"Champagne?" she reminded him, pointing at the empty glasses.

"Oh, yes," he said, and started to turn in the direction of the buffet. "Don't go away."

Gus Brannhard parted his gray-brown whiskers carefully as he prepared to answer the question from the Clerk of the Colonial Courts. "Champagne, Mr.

Wilkins, is very bad for the sinuses." He inhaled deeply from the enormous brandy snifter easily cradled in his huge hand."And that is why," he concluded, "I never touch the stuff. No, no-all those bubbles hopping around inside a man's head; must make a terrible racket. I imagine it would make my ears pop something fierce."

It was the eyes that were popping for Roy Wilkins. He had never dreamed that a human being could drink as much as the Colonial Attorney General and still retain his faculties. Wil-kins shoved his glasses back up his nose to a firmer footing and plunged back into the conversation.

"And what," he asked, "do you think about this business of Hugo Ingermann being disbarred? Personally, I'm tickled pink."

Gus eyed the young man solemnly. "Why, as an official of the colonial government, I have no thoughts on the subject at all. As public employees, we should have no comments-not public ones, anyway-on the fortunes of any private citizen. Do you get my meaning, son?"

Wilkins sipped his champagne nervously. "Oh, I understand perfectly, sir. It's just that-I mean-that is-I didn't intend it to sound-exactly-like I rejoiced in Mr. Ingermann's disbarment."

Gus eyed him some more, then his face broke into a smile and he winked broadly.

" 'Course you didn't. People in our position just have to be prudent." Wilkins nodded. One lesson learned. "There is something, though, that I would like your opinion on, Mr. Wilkins-professionally."

Opinion? This legendary giant who was the Attorney General wanted his opinion on something? Gosh!

"What," Gus Brannhard asked, "is the scuttlebutt on the coffeepot telegrapharound your offices about the constitutional convention? Interworld News and the rest show the delegates all busily roaring like wounded damnthings every night on the screen, but as far as actual resolutions and articles filed, it's as dry as a temperance meeting. I just wondered if they were actually generating documents and someone forgot to send me review copies. What are they doing?"

"Well, sir, I can't rightly say. I do know that we 've copied and sent over about a metric ton of colonial case law which they 've requested."

"And they haven't sent any of it back?" "No, sir."

"And they haven't filed any draft articles or resolutions?"

"No, sir," Wilkins said. "Well, sir, that is, with one exception."

"Which is?"

"They sent me a draft request to extend the convention for a year, and wanted to know if it was properly framed."

Gus jabbed his finger at the ceiling triumphantly. "Now I know what they've been doing. The buggers have studied everything to death. Now they see that their year is almost up and they aren 't even close to framing a constitution, so they want us to give them another year-another year during which the government can't levy taxes.

"Well, I guess it's time for Governor Rainsford and myself to pay these dedicated foot-draggers a visit in open session-in situ as it were-and sort of explain the facts of life to them."

Wilkins pushed his glasses up his nose, again, hesitated, then gulped and spoke. It was not the usual thing for the Clerk of the Court to correct the Attorney General on process, even at a party. "But, sir," he said, "colonial law forbids any appointed official of colonial government being in attendance at the site of a constitutional convention-uh-to prevent sandbagging, I guess."

Gus took another swig of brandy while Wilkins spoke, and glowered at him through the snifter glass as he did so. He lowered the glass and fluffed his beard. "Of course it does, Mr. Wilkins, but only in an uninvited capacity. I 'm sure the intrepid colonists in that body will be pleased-once the matter is explained to some of the leaders-to invite us in for some 'advice.' "

While Gus Brannhard guffawed at Roy Wilkins, a slender man who stood nearby, chatting with Ernst Mallin, frowned and pursed his lips.

"That man's a perfect example, Ernst," Dr. Jan Chris-tiaan Hoenveld said.

"Refinement and breeding are out the airlock in Mallorysport so long as the Governor General still wears bush clothes and his colonial officials are a bunch of bumpkins like Brannhard. Rainsford's offices and quarters in Government House have animal skins all over the floors. It's just not civilized."

Mallin sipped his champagne and smiled. "I suppose, Chris, that you preferred Nick Emmert's administration- cocktail parties sparkling with mindless chatter, and all those damned canapes. Personally, I don't care if I never see creamed cheese again."

