Tuning William - Fuzzy Bones

"Oh-ho," Grego said. He put his arm around her waist and walked her out onto the south terrace, from where they could view the Zarathustran sunset, blazing red and gold in the western sky. "So, this insurrection and gun battle thing over on North Beta is a little larger than the news media let on to the citizens, is it?"

"It certainly looks that way to me," she said.

Grego patted her, just below the ribs. "Maybe I should fire Harry Steefer and put you in charge of the Company Police-the way about you that you have of ferreting things out and-oh-managing people-including me."

She giggled quietly and smacked Grego on the shoulder with her fist.

"Ingermann got away, you know," she said, turning suddenly serious.

Grego raised his eyebrows. "No. I hadn't heard that. It'll be Nifflheim 's own job to dig him out and arrest him, now."

"That's why I think we should send Gwen over to Hollo-way Station as soon as she's ready to leave the hospital," Christiana said. "She's the star witness in the case, and where would she be safer than sitting in the middle of the entire ZNPF? Perhaps we can arrange for her to stay with Lynne Andrews-who is an M.D.-and who lives next door to the van Riebeeks-who are also both M.D.s.

And I understand Gerd van Riebeek is experienced in the bush and a good hand with a gun."

Grego took a pull at his drink. "You've figured it all out, haven't you?"

She smiled a tight little smile and nodded.

Grego nodded. "I'll speak to Pappy Jack at the reception."

Chapter 46

When Fuzzies talk among themselves, they generally sit down on the ground-or the floor-in a circle and proceed with the conversation. When they are in attendance at a social function with the Hagga, though, they have learned to make their talk-circle in a place where they are not apt to get stepped on accidentally. In the case of parties held in places with outdoor terraces, such as Victor Grego's penthouse or the Colonial Governor's quarters at

Government House, >tnere always seemed to be heavy circular tables made of dilon in use as outdoor furniture. These became a favorite place for Fuzzy-talk while the Hagga made Big-One talk.

Starwatcher and Little Fuzzy were deep in serious conversation with Diamond, who would occasionally nod his head slowly. All of them frequently lapsed into Lingua Fuzzy, audible to.Terran ears only as a series ofyeeks. All three were soon to be disturbed by Commodore Napier-who referred to them as the Big Three Fuzzies-as he would require then-presence in the Governor's conference room.

The reception that Alex Napier had laid on at Government House could, as Christiana had predicted, be accurately described as having a certain amount of pomp. The first inkling that this was a military affair came from the posted-and armed-Marine sentries in dress blues. They positively glittered.

They were affable, incredibly polite to the civilians, and all business as they checked the identification of every person entering the building.

Through Governor Rainsford's cavernous private conference room and out on the terrace, Navy messcooks in spotless whites had laid out a buffet that would rival the most elaborate do that Jerry Panoyian could assemble. The bar was open, but the presence of more Marine sentries, posted like statues around the terrace fenceline, seemed to indicate restraint. Napier had carefully orchestrated the affair to indicate convivial co-operation while at the same time underscoring the point that civil unrest was still a cause for concern.

He had only invited The People Who Counted, and the quick realization that they were all there indicated that this would come to more than some little Public Relations party the Navy was tossing.

Ordinarily, Napier would have been resplendent in his gold-braided Space Navy black uniform, but he looked like an undertaker alongside Marines in dress blues. Phil Helton, in particular, was blindingly easy to find, with Master Gunnery Sergeant of Fleet Marines chevrons-three gold ones up, three more upside down under them, and two straight gold bars through the middle, all on a crimson background with a flaming bomb at the center of the two straight bars. That took up most of each sleeve, but on the left one he had to cram in a string of gold hashmarks and off-planet service bars (which were called hershey bars for some reason no one remembered any more). The high, tunic collar, piped in red, was set off with the TFMC anchor-and-spiral-nebula insignia-"clanker in the stars," as it was referred to by insiders.

Jack Hollo way sidled up to Helton. "That's a mighty gaudy-I mean-ah-colorful uniform, Phil," he said.

Helton smiled a tight smile and took a sip of his drink. "That's because you've never seen a senior Marine NCO in full drag before," he said.

"Full drag?" Holloway was awash to the term.

"All dressed up," Helton said.

"No," Jack said, "as a matter of fact, I never have. Great Ghu," he said, eyeing Helton's medals, "that's quite a string of gongs you've got there, too."

"Well," Helton said,"no matter how careful you are, you can't avoid collecting a few in twenty years."

"What's your next move?" Holloway asked. "I suppose you'll be shipping out pretty soon."

"Yes, sir," Helton said, reiterating their private joke. "My work's done here, now. Time to move on to the next job."

"How long before they put you out to pasture?" Jack asked.

Helton puffed his cheeks and exhaled noisily. "I'm supposed to get my double-dec chip any time, now," he said."I haven't made up my mind whether to pull the pin then or stick for thirty. It all just gets to be the same after a while."

Holloway looked off into the middle distance. "I know what you mean, Phil," he said. "I know what you mean."

The band-in Navy full-dress-had returned to the platform and struck up a slow waltz called Baldur's Rum Rats. Holloway recognized it, but had no notion at all of why it had come to be written or what it meant.

As Holloway stared across the terrace, he could see Grego and Christiana coming toward them, accompanied by Ben Rainsford-who was wearing his usual rumpled bush jacket and short pants. With his bushy red whiskers and knobby knees-at that distance-he looked rather like an obscure species of khaki emu.

Odd-how he and Victor Grego had become something of friendly enemies, once each understood that they were both working toward the same goals. Grego seemed to be getting positively mellow-and everyone noticed how impossible it was for himself and Christiana to conceal their obviously deep devotion to each other. Even in public, at the most formal of affairs, they were like a pair of water spaniels that had mated for life-totally wrapped up in each other.

Holloway smiled as unobtrusively as he could. Wonder what goes on when there's no one else around, he thought. Looks like there'll be another wedding reception pretty soon-and Grego won't be losing his Fuzzy-Sitter-In-Chief at this one.

He turned to Helton. "I hope you'll consider coming back to Zarathustra when you leave the TFMC," he said.

"I heard that," Grego said jovially, "and I concur. Zarathustra needs men like you, Helton. We're getting ready to grow, again. This little pot of mud that Ingermann has stirred up will settle out pretty soon, and-"

"And Ian Ferguson is griping about retirement," Rainsford interrupted. "I've been talking to Alex Napier about you, young man, and he agrees with me that you 'd be a perfect choice for the next Commandant of the Colonial Constabulary."

Helton grinned broadly and took a hurried gulp of his drink. "You overwhelm me, gentlemen," he said. The only thing I can say at the moment is a verse that comes to mind.

'When foxes eat the last gold grape,

And the last white antelope is killed, '

I shall stop fighting and escape