Judge Frederic Pendarvis laid down the sheaf of papers, moved the ashtray a few inches to the right, and took a slender cigar out of the silver box on his desk. After he had lighted it, he leaned back in his chair and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. Then he turned his attention to the bearded giant and the small, bristly-looking man who sat across the desk from him. “I see nothing wrong with this at all. Your assessment is quite correct, Gus. For my part, I agree that we are on solid ground with respect to the Federation Constitution and the body of colonial case law.

  “Colonial Investigations Bureau,” the Chief Justice said reflectively. He flicked a quarter-inch of ash from his panetella and smiled. “I must congratulate you both on putting this together. The very idea of getting all those different cops to pull together on something like this is nothing short of astounding. I’ve been dealing with all of the law enforcement agencies on the planet for the past fifteen years, and, I can tell you, they can be the damnedest bunch of fools—squabbling like fishwives over jurisdiction, proof of claim, interrogation priority, previous wants and warrants, perquisites and privilege—you name it. There isn’t a one of them I haven’t wanted to take a horsewhip to over the years, usually for clogging up the courts while they prove to one and all that their uniform is more righteous than the next guy’s.”

  Ben Rainsford frowned and looked at the floor. “Only one thing I’m unhappy about,” he said.

  “What’s that, Ben?” Judge Pendarvis asked.

  “That young fella, Khadra. I wanted him to head up the CIB. Why’d he have to go and get married and run off to Beta?”

  “I strongly suspect it’s because he was in love,” Pendarvis remarked drily.

  Rainsford waved his hand impatiently and began fishing for his pipe in the pocket of his bush jacket.

  The way he throws that pipe in and out of his jacket, Pendarvis thought, I’ll bet the inside of that pocket looks as black as a Hathor wolfram-miner’s lungs.

  “Will this help any,” Rainsford said around his pipestem as he touched flame to the bowl, “to slow up the congestion in your criminal courts docket?”

  “No,” Pendarvis sighed. “It will only make it more orderly.”

  “Well, I can’t give you the extra judgeships you asked for in either department,” Rainsford said, almost defensively. “There’s just no money for it. The fact of the matter is that the CZC is financing this government at the moment—until we can get a constitution out of those lame-brained delegates, elect a proper legislature, and levy taxes. And the CZC is going to expect its money back one of these days. It’s a hell of a way to start out a government—in debt—but it can’t be helped, I suppose. Is there anything you and Gus can come up with to reduce the load on the criminal side?” Rainsford looked anxiously at both of them in turn. “I’ll go along with anything that makes sense.”

  Pendarvis’ eyes narrowed slightly. “Not much, unless you want to do it at the expense of fair and equal justice under the law,” he said evenly.

  Gus knew that Rainsford had hit a sensitive spot. “I could encourage my prosecutors to be a little more open to plea-bargaining,” he offered. “A lot of these criminal cases are pretty cut and dried, but they stagger on through the system with a long trial—often because the defense attorney loves to hear the pure, spellbinding eloquence of his own courtroom oratory.”

  “And just as often is practicing his planned future political speeches on the jury,” Pendarvis added. “I would have no objection to that, Gus—as long as we veridicate the accused in open court regarding any pressure than might have been brought on him to plead guilty to a lesser charge.”

  “What will that get us in terms of man-days saved?” Rainsford asked, “—or whatever measure of increased efficiency is applicable.”

  “Not much,” Pendarvis said, “but being able to get one more preliminary hearing a day on each judge’s docket will do more than it sounds like.”

  “The civil side isn’t going to get any better, though,” Gus said, “and there’s nothing I can do about that—out of my jurisdiction.”

  “Yes,” Pendarvis said, almost wistfully. “There’s the real rub. We have more criminal cases, but they are simpler than before. Our civil cases—which we also have a great deal more of—are getting more complex.”

  Rainsford jabbed his pipestem at the air. “It’s that Ingermann’s.o.b.,” he said. “He’s behind this caseload problem that’s starting to clog up the courts. Overloading the legal system is a fine first step toward bringing down the government. It helps frustrate people. Frustration generates lack of inclination to depend on the legal systems of redress, and that generates more and more lawlessness.”

