Laporte lifted his left knee. "You get it," he said. Ingermann opened the drawer with the released hand, opened the wallet, and shook out the sheaf of currency.

When Laporte was again standing on the floor and some of the color was returning to Ingermann's face, Laporte said, "I don't think you have thenerve, sir, to try anything what wouldn't be smart. Y'see, there's one of my men out in the hall with a submachine gun. If I don't come out of here with a smile on my face, his orders is to come in here and turn you into dog meat."

Ingermann cleared his throat and adjusted his neckcloth. "I understand," he said.

Laporte nodded. "Good. I hope this don't have any bad effect on our business dealings in the future, Mr. Ingermann, but we are gonna have to be more specific about what the deal is."

Outside Ingermann's office, Laporte closed the door quietly, put away his knife, and walked off down the empty corridor.

Chapter 23.

An austere but rather shaggy gentleman of middle years peered out of the screen. "Surely you jest, Governor," he said. "Why, we've been a fixture in Mallory sport-to say nothing of bringing a tiny scrap of culture to the rest of the planet-for almost ten years, now. You are going to dissolve it; just like that? Preposterous!"

Ben Rainsford glowered into the pickup at his end of the conversation. "I didn't say I was going to dissolve it, Mr. Wachinski. I said there's no money for it."

Holger Wachinski was the director of the Mallorysport Civic Opera Association, an annoying-to Ben Rainsford- leftover from Nick Emmert's administration as Resident General, before the CZC charter had been revoked. He was quite naturally in high dudgeon to discover that his budget had been chopped off.

"I must say, that's pretty mundane of you, Governor. As bread feeds the body, art feeds the soul, even if you-" Wachinski stopped, realizing he was not helping his case.

Rainsford chuffed on his pipe. "It don't make a damn whether I like opera or not, Mr. Wachinski. I'm in a position of having to make bricks without straw, here. If it comes down to a choice between opera and having citizens robbed on the esplanade, I have to can the opera and hire more cops-except I've not got enough money for that, either."

"You realize," Wachinski said, with what he hoped was an oracular tone, "that you're just contributing to the unemployment problem?"

Better yours than mine, Rainsford thought, but he decided not to say it. He rubbed his eyes. "Look, Wachinski; how much of your budget do you raise by private subscription?"

Wachinski looked at the ceiling for a moment. "About half-enough to cover the opera company. But that's useless without the symphony."

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Wachinski," Rainsford said. "You get off your butt and raise enough more to pay for half the symphony, and the Colonial Government will match-fund you on that part for the rest of the season. If the opera company caves in, you'll still have the orchestra. Deal?"

Deal, Wachinski thought, a decree. "Under the circumstances," he said, "we'll try to make do."

The Navy cruiser, at that altitude, looked about the size of a pool-ball fruitfrom the ground when it began to turn out its cargo of men and vehicles.

There is a certain precision and grace in the sight of a line battalion turning out of a ship. It is as much of an aerial ballet as a convoy movement from ship to ground. An enormous quantity of vehicles are involved for several hundred men-or so it seems. All of these particular vehicles were of a squatty, ungainly appearance, built to withstand incredible punishment and still operate. The center was an almost solid skirt of service equipment for ordnance, maintenance, vehicle recovery, field kitchens, supply boats, communication centers, and operations centers. Ranged around these were squad buses in neat platoon lines, with the four companies positioned port, starboard, aloft, and below. Casagra's men were already on the ground, sweating and cursing with the dig. Spiraling gracefully away from the main body, the scout cars skimmed and darted like airborne sheepdogs.

Holloway and his group were still at the site; in fact had been waiting for the battalion to arrive. There were a few things Holloway wanted to get clearly understood with the battalion commander before he went back to Holloway Station, and George Lunt had a few points he wanted to pick over, as well. Rainsford had departed well before dawn, ranting and raving about the exigencies of being Governor General.

As the battalion vehicles encamped, the commander's car grounded about a hundred meters from the waiting group of officials.

Lieutenant Colonel James O 'Bannon and his exec., Major Richard Stag well, dismounted and crunched across the dry soil of Fuzzy Valley toward them.

Ordinarily, it would have been the other way around, but officials of the civil government were in the waiting party, so deference was being observed.

Introductions were exchanged all around, which took an inordinate amount of time, since ten people were involved.

Holloway looked over O'Bannon and Stagwell, figuring out the best way to handle them.

O 'Bannon was a little shorter than average, and was one of those men who could spend three weeks in the field and never put a wrinkle in his impeccable field greens. He had a handsome, almost boyish face, contradicted by the tinge of gray in the regimental beard and mustache which framed his jaw. His eyes were slightly hooded, like a cobra's, of an indeterminate color, and never betrayed expression, even though he smiled obligingly from time to time.

Stagwell was tall, raw-boned, and agile-looking. He grinned a lot, and had the look about him of a man who could run five miles with a machine gun under each arm and not even be breathing hard.