"Well, at least the man had some style," Hoenveld sniffed."I used to like those parties of Emmert's, too," Mallin mused, "until-something-I guess it was me-changed. I can tell you one thing, Chris, Rainsford's administration is one hundred percent honest, even if the men in it are a little rough around the edges."

"Oh, don't talk to me about 'rough around the edges,' Ernst. This mob of ragged vagabonds that's immigrating to Zarathustra is ruining what little grace we had developed in Mallorysport. My tailor is feeling the pinch already; no one has any standards, any more. And why should they-when the Governor always looks like he's been sleeping in his clothes? One just throws on any old flak jacket one finds wadded up in the back of the closet and one is in perfect style."

Mallin smiled. "I 'm sure refined taste will survive, Chris. It's come through worse setbacks than this.

"Excuse me, will you? One of my people is waving frantically for me to join her."

Mallin had to get away from Hoenveld; he wasn 't sure how much longer he could keep a straight face. Chris Hoenveld was the best biochemist ever to set foot on Zarathustra, but he sure had some strange ideas about what was important.

Besides, Liana Bell really was signaling him to come over and join her and Juan Jimenez.

As he threaded his way through the guests, he caught a scrap from another conversation that was refreshingly balanced against Hoenveld's notions about genteelness.

Colonel Ian Ferguson, commander of the Colonial Constabulary, had joined the other law enforcement types gathered around the bar. "Well, I'll tell you one thing," he was saying, "with Ben Rainsford in the governor's chair, you never have to wonder what the hell he's talking about. The man doesn't know how to beat around the bush."

"Amen to that," Al Earlie said. "Nick Emmert always wanted people to get gussied up like a pet owl-just for cocktails, mind you-and then he 'd talk your ear off and you never knew what he'd said afterwards. That was the part I hated-climbing into that monkey suit with the sandpaper collar. And there's no way to carry a gun in one of those things without it showing."

"Not yours, anyway," Harry Steefer said, thinking of Al Earlie's favorite sidearm-a long barreled .45 revolver that pitched a 271-grain slug.

"Say, that reminds me," Max Fane said, "did I tell you somebody took a shot at me the other day-right down here on the esplanade?"

Max's story was cut short as a thundering herd of Fuzzies galloped through the middle of the group, yeeking with delight. Hot on their heels was a group of young women who worked in the Executive Offices of the CZC. "Come back here, you little devils!" "So-josso-aki tai washa!" "Give me back my things!"

The Fuzzies shrieked with mock terror. "Do-Bizzo! Fazzu! Hagga catch us!"

"Sp'it up!" "Faster!"

Apparently the Fuzzies had pulled a heist for the fun of the chase. Leading the pack in pursuit was a laughing strawberry blonde who had kicked off her shoes and was making better speed than anyone else.The next lap around the terrace, the Fuzzies were gaining distance-and their numbers had increased by ten. The late arrivals didn't know what the chase was all about, but it looked like fun; and if there's one thing a Fuzzy can't resist it's fun-so they had joined in immediately.

The new Fuzzies were Little Fuzzy, Mamma Fuzzy, Mike, Mitzi, Ko-Ko, Cinderella, Id, Superego, Complex, and Syndrome-a clear indication to anyone who knew them that Jack Holloway, the van Riebeeks, and Lynne Andrews had arrived.

The tenth Fuzzy-Baby Fuzzy-waddled along behind the mob for a while, but couldn't keep up. He soon lost interest and struck a course for Diamond's play area-where he could see a fascinating array of bright-colored objects and interesting junk.

The reception line was just breaking up as Holloway and his party arrived.

Greetings were exchanged and congratulations conveyed to the newly weds.

"I'm sorry we're so late," Jack said. "We had some trouble with the airboat on the way over. Lost some power on the main lift-and-drive and had to limp in on the Abbotts."

Ahmed looked past the group. "Didn't George come along?" he asked, with a note of disappointment in his voice.

Jack shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Ahmed," he said. "I tried to bully him into it, but he's off chasing some mare's nest on the Fuzzy Reservation. Said he had to re-assign all his patrol sectors and clear some equipment. I don't know why the watch commander couldn't have handled it, but George insisted he had to do it personally."