  “If that’s his purpose,” Pendarvis said, “I can see how what you suggest would suit his purpose admirably. But I question that the soi disant geopolitician Hugo Ingermann has an organization that is quite so efficient.”

  “Oh, I think he does,” Gus said. “I’ve been studying Mr. Ingermann’s operation quite closely as I remain alert for ways to rid the planet of him. As I’ve said, Ingermann is Out to Get Us in capital letters. The more I learn about him, the more I agree with your notion—hare-brained though it seemed at first—”

  Rainsford glared at him.

  Gus grinned and went on. “… that he’s fastened himself on getting control of Zarathustra. And he’s smart enough to have several scams working in that direction—on the theory that any one of them will be more apt to pay off in an atmosphere of general disruption and confusion.”

  A small bell chimed somewhere in Pendarvis’ office, discreetly indicating that the time had come for him to go on to other matters.

  Rainsford and Brannhard stood and prepared to leave.

  “By the way, Governor,” Pendarvis said, “I didn’t request those judgeships because I thought the government could afford them, or because I expected to get them any time soon.”

  “What for, then?” Rainsford asked.

  “For the record,” Pendarvis said, “so that when we can afford them, I won’t be completely at the end of the line for budget increases.”

  XVIII

  Mr. Commissioner Holloway reached up behind his own head and pushed his hat down over his forehead to shade his eyes. He chuffed on his pipe and continued to swing the microray scanner ahead of him as he crossed and recrossed the basin of Fuzzy Valley.

  Gerd had his portable lab—screwed to a contragravity lifter—programmed for inorganics and was running soil samples. The lab floated weightless at bench height, bobbing slightly each time Gerd punched a set of data into the chart storage unit.

  George and Ahmed were circling the rim of the valley on a small skid, looking for other signs of Fuzzy habitation that couldn’t be seen from the air.

  The Fuzzies had promptly disappeared upon arrival. “So ni-hosh shi-mosh-gashta,” Jack had said. “You find the people like Fuzzies. Tell them Hagga love them, give good treats—give esteefee.”

  Jack set his microray scanner on the edge of Gerd’s “bench,” and took a long drink of water. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Nothing unusual about the geology, Gerd,” he said. “This is all homogeneous—pretty much normal sedimentary stuff. I don’t know anything now that I didn’t know when I kicked my toe in the dirt and said that to begin with.”

  Gerd punched another test result into the chart unit and raised one eyebrow. “But now you know for sure,” he said.

  “True,” Jack replied. “If there’s anything buried in the valley, it’s buried mighty deep.”

  “Well, there’s something here,” Gerd said, “that’s putting a lot of titanium into the soil. So far, I have double, triple, and quad-ionized titanium traces, titanic acids, and titanates. The soil is rich enough to grow these plants again if it had sufficient water. The plants are sure to have picked the stuff up—and hence been tasty to Fuzzies. I’ll take some plant samples back for analysis, but that’s just lip service. I’m sure I’m right.”

  “But, where is it coming from?” Jack insisted. “Can you tell that?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Gerd said. “I’m doing a random chart, now. If that doesn’t “point a finger,’ so to speak, we can lay out a point-grid, with a sample from each point on a hundred-meter checkerboard, and graph that. I did have one thought.”

  “Which is?”

  “Does titanium ever come in meteorites?” Gerd asked.

  Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it could.”

  “Mmmmm,” Gerd said. “That’s so far out of my area, I wouldn’t even know how to start looking it up. If, though, there was a big titanium-rich meteorite buried up on one of these mountains, it would decompose, ever so slowly, and release compounds like this into the soil as it washes down to the valley floor.”

  Jack leaned on the lifter and gazed south toward the woods. “You know, we could come up here and sink a water well. I’ll bet money the water table isn’t very deep. Sink the well upstream,” he mused, talking more to himself than to Gerd. who understood and went on with his work while only half-listening. “Wouldn’t be unheard of to hit a structure that’d give us a good head of artesian flow.” He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “Why, it’s plain as day that there’s a saturation layer east of that saddle where the old creek ran. All kinds of folded structures around here. With the amount of hot springs and geothermal fumaroles we’ve spotted, there’s a good chance of hitting a pressure dome. Something’s keeping those trees alive down in the woods, there. No sign of them dying back since the rainfall dropped off.”