"One thing I want to get straight," O'Bannon. said, "while there's just us here-including the civilians. Helton, you're in charge of the dig. I'm giving you Casagra's company to handle that, but you work through him. Don't go off on any vast projects without clearing with him. Somebody gets injured down there; he's the commander and he'll have to answer for it-not you."

"Yes, sir," Helton said.

"Another thing, Gunnie," O'Bannon continued, "if you mess into my security and scanning operations without my say-so, I'll fry you. Do we see eye-to-eye?"

"Yes, sir," Helton repeated.O'Bannon turned to the civilians. "I want Commissioner Holloway to brief my staff and commanders on matters regarding the Fuzzies. I want Major Lunt to do the same with respect to ZNPF operations. As to what we may have found here, the fewer people having specific knowledge of that, the happier I'll be about it. That means I want Casagra's men to continue to camp and mess away from the rest of the battalion and have minimum contact." He sighed and paused for a moment. "... Not that it will do much good, the way Marines gossip, but we can try.

"Questions? Okay. There will be Officers Call in twenty minutes." He pointed back over his shoulder, without looking, to where tents were already blossoming from the ground. "I'll see you all then." He turned and left.

"Gruff little fella, isn't he?" Gerd asked.

" 'Businesslike' is the word I'd use," George Lunt remarked.

"I've noticed," Holloway said to Helton, "that you don't 'sir' very many people, Phil."

"Only the ones I respect a lot-sir," Helton said.

After the briefing, Helton took Major Telemann over to Casagra's company area, where it had been decided he should be assigned, since they were handling the most sensitive part of the operation. They went in Telemann's aircar, fitted out for Public Information Operation, which is to say crammed with electronic gear to monitor news agencies' activities.

Telemann was the only Marine on site in khakis instead of field greens. Best foot forward with the public, and all.

Vidal Beltran watched from the back hatch of his kitchen scow as they set up.

He knew instinctively what it all meant.

"Another damned mouth to feed," he said disgustedly.

An entire corner of Victor Grego's private office was occupied by one of his most cherished possessions-a large globe of Zarathustra, suspended on its own contragravity unit, with the moons Xerxes and Darius, to scale, circling it as it rotated; the entire affair illuminated by a fixed orange spotlight representing the K0 star that gave life to the planet. At mid-morning in Mallorysport, the terminator line had crossed the coast of Beta.

"Victor?" the voice from the communications screen said. "Are you listening?"

It was a bold thing for a lesser big wheel to say, even if he was the lesser big wheel that was in charge of Company Science Center.

"Uh? " Grego said, looking back at the screen. "I was just checking something on the map, Juan. It's early morning on Beta, now. Where is your archeologist?"

"He says he just spent the night in the best hotel in Red Hill, but that it was still ghastly. Wants to know if he should come home, or what. I thought we might have him hang around over there a day or so and see what the gossip is."

Grego frowned. "I'm not gainsaying your staff, Juan, but I don't recall that we have an archeologist on the payroll. What would the Company have wanted with an archeologist on an uninhabited planet?"

"He's not really an archeologist," Juan said. "He's an analytical geologistwith a master's in archeology. It's the closest we could come to the real thing."

Grego lit a cigarette and absently scratched his Adam's apple as he took the first puff. "So, we have a 'routine archeological dig' on a_planet where there is no archeology, and they won't let the CZC archeologist on the site. What do you make of it, Juan?"

"Just that," Juan said, "plus the fact that the place is swarming with Marines, Apparently Napier has sent down a large patrol force and they' ve cordoned off a large area of the Fuzzy Reservation."

Grego frowned. "Well, then, it must be something pretty big. Old Man Holloway wouldn't sit still for that otherwise. Yes, Juan, I like your suggestion. Tell our man to hang around town a couple days. Tell him too bad about the crummy hotel, but that it's above and beyond the call of duty, or something. In the meantime, I '11 get hold of Harry Steefer and see what he can come up with.

When your man gets back from Beta, I want to see him instantly." "I'll keep you posted, Victor." They broke connection.

Grego leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. He wasn't thinking about archeology, though. In factit was difficult for him to concentrate, so he decided to clear the block from his mind.

What a remarkable young woman, he thought, as he punched out a screen combination.

A mass of bright colors swirled across the communication screen and exploded into the image of Christiana Stone.

"Yes?" she said. "Oh. Mr. Grego."

"Good morning, Christiana," he said. "I have a suggestion. Tell me what you think of it." Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "When you bring Diamond back from Government House, you could stop off at your place and change into a dinner dress. Then we'll take Diamond out to dinner at-oh-say, Alfredo's. He can show off his table manners in public. Be good for him, don't you think?"

"Oh, he'd love it, Mr. Grego," she said.

' "That wouldn 't interfere with your plans, any, would it?" Grego asked.

