GERD VAN RIEBEEK dropped his cigarette butt and heeled it out. A
hundred yards in front of him a blue and white Extee-Three carton
stood pin-cushioned with arrows and leaking sand. There were almost
as many arrows sticking in the turf around it, most of them very
close. The hundred-odd Fuzzies were enthusiastic about it.
“Not good,” he told them. “Half not hit at
all.”
“Come close,” one of the Fuzzies protested.
“You hungry, come close not give meat. You not put
come-close on stick, put over fire, cook.”
The Fuzzies all laughed; this was a perfectly devastating sally
of wit. A bird, about the size of a Terran pigeon, flew across the
range halfway to the target. Two arrows hit it at once and it
dropped.
“Now that,” he said, “was good! Who
did?”
Two of them spoke up; one was his and Ruth’s Superego, and
the other was an up-to-now nameless Fuzzy who had come in several
weeks ago. Robin Hood would do for him. Then he looked again. No.
Maid Marian.
That was with half his mind. The other half was worrying about
Jack Holloway. Jack seemed to have stopped giving a damn after he
came back from Yellowsand. It if only hadn’t been Little
Fuzzy. Any of the others, even one of his own family, he’d
just have written off, felt badly about, and gotten over. But
Little Fuzzy was something special. He was the first one, and
besides that, he had something none of the others had, the
something that had brought him into Holloway’s Camp alone to
make friends with the strange Big One. Ruth and Pancho and Ernst
Mallin hadn’t gotten a dependable IQ-test for Fuzzies
developed yet, but they all claimed that Little Fuzzy was a genius.
And he was Pappy Jack’s favorite.
And now Jack was drinking, too. Not just a couple before dinner
and one or two in the evening. By God, he was drinking as much as
Gus Brannhard, and nobody but Gus Brannhard could do that and get
away with it. Gerd wished he’d gone along with Jack to
Mallorysport, but George Lunt hadn’t been away from here
since right after the Fuzzy Trial, and he was entitled to a trip to
town; and somebody had to stay and mind the store, so he’d
stayed.
Oh, hell, if Jack needed looking after, George could look after
him.
“Pappy Gerd! Pappy Gerd!” somebody was calling. He
turned to see Jack’s Ko-Ko coming on a run. “Is
talk-screen! Mummy Woof say somebody in Big House Place want to
make talk.”
“Hokay, I come.” He turned to the Protection Force
trooper who was helping him. “Let them go get their arrows.
If that carton doesn’t fall apart when they pull them out,
let them shoot another course.” Then he started up the slope
toward the lab-hut, ahead of Ko-Ko.
It was Juan Jimenez, at Company Science Center. He gave a breath
of relief; Jack hadn’t gotten potted and gotten into
trouble.
“Hello, Gerd. Nothing more about Little Fuzzy?” he
asked.
“No. I don’t think there is anything more.
Jack’s in town; did you see him?”
“Yes, at the grand opening of the Fuzzy Club yesterday.
Ben and Gus want him to stay over till the convention opens. Gerd,
you were asking me about ecological side effects of harpy
extermination and wanted me to let you know if anything turned
up.”
“Yes. Has anything?”
“I think so. Forests & Waters has been after me
lately. You know how all those people are; they get little,
manageable problems, and never bother consulting anybody, and then
when they get big and unmanageable they want me to work miracles.
You know where the Squiggle is?”
He did. It was along the inside of the mountain range on the
lower western coast. It wasn’t really a badland, but it would
do as a reasonable facsimile. Volcanic, geologically recent; a lot
of weathered-down lavabeds covered with thin soil; about a thousand
little streams twisting every which way and all flowing finally
into the main Snake River from the west. Flooded bank-high in rainy
season and almost dry in summer, doing little or nothing for the
water situation on the cattle ranges at any season. For the last
ten years, since the Company had been reforesting it, it had gotten
a little better.
“Well, all those young featherleaf trees,” Jimenez
said, “they’d been doing fine up to a couple of years
ago, holding moisture, stopping erosion, water table going up all
over the western half of the cattle country. Then the damned
goofers got in among them, and half the young trees are chewed to
death now.”
That figured. They’d shot all the harpies out of the
southern half of the continent long ago; first chased them out of
the cattle country to protect the calves, and then followed them
into the upland forests where they’d been feasting on
goofers. Now the surplus goofers were being crowded out of the
uplands and down into the Squiggle. Up in the north, Fuzzies killed
a lot of goofers, but there were no Fuzzies that far south.
But why shouldn’t there be?
“Juan, I have an idea. We have a lot of Fuzzies here who
are real sharp with bows and arrows. I was out running an archery
class when you called me; you should see them. Say we airlift about
fifty of them down to where the goofers are worst, and see what
they do.”
“Send them to Chesterville; the chief forester
there’ll know where to spot them. How about
arrows?”
“Well, how about arrows? How soon do you think you can
produce a lot, say a couple of thousand? I’ll send specs when
I know where to send them. You can make the shafts out of duralloy,
the feathers out of plastic, and the heads out of light steel. They
won’t have to shoot through armor-plate, just through
goofers.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that; that’s
purely a production problem . . . ”
“Then, talk to a production man about it. Is Grego in
town? Talk to him; he’ll get your production problems
unproblemed.”
“Well, Gerd, thanks a million. That may just be the
answer. Airlift them around from place to place and just let them
hunt. I’ll bet they’ll get more goofers in a day than
five times as many men would get with rifles.”