  “Why would you want to?” Gerd asked.

  “Want to what?”

  “Bore a well, of course.”

  “Why to throw the switch again on the water supply,” Jack said, “get things growing up here again. Think about it. Live plants that are rich in titanium compounds—that could put a whole new twist to your Fuzzy research.” He laughed, quickly and shortly. “Fuzzy salad might hold the key to the whole problem.”

  “Hmmmph!” Gerd said.

  “Son of a Khooghra!” Jack exclaimed suddenly. Without moving his head, he fumbled behind him, making the skid bob violently.

  “What the blazes are you doing?” Gerd asked, snatching up one of his soil samples to keep it from being spilled.

  “Hand me the binos—quick!” Jack said.

  Gerd placed the stereo-optic in Jack’s outstretched hand. Jack clapped it to his eyes and chuckled, talking to himself under his breath.

  “What is it?” Gerd asked.

  “Here,” Jack said, “see for yourself.”

  Gerd grabbed the binos and looked.

  “So we said the Upland Fuzzies had unusual traits, did we—traits like cooperative hunting—that woods Fuzzies didn’t bother with?” Jack said triumphantly.

  Gerd gasped. Their own Fuzzies—the ambassadors— were coming out of the woods, followed by a group of Upland Fuzzies. Whereas woods Fuzzies just moved over the ground in a disorderly bunch, the Upland Fuzzies—well— they were quite a different gang—apparently.

  The Upland Fuzzies were arranged in two staggered files, several meters apart. Flankers were spaced out from the edge of the main body, and there was a skirmish line to the front, with three pointmen moving ahead of that.

  As the two groups drew closer, Jack and Gerd could see that there was a great deal of conversation between Little Fuzzy—who loved being the self-appointed intermediary between the Hagga and all Fuzzydom—and another specific Fuzzy in the Upland group. That suggested that this group of Fuzzies had a group/headman society, which suggested entirely different things about this example of Fuzzy culture, which suggested that a lot of things the Terrans had “deduced” about the evolution of Fuzzy civilization were flat wrong, which suggested that much Fuzzy research was really going nowhere on hyperdrive, which suggested et cetera.

  This bunch was just as wary of the first contact with Hagga as any woods Fuzzy, but they were better organized about it. The skirmish line filled out with some members from the column. Chopper-diggers at high port, watchful eyes fixed on the aliens—in other words, the Terrans—and scouts maintaining an air-watch for harpies; very businesslike bunch of Fuzzies.

  The leader advanced, with Little Fuzzy, and a rather dignified palaver took place. Jack and Gerd had to use their ultrasonic hearing aids. Upland Fuzzies still spoke in a frequency range too high for Terran hearing. As it was, they only caught about every other word, enough for them to be visually responsive but not really understand. Little Fuzzy translated—and enjoyed every minute of it.

  The-by-now-rather-mythic explanation of Hagga was well received. The leader’s delight with Extee-Three was ill-concealed, but handled with a certain dignity that only involved the widening of eyes and some yeeks of pure ecstasy. Gifts of steel shoppo-diggo and canvas shodda-bags were handled in a businesslike manner, the group came up in increments of five each, expressed approval at the trade of new for old chopper-diggers, the gift of shodda-bag, and yeeks of profound pleasure about the ration of esteefee.

  The Fuzzy unit—no other word seemed quite as appropriate—almost spooked and ran when George and Ahmed arrived on the contragravity skid. Gerd’s portable lab floating off the ground was one thing, but a thing that did that and moved as well, almost stretched the flee-or-fight reflex beyond its intellectual constraints. As negotiations proceeded, some of the bolder Fuzzies were persuaded to go for short rides on the skid—especially after being challenged with the example of the southern Fuzzies riding it and obviously enjoying it. Eventually, the Uplanders seemed to think it was fun—at least they still had Fuzzies’ traditional attitudes about fun, which is to say they really couldn’t resist it.