"Not a bit," Christiana replied. "I think it would be delightful."

"Good," Grego said. "We'll want to get there early, though, so we don't keep him up later than he's accustomed. I'll meet you at the penthouse about six."

About 0600 at Holloway Station the group that had gone to North Beta were sitting around the Khadra 's living room with Sandra, Ruth, and Lynne Andrews.

"I think," Ruth van Riebeek said to her husband, "that to say this thing they've found up there has 'vast implications' ought to insure your place in history, Gerd-not as a scientist, but as making the understatement of the century."

"Hmph!" Gerd said.

"But they're not certain that it's the remains of a hyper-drive ship, are they?" Lynne Andrews asked."No," Jack said, "but given the judgement of a man like Phil Helton, I'd say it's about a ninety percent shot."

Ruth looked at the other two women. "Well, I suppose it's our turn to raise your eyebrows, now. Gerd was right about the titanium content of the plants from Fuzzy Valley. They differ in content and amount from one kind of plant to another, of course."

"That's not so eyebrow-raising,".Gerd said. "What did you find out?"

"The titanium compounds are all similiar to hokfusine," Ruth said. "Given something to compare hokfusine with, it won't be so much of a job; to finger its functions in Fuzzy metabolism will be much easier."

"All these compounds," Lynne said, ticking off imaginary numbers on her fingers, "for example, have degradation fractions that are piperidine."

"Hmmm," Gerd said. "That's an organic compound already known on Terra. So, with enough vitamins like hokfusine, that can inhibit NFMp production, the Fuzzy birthrate can work itself back to normal-if the work we 've done so far is right."

"You mean it might not be right?" Jack said.

"I mean," Gerd said, "that there are many and varied times when I wish it wasn't right."

"I don't follow you," Jack said. "If you can solve the NFMp/anti-NFMp problem in Fuzzy metabolism, what's wrong with that?"

"Well," Gerd said, exhaling noisily, "the irritating aspect of what we might rather grandiosely call 'The van Riebeek Theory,' is that the observations and deductions involved in its formulation keep coming back to Garrett's Theorem-that the need for an element does not arise in evolution unless the element is readily available. If you admit the applicability of Garrett's Theorem to Fuzzy biochemistry-which, by the way, I never tumbled to until Sandra raised the question-you keep landing back on square one, where resides that alarming idea that FMzzies did not evolve on Zarathustra. It just doesn't make sense, but it keeps haunting the data we've developed."

"Maybe they came on that hypership you guys claim is being dug up on North Beta," Ruth said.

"Oh, for Ghu 's sake, Ruth!" Gerd exploded. "That's the confoundedest nonsense I've heard all week-and I've been hearing some pretty weird ideas."

Well Ruth sniffed. "l was Just trying to make you feel better."

Ahmed waved his hand. "You can fight later. Dinner's almost ready.

Chapter 24.

"You're falling for him, aren't you?" The Rev leaned back in his chair and ran the heel of his hand over the graying hair at his temple.

Christiana's eyes blinked once, then grew large. "Oh, Father Gordon!" she said, flustered. "It's just that he's- well-he's a very nice man, and I-I-"

The Rev leaned forward again. "... And you've never had a man be nice to youbefore, without he was expecting to get something for it." He finished the sentence for her.

She frowned and thought hard for a moment. "I guess you're right about that part. "A short, choking laugh escaped from her. "All my life. With Daddy it was good treatment for good behavior; bad treatment for bad behavior-except that it was a shell game. I never knew which number was coming up. Then there were all the boys in school when I was growing up. . ."

Still a lot of that to be done, The Rev thought to himself.

The Rev pushed the box of tissues across the desk. She jerked out two of them and blew her nose.

"So, now you've got a pretty nifty job uptown, working for the CZC," The Rev said, "and you think you need my advice about whether you should move to a better address?"

She squinted at him. "Well, I'm not sure about that."

"You know you 're going to have to do it," he said. "You just told me that you're changing for this-ahh-dinner date before you pick up Diamond because you don't want Diamond to know you live in a cheap hotel in Junktown. What you 're saying, of course, is you 're afraid Diamond will tell Grego and Grego will start wondering why."

"You see what I mean?" she said, with a note of anguish in her voice. "I 'm not sure I can cut it. I 've tried running with those fine-haired dogs at the top of the pile and they've walked all over me. I don't know if I can take another round of that."

The Rev fitted the ends of his fingers together and studied the pattern they made. "Have you had a payday, yet?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," she sniffed.

"You take your pile of money and put down the rent on a nice little apartment-preferably within spitting distance of Company House," he said, "even if you have to sleep on the floor until next payday. I told you before, you don't belong down here-you like people too much."

"Well, what are yew doing down here?" she asked. "You like people."

The Rev grinned at her. "My job is to help people. That's why I 'm down here.

It don't make a damn whether I like them or not."