“Oh, hell, don’t thank me. The Company’s done
a lot of things for us. Hokfusine, to put it in one word. Of
course, we’ll expect the Company to issue the same rations
they’re getting here . . . ”
“Oh, sure. Look, I’ll call Victor. He’ll
probably call you back . . . ”
GERD VAN RIEBEEK dropped his cigarette butt and heeled it out. A
hundred yards in front of him a blue and white Extee-Three carton
stood pin-cushioned with arrows and leaking sand. There were almost
as many arrows sticking in the turf around it, most of them very
close. The hundred-odd Fuzzies were enthusiastic about it.
“Not good,” he told them. “Half not hit at
all.”
“Come close,” one of the Fuzzies protested.
“You hungry, come close not give meat. You not put
come-close on stick, put over fire, cook.”
The Fuzzies all laughed; this was a perfectly devastating sally
of wit. A bird, about the size of a Terran pigeon, flew across the
range halfway to the target. Two arrows hit it at once and it
dropped.
“Now that,” he said, “was good! Who
did?”
Two of them spoke up; one was his and Ruth’s Superego, and
the other was an up-to-now nameless Fuzzy who had come in several
weeks ago. Robin Hood would do for him. Then he looked again. No.
Maid Marian.
That was with half his mind. The other half was worrying about
Jack Holloway. Jack seemed to have stopped giving a damn after he
came back from Yellowsand. It if only hadn’t been Little
Fuzzy. Any of the others, even one of his own family, he’d
just have written off, felt badly about, and gotten over. But
Little Fuzzy was something special. He was the first one, and
besides that, he had something none of the others had, the
something that had brought him into Holloway’s Camp alone to
make friends with the strange Big One. Ruth and Pancho and Ernst
Mallin hadn’t gotten a dependable IQ-test for Fuzzies
developed yet, but they all claimed that Little Fuzzy was a genius.
And he was Pappy Jack’s favorite.
And now Jack was drinking, too. Not just a couple before dinner
and one or two in the evening. By God, he was drinking as much as
Gus Brannhard, and nobody but Gus Brannhard could do that and get
away with it. Gerd wished he’d gone along with Jack to
Mallorysport, but George Lunt hadn’t been away from here
since right after the Fuzzy Trial, and he was entitled to a trip to
town; and somebody had to stay and mind the store, so he’d
stayed.
Oh, hell, if Jack needed looking after, George could look after
him.
“Pappy Gerd! Pappy Gerd!” somebody was calling. He
turned to see Jack’s Ko-Ko coming on a run. “Is
talk-screen! Mummy Woof say somebody in Big House Place want to
make talk.”
“Hokay, I come.” He turned to the Protection Force
trooper who was helping him. “Let them go get their arrows.
If that carton doesn’t fall apart when they pull them out,
let them shoot another course.” Then he started up the slope
toward the lab-hut, ahead of Ko-Ko.
It was Juan Jimenez, at Company Science Center. He gave a breath
of relief; Jack hadn’t gotten potted and gotten into
trouble.
“Hello, Gerd. Nothing more about Little Fuzzy?” he
asked.
“No. I don’t think there is anything more.
Jack’s in town; did you see him?”
“Yes, at the grand opening of the Fuzzy Club yesterday.
Ben and Gus want him to stay over till the convention opens. Gerd,
you were asking me about ecological side effects of harpy
extermination and wanted me to let you know if anything turned
up.”
“Yes. Has anything?”
“I think so. Forests & Waters has been after me
lately. You know how all those people are; they get little,
manageable problems, and never bother consulting anybody, and then
when they get big and unmanageable they want me to work miracles.
You know where the Squiggle is?”
He did. It was along the inside of the mountain range on the
lower western coast. It wasn’t really a badland, but it would
do as a reasonable facsimile. Volcanic, geologically recent; a lot
of weathered-down lavabeds covered with thin soil; about a thousand
little streams twisting every which way and all flowing finally
into the main Snake River from the west. Flooded bank-high in rainy
season and almost dry in summer, doing little or nothing for the
water situation on the cattle ranges at any season. For the last
ten years, since the Company had been reforesting it, it had gotten
a little better.
“Well, all those young featherleaf trees,” Jimenez
said, “they’d been doing fine up to a couple of years
ago, holding moisture, stopping erosion, water table going up all
over the western half of the cattle country. Then the damned
goofers got in among them, and half the young trees are chewed to
death now.”
That figured. They’d shot all the harpies out of the
southern half of the continent long ago; first chased them out of
the cattle country to protect the calves, and then followed them
into the upland forests where they’d been feasting on
goofers. Now the surplus goofers were being crowded out of the
uplands and down into the Squiggle. Up in the north, Fuzzies killed
a lot of goofers, but there were no Fuzzies that far south.
But why shouldn’t there be?
“Juan, I have an idea. We have a lot of Fuzzies here who
are real sharp with bows and arrows. I was out running an archery
class when you called me; you should see them. Say we airlift about
fifty of them down to where the goofers are worst, and see what
they do.”
“Send them to Chesterville; the chief forester
there’ll know where to spot them. How about
arrows?”
“Well, how about arrows? How soon do you think you can
produce a lot, say a couple of thousand? I’ll send specs when
I know where to send them. You can make the shafts out of duralloy,
the feathers out of plastic, and the heads out of light steel. They
won’t have to shoot through armor-plate, just through
goofers.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that; that’s
purely a production problem . . . ”
“Then, talk to a production man about it. Is Grego in
town? Talk to him; he’ll get your production problems
unproblemed.”
“Well, Gerd, thanks a million. That may just be the
answer. Airlift them around from place to place and just let them
hunt. I’ll bet they’ll get more goofers in a day than
five times as many men would get with rifles.”
“Oh, hell, don’t thank me. The Company’s done
a lot of things for us. Hokfusine, to put it in one word. Of
course, we’ll expect the Company to issue the same rations
they’re getting here . . . ”
“Oh, sure. Look, I’ll call Victor. He’ll
probably call you back . . . ”