"He said to apologize for him," Gerd van Riebeek said. "Said he would toss a little shindig for you and Sandra himself when you get over to the station on Tuesday."

"Is the bungalow finished yet?" Sandra asked anxiously.

"All operational," Ruth said."Very nearly ready to move in."

"We all dug in and scared up some furniture for you," Lynne explained.

"Enough to get started with, anyway. And we all chipped in some pots and pans and dishes."

Sandra brightened. "That was very thoughtful of you. We've got some inflatables we're taking along."

"Well, you're all set, then," Ruth said. "When Gerd and I went over there, we had to sleep in the boat and mooch food off Jack until we could get into Red Hill and buy some things."

Victor Grego's kitchen had been turned into a bedlam of portable equipment, food handlers, waiters, and busboys, with part of the caterer's entourage and supplies spilling out the service entrance and onto the penthouse's private landing stage.

Being careful not to trail his jacket cuffs through any glop, Grego wound his way through the confusion until he found Jerry Panoyian out on the landing stage, running an expert eye over a hand-held terminal-much like a general deploying troops and materiel during a battle.Panoyian was a short man upon whose long nose perched a pair of old-fashioned spectacles. He shook his head slightly, making his crown of iron-gray hair bobble slightly, and pushed the audio pickup more tightly into his ear. "No, no, Melvin." he said into a voco-leader, "It's bar number three that's out of gin. And when you get back in here, I want you to handle the ice run. Yes, I'll have it ready to wheel."

He looked up, instantly recognizing someone not in his own livery. "Ah, Mr.

Grego," he said, smiling. "How is everything going?"

"Couldn't be better, Mr. Panoyian," Grego replied. "I just wanted to let you know that we have a few late guests. You might want to refurbish the buffet a bit."

Panoyian held up a hand. "It's being attended to, sir. My headcounter spotted them as their airboat arrived. By the time they get to the salad bar, everything will be crisp, fresh, replenished. Hot roast veldbeest, chilled fruit-the works." Briskly efficient when dealing with his own help, Panoyian's voice shifted gears when talking to a client. He thought of it as suave and smooth; most listeners found the tone oily.

"Privately, you understand," Judge Pendarvis was saying-he paused and looked about, to make sure no one could overhear-"I'm quite pleased to see Mr.

Ingermann's credentials to practice before Zarathustran courts revoked. He's been a stench in the nostrils of the courts, decent men, and honest attorneys since the day he set foot on Zarathustra."

Ben Rainsford fussed with his pipe. "I'm beginning to think there are no honest lawyers," he said. Then he said, "Unnnh!" as Gus Brannhard gave him an elbow in the ribs. "I'm a lawyer," he said. "The Judge is a lawyer. You think we're dishonest?"

Rainsford rubbed his side. "You? Humph, No offense, Judge."

"None taken," Pendarvis replied. "I can only speak for myself, you understand.

Mr. Brannhard's reputation when he practiced on Beta Continent seemed to revolve around an astounding ability to secure aquittal for obviously guilty clients." The Chief Justice winked broadly at Jack Hollo-way.

"To say nothing," Jack remarked,"of the ability to match any given three men drink for drink and still put them all under the table."

"Welllll," Brannhard grumped."All that plea bargaining gives a man a helluva thirst."

"I trust you gentlemen understand the confidentiality of what I just said regarding Mr. Ingermann," Pendarvis said. Then, in an obvious change of subject, "What a grand party this is! Victor Grego is to be congratulated."

"Well, the man is a very thorough manager," Ben Rainsford said. "I wouldn 't expect him to miss a single detail in anything."

"Do I detect notes of grudging admiration?" Brannhard said. "A year ago you wanted to tie him up by his thumbs."

"That was a year ago," Rainsford fiddled with his pipe some more, then looked Brannhard straight in the eye. "The older you grow, sonny, the more you learn."

Jack chuckled. "I guess you can consider yourself cut down to size, Gus.""Never knew much about Ingermann myself," Rainsford said, "but what I knew, I didn't like. I'll tell you right now that him getting disbarred is a load off my mind-for one very simple reason." They all looked at him expectantly.

"He'll be so damned busy trying to take vengeance on all of us, now, that he won't have time to try packing the new legislature with his own henchmen."

"There's something to that," Pendarvis said gloomily.

