go to Nifflheim!"

"Done," Bowlby said quietly and extended his hand.

Chapter 31

"Helton!" O'Bannon roared from inside his tent. "Is that yourself?" Actually, it wasn't a roar, but the tone of voice was pretty tense for the unflappable Lieutenant Colonel lames O'Bannon.

Helton raised his eyebrows. An observance of the niceties of protocol seemed indicated. "Yes, sir!" Helton barked. "Permission to enter-sir.'"

"Come in!" O'Bannon barked back at him. Helton stepped through the tent portal and snapped to an attention brace with a deafening clack of boot-heels.

O'Bannon was in his sock feet and seated at his field console. "Sit down," he said simply, with a wave toward the other field chair. Helton sat.

O'Bannon fixed him with a cold look. "Exactly why does Commodore Napier want to see us?" he asked. "Have you gone and put my tail in a crack?"

"His indication to me, Colonel," Helton said, "was that he desired to de-brief us on the contents of the cavern."

O'Bannon waved his hand as if at some triviality. "Well, then," he said,"there's no need for me to go along. I haven't the least notion of what's in the cavern." He glared at Helton. "Because they won't let me in the damned place!" He paused. "My own damned troops, and they won't let me in the place!

Perhaps you might be able to explain that in some way that I can understand."

Helton pursed his lips and inhaled. "Well?" O'Bannon snapped.

"It's part of the dig, sir. You put me in charge of the dig. That is a part of the dig, and I have declared it off-limits to everyone. I have this tape-"

"Lest you lose track of things, Gunnie," O'Bannon hissed, "I am in command of this operation. Nothing is off-limits to me!"

"I felt the Colonel should look at this tape before I take him into the cavern," Helton said, deftly switching to the more formal third-person form of address. "I have to destroy the tape after the Colonel has looked at it."

"Helton," O'Bannon said, "I looked your record over pretty thoroughly before I put this kind of responsibility on you-Master Gunnie or no Master Gunnie. But, by Ghu's guts, you have overstepped yourself!"

Helton looked at O'Bannon directly. "Would the Colonel like to rant and rave some more, or would he prefer to see the tape at this time?" he asked evenly.

O'Bannon had been looking at his own feet. Without moving his head, he lifted his gaze and peered at Helton through his eyebrows.

Commodore Alex Napier closed the folio in front of him and arranged it in the exact center of his desk. There was no sound in his domed office, except an occasional double click as photo cells acted to close one segment of the sunscreen and open another.

He tapped the heel from his pipe, blew through the stem, and carefully refilled the bowl with tobacco. After lighting the pipe, he puffed lightly on it and stared at the floor for several minutes. Then, he leaned forward and punched out a combination on his communications screen. The burst of colors solidified into the face of a smooth-cheeked young ensign, the duty officer in the Operations Center.

"Yes, sir," the ensign responded.

"Get me your boss, Mister," Napier said.

"Commander Johnsen?" the ensign asked.

"He is the Ops Officer, isn't he?" Napier said.

The ensign swallowed. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Thank you," Napier said.

Momentarily, a man with iron-gray hair, wearing the insignia of a full commander appeared. "Yes, Commodore," he said.

"Carl," Napier said, "is the Ranger still our fastest corvette?"

"Yes, sir," Johnsen said, "she is. She's fitted and provisioned for emergency launch right now."

"How soon can she be provisioned with Class-A rations and fully manned?"

Napier asked.

"Six to twelve hours, Commodore," Johnsen said. "She's on half-crew liberty."

"Mmmm," Napier said. "Well, Carl, there's no dreadful rush about it, but I '11

have a courier mission for her in the next few days-week at the most."

"I'll put her on standby alert," Johnsen said.

"Thank you, Carl," Napier said. He blanked the screen and punched out another combination-this time to the private office screen of his Executive Officer, Captain Conrad Greibenfeld.

Greibenfeld was just sitting down behind his desk when the screen cleared.

Apparently he had been out of his office. "Yes, Alex?" he said, using the first-name address, since there were no junior officers or enlisted men within earshot.

"Connie," Napier said, "I need a good Class-A agent- one with an impeccable security record."

"Sure, Alex," Greibenfeld said. "How long will you need him?"

"Might be quite a while," Napier said. "I want him attached to my personal staff."

Greibenfeld looked slightly uncomfortable. He liked to be in on everything, and here was "something" he was obviously not in on. "Very good, sir," he said. "Ill send you a selection to choose from. Say, three of them?"