  Ahmed picked up the microray scanner and wandered off up the slope of what they were now calling “Mount Fuzzy,” taking random readings—more for something to do than anything else.

  The discussion broke down on only one point, but it was a sticking-point. Jack’s suggestion that they all come down to Holloway Station and get away from this grim hand to mouth existence was met with a flat refusal. The Upland Fuzzies were adamant about staying where they were. It was traditional , you know; stick close to the valley. They couldn’t explain the why of it, but there was no shaking them from the fact of its necessity—another basic difference between the Uplanders and the woods Fuzzies, which suggested a whole bunch more of “and so ons” about the state of the art in Fuzzy research.

  Attempts to convince them were useless.

  “How are you going to persuade them?” George asked. “It’s a cinch these folks are having a hard time putting beans on the table. Look at them. There isn’t a one that isn’t seriously underweight.”

  “And, as a result of malnutrition,” Gerd added. “A lot of them need medical attention. I can see it from here. It would be for their own good, Jack, if we—”

  “It’s not my job to persuade them about anything,” Jack snapped. “My job is to protect them. If they won’t come to us, we’ll have to come to them. Your job is to implement the Commissioner’s policy and wants—namely mine. So, make some notes. You are opening a branch office of Fuzzy Institute.”

  Gerd started to reply, but Jack cut him off with a gesture. “Little Fuzzy, tell them we will leave all the hoksu-fitsso we have with us, and will bring back more in less than a hand of days. Ask if there are more Fuzzies up here than this bunch.”

  Little Fuzzy carried on a light-speed conversation with the leader, whose face brightened when he was told about the esteefee. He motioned some of his troops forward. Each grabbed a blue-labeled tin of esteefee and tenderly hoisted it onto his shoulder.

  “All Fuzzies hek-yeh, Pappy Jack,” Little Fuzzy said.

  “He say, once many-many. Ha’hpy make off wif some. Some no tough enough—die in cold season. Many-many go off when zatku move souff—he no know.”

  Jack rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘ Tell him they have my promise we will take care of them, he said to Little Fuzzy. He was going to say more, but there was a curious catch in his voice, so he let it go at that.

  As Little Fuzzy was translating, the leader’s face began to soften for the first time from the grim, hollow-eyed expression of resolve that had gripped it all through the conference. That was one way the Uplanders were like all other Fuzzies—there was something in their nature that compelled them to love the Hagga and accept their protection. Leave the valley? Not a chance. But, make the Hagga happy; that was as natural to them as eating zatku.

  Suddenly, there was a blood-curdling shriek from up on Mount Fuzzy. “Great Jumping Jezebel’s Eyebrows.’” Ahmed bellowed at the top of his voice. “Come here! Quick!”

  The Upland Fuzzies quite reasonably took this to be a danger warning. They scattered in every direction—making sure that all the tins of Extee-Three accompanied them— and were out of sight of the Terrans in less than a minute.

  Even Holloway’s Fuzzies took cover and then peeped out anxiously from under, in, and behind where they had dived when Ahmed first shouted.

  Jack, Gerd, and George leaped onto the skid and George sent it skimming up the mountain slope to where they could see Ahmed jumping up and down and waving the microray scanner.

  Before the skid stopped, Jack jumped off and ran a few steps to adjust his forward momentum. “Now what the hell?” he asked Ahmed.

  Ahmed pointed to the bare ground. He had made some little piles of stones, and scratched lines in the loose earth with the toe of his boot. “Look at the size of this sonofabitch!” he said.

  George had grounded the skid. “What sonofabitch?” he barked.

  “I don’t know,” Ahmed barked right back, “but look at the size of it!”

  Gerd still had the rangefinder he had used to chart-spot his soil sample locations. He pulled it out of his pocket and took some shots of the area Ahmed had marked out.

  “The ‘size of it’ is about eight hundred feet long and about seven hundred feet across, shaped something very much like a regular triangle,” he said drily. “At risk of sounding redundant, what is it?”

 

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