"Something else that will slow him down in that department," Gus said, "is voter eligibility and candidate certification. When I say my prayers at night, I thank Ghu that none of the new immigrants pass residence requirements for either. Think what a grand opportunity that would be for him to logroll his own people in those seats."

"That's true, "Rainsford said, wagging a finger, "only if they don't get that year's extension for the constitutional convention. That mess has me tearing my hair every day. And it's up to you and me, Gus, to get them off their butts. This government won't last another year without tax revenues."

"Do you think Ingermann might be behind all the stalling in the convention?"

Jack asked.

"It's possible," Gus said, "but if he is, it's a cinch the connection is so tangled we 'd never be able to hang it on him-much as I'd like to."

Rainsford jammed his pipe in his jacket pocket. "I been tellin' you all along-Ingermann wants to bring down the government and try to get control of the planet during the chaos. If you're hell-bent to get him deported, that charge ought to be enough to get the job done."

Gus Brannhard snorted derisively. "Ben, you can jail him; you can deport him; you can shoot him in the foot, and you can make him eat sand out of the road.

But, first you gotta catch him; then you gotta make the charge stick long enough to drag him into a courtroom and slip him under a veridicator.

Personally, I'd rather try to take a bone away from a bush-goblin-but, we are working at it; we are working at it."

The hors d' oeuvres chef had just run another dozen blue-labeled tins through the opener. As he wielded his thin-bladed knife to slice the cake and cut it into fancy shapes, he shook his head from side to side and muttered to himself.

Jerry Panoyian leaned over his shoulder. "What's the matter, Emile?" he asked.

Emile's eyebrows shot up, nearly to his hairline. "Over twenty years I have been in this business, sir," he said, "and, so help me, this is the first formal wedding reception I've ever worked where canned Extee-Three was served to the guests."

Panoyian chuckled. "You might as well get used to it, Emile. I have a feeling that Fuzzies are going to be part of the social scene in Mallorysport from now on."

Down the wide valley below Mallorysport the brilliant oranges and reds of a Zarathustran sunset were spreading low against the horizon as the sun sank slowly toward Beta. It was as though the K0 star that gave life to all things on Zarathustra was pointing back in time to Beta-Beta, where the Fuzzies had been discovered-Beta, where the murder of a Fuzzy named Goldilocks by a CZCscientist named Leonard Kellogg had set the whole question of Fuzzy sapience in motion-Beta, where the Fuzzy Institute and Hollo-way Station were becoming almost as pivotal to the affairs of Zarathustra as the capital at Mallorysport.

The musicians arrived and started setting up on the outdoor platform next to the portable dance floor as the terrace was washed with the red-orange light from the setting sun. Soft lighting began to come on automatically on the terraces, with brighter patches around the bars and the huge buffet table.

Soon, now, it would be time to cut the wedding cake. Then, at twilight, the dancing would start with a solo waltz by the bride and groom.

Mr. Chief Justice Frederic Pendarvis puffed deeply on his panetella. It had been an enjoyable conversation with Hollo-way and Brannhard and Rainsford.

They had come to much agreement on their respective attitudes about several things that were going on on Zarathustra at the moment. That kind of no-punches-pulled, informal shop talk was always good for everyone concerned.

Cleared the air.

Pendarvis tilted his head back and blew a careful smoke ring toward the star filled sky, where Darius stood at the zenith and Xerxes was inching up from the horizon. "No, Jack," he said, adopting a more familiar term than he had ever used toward Holloway before. "It's not hard at all to be the Chief Justice of a colonial court system-here or anywhere else. You only need keep one thing uppermost in your mind-the law. The law is everything. It is bigger than men, bigger than courts, bigger than governments, bigger than armies; it decides things that are placed before it on evidence and testimony. That's all there is to it.

"That's all there has ever been to it. Judges get in trouble only when they start seeing men in front of the bench. In the courtroom, judges are not men; they are instruments of the legal system-officers of the court. And, judges get in trouble when they stop serving the law and start serving themselves.

"I've been serving the law for almost fifty years-started out as a file boy.

The law is my religion, and my catechism is to apply it with fairness and impartiality. I think I have always done that."

"You fellows are waxing pretty philosophical, considering that this is supposed to be a party and all," Brannhard remarked.