Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

"Ingermann, Ingermann!" Grego exploded. "When we get that son of a khooghra, I'm going to hang him high." He recovered his composure. "They can't get out of Mallorys-port, can they, Harry? The Colonial Constabulary is supposed to have the town sealed up tight."

The image of Harry Steefer shook his head. "I wouldn't bet on it, sir.

Ferguson's men have been doing just that, but we 're talking about hundreds of

vehicles, here. Some of them are bound to get through. In fact, quite a few of them are bound to get through."

"Are we lending a hand?" Grego asked.

"Mallorysport P.D. and us are doing as much as we can," Steefer said. "But, there are some fires in Junktown, some street fights, and some reports of looting."

Grego shook his head in disbelief. "So this disorganized gang is heading for North Beta to raid for sunstones. It's like a-what did they call those little animals that committed suicide by the whole herd running over a cliff? Well, no matter; that's what it is. Harry, they haven't got a chance. They're going up against trained Marines."

"I know that," Steefer said. "You know that; but, no one has told them that."

"Has any of the rioting leaked up into Mallorysport, yet?" Grego asked.

Steefer shook his head. "Not yet," he said, "but I've increased security around Company House. They may make a try for you, so we're watching your residence very close. I don't want you to leave your apartment without telling me. I'll likely be here all night-or at least until this is over."

"In that case," Grego said, "you 'd best put a couple more men on Miss Ramsey's hospital room. They may make a try for her, too."

"Good idea," Steefer said. "And, Harry," Grego said. "Yes, sir," Steefer said.

"Christiana's over there right no w," Grego said. "Send a Company Police vehicle for her and bring her back here." He leaned back in the console chair.

"Any other trials and tribulations?" he asked. "I mean, something minor, like a volcanic eruption in the center of town?"

Steefer smiled crookedly. "One other thing . . ."he said.

Grego didn't like the tone of gallows humor in Harry Steefer's voice. "Which is . . . ?"

"Mortgageville's burning," Steefer said. "Big fires. Has to be arson."

Grego clenched his teeth. "Ghu's guts!" he intoned. As soon as the transmission cleared, Grego rushed out onto the north terrace. Silver-trimmed maroon Company air jeeps, with POLICE lettered on their sides, were already circling over Company House.

To the north of Mallorysport, great, leaping flames hundreds of feet high were dancing against the night sky, with clouds of dense, black smoke rising above them, already beginning to blot out the stars with a stygian curtain of darkness. Ingermann had unleashed the demons of hell and the misshapen ogres of brutality that still lived deep inside the Terran human spirit, and their primal forebears were now cavorting for joy a few miles north of Mallorysport.

Grego had the uneasy feeling that they were, perhaps, the shadows of things yet to come.

In the distance, darting lights showed the location of firefighting vehicles as they sought to close on the fires. One could occasionally catch a glimpse of one of them, illuminated from below by a new billow of flame or explosion.

Grego rolled his eyes upward. "Bill Zeckendorf is going to love this," he said

to himself.

Diamond had stopped playing with his now-forgotton ball and was watching, too.

He thought it was a splendid show and spectacularly entertaining.

As soon as Alex Napier finished the communications abstract which a yeoman had just delivered to his cabin, he grabbed his tunic and began to put it back on.

"Another quiet evening shot to Nifflheim," he muttered. With his arm in one sleeve, he punched up a screen-call combination with that hand while he fumbled behind him for the other sleeve.

"Connie," he said to the image of his Exec that came on screen, "have you seen this abstract?"

"Just finished reading it, Alex," Captain Greibenfeld said. "I was just starting to call you."

"Full staff call in my office," Napier said, "in thirty minutes-to include McGraw, his Exec, O'Bannon, and Helton."

"An enlisted man?" Greibenfeld interrupted.

"I want his opinion," Napier said coldly.

Greibenfeld said nothing.

"Signal Akerblad to put San Pablo ready to lift off on my order. Situation estimate from Steve Aelborg-he can refine it later; I want what he has in thirty minutes. When you find McGraw or his Exec, I want the rest of the Second and all of the Third Battalion to saddle up and stand by in their quarters for further orders. All supply and support elements to be on their stations as soon as possible."

"Isn't this a bit much, Alex?" Greibenfeld asked. He honestly felt Napier was over-reacting. "I mean this beat-to-quarters-and-man-guns? It sounds to me like just a rather elaborate series of civil unrest incidents."

"It's a mob, is what it is," said Napier, closing up the front of his tunic.

"But, still-" Greibenfeld began.

"Dammit, Connie," Napier said. "A mob is like mud; it has no mind, no form, no reason-only movement. If you don't stop all of it, you haven't stopped any of it. It'll roll over you, smother you, and kill you without ever knowing anything was in its way."

Chapter 42

"We did the best we could do," Colonel Ian Ferguson said into the communications pickup. He was screening from his command car. His tunic collar was open. He looked haggard. "As it is, Governor, we'll be the rest of the night charging and booking the ones we have in custody-if the town doesn't bum down first."

Ben Rainsford wanted to take a handful of his own whiskers in each fist and pull them out. "Ingermann- Ingermann-INGERMANN!" he raged. "That fat little son of a khooghra has caused me more grief than the entire planetary government put together. I hope they can hang something with mandatory death sentence on him; I want to be the one that pulls the trigger. How many got through, Ian?"

"As nearly as we can tell," Ferguson said quietly, "almost two hundred vehicles. We have no idea how many people that involves, though."

Rainsford had been lighting his pipe. He waved his hand to clear the dense cloud of tobacco smoke between himself and the communications screen. "You better-no, you're busy enough-I'll screen Napier. Keep me posted, Ian. And don't worry; if you did as good as you could, you did good."

Jack Holloway was nearly two hours south of Fuzzy Valley, almost to Fuzzy Divide. The stars were bright, overhead, and Xerxes had climbed almost halfway from the horizon to the zenith. He had been busily making lists in his head of things to do and was happy to conclude that during the week or so that everyone was going to be on Xerxes, he could just about handle all the work that had piled up since the afternoon when Ahmed Khadra gave a whoop and shouted that he had found an enormous titanium object buried under the soil of what was now called Mount Fuzzy. Now, who could be calling him on the screen?

No one knew he was in the air, except . . .

"Major Stagwell, here, Commissioner."

"Yes, Dick," Holloway said. "What's up?"

As Stagwell spoke, Holloway laid Gerd's airboat over into a long, flat arc mat would take it back to a reverse course.

"What do they have to shoot with?" he asked as soon as Stagwell had outlined the situation.

"We don't know yet," Stagwell answered. "My guess would be nothing heavier than individual weapons, but I expect they 11 have some automatic stuff-maybe a few machine guns."

"I'm on my way, Dick," Holloway said. "Have you raised Xerxes yet?"

"We've signaled and are waiting for the authentication code," Stagwell said.

"I've done a lot of riot work, but I want guidance from upstairs on this one."