XI

The two lawyers had risen hastily when Chief Justice Pendarvis entered; he

responded to their greetings and seated himself at his desk, reaching for

the silver cigar box and taking out a panatela. Gustavus Adolphus

Brannhard picked up the cigar he had laid aside and began puffing on it;

Leslie Coombes took a cigarette from his case. They both looked at him,

waiting like two drawn weapons--a battle ax and a rapier.

"Well, gentlemen, as you know, we have a couple of homicide cases and

nobody to prosecute them," he began.

"Why bother, your Honor?" Coombes asked. "Both charges are completely

frivolous. One man killed a wild animal, and the other killed a man who

was trying to kill him."

"Well, your Honor, I don't believe my client is guilty of anything,

legally or morally," Brannhard said. "I want that established by an

acquittal." He looked at Coombes. "I should think Mr. Coombes would be

just as anxious to have his client cleared of any stigma of murder, too."

"I am quite agreed. People who have been charged with crimes ought to have

public vindication if they are innocent. Now, in the first place, I

planned to hold the Kellogg trial first, and then the Holloway trial. Are

you both satisfied with that arrangement?"

"Absolutely not, your Honor," Brannhard said promptly. "The whole basis of

the Holloway defense is that this man Borch was killed in commission of a

felony. We're prepared to prove that, but we don't want our case

prejudiced by an earlier trial."

Coombes laughed. "Mr. Brannhard wants to clear his client by preconvicting

mine. We can't agree to anything like that."

"Yes, and he is making the same objection to trying your client first.

Well, I'm going to remove both objections. I'm going to order the two

cases combined, and both defendants tried together."

A momentary glow of unholy glee on Gus Brannhard's face; Coombes didn't

like the idea at all.

"Your Honor, I trust that that suggestion was only made facetiously," he

said.

"It wasn't, Mr. Coombes."

"Then if your Honor will not hold me in contempt for saying so, it is the

most shockingly irregular--I won't go so far as to say improper--trial

procedure I've ever heard of. This is not a case of accomplices charged

with the same crime; this is a case of two men charged with different

criminal acts, and the conviction of either would mean the almost

automatic acquittal of the other. I don't know who's going to be named to

take Mohammed O'Brien's place, but I pity him from the bottom of my heart.

Why, Mr. Brannhard and I could go off somewhere and play poker while the

prosecutor would smash the case to pieces."

"Well, we won't have just one prosecutor, Mr. Coombes, we will have two.

I'll swear you and Mr. Brannhard in as special prosecutors, and you can

prosecute Mr. Brannhard's client, and he yours. I think that would remove

any further objections."

It was all he could do to keep his face judicially grave and unmirthful.

Brannhard was almost purring, like a big tiger that had just gotten the

better of a young goat; Leslie Coombes's suavity was beginning to crumble

slightly at the edges.

"Your Honor, that is a most excellent suggestion," Brannhard declared. "I

will prosecute Mr. Coombes's client with the greatest pleasure in the

universe."

"Well, all I can say, your Honor, is that if the first proposal was the

most irregular I had ever heard, the record didn't last long!"

"Why, Mr. Coombes, I went over the law and the rules of jurisprudence very

carefully, and I couldn't find a word that could be construed as

disallowing such a procedure."

"I'll bet you didn't find any precedent for it either!"

Leslie Coombes should have known better than that; in colonial law, you

can find a precedent for almost anything.

"How much do you bet, Leslie?" Brannhard asked, a larcenous gleam in his

eye.

"Don't let him take your money away from you. I found, inside an hour,

sixteen precedents, from twelve different planetary jurisdictions."

"All right, your Honor," Coombes capitulated. "But I hope you know what

you're doing. You're turning a couple of cases of the People of the Colony

into a common civil lawsuit."

Gus Brannhard laughed. "What else is it?" he demanded. "_Friends of Little

Fuzzy_ versus _The chartered Zarathustra Company_; I'm bringing action as

friend of incompetent aborigines for recognition of sapience, and Mr.

Coombes, on behalf of the Zarathustra Company, is contesting to preserve

the Company's charter, and that's all there is or ever was to this case."

That was impolite of Gus. Leslie Coombes had wanted to go on to the end

pretending that the Company charter had absolutely nothing to do with it.

* * * * *

There was an unending stream of reports of Fuzzies seen here and there,

often simultaneously in impossibly distant parts of the city. Some were

from publicity seekers and pathological liars and crackpots; some were the

result of honest mistakes or overimaginativeness. There was some reason to

suspect that not a few had originated with the Company, to confuse the

search. One thing did come to light which heartened Jack Holloway. An

intensive if concealed search was being made by the Company police, and by

the Mallorysport police department, which the Company controlled.

Max Fane was giving every available moment to the hunt. This wasn't

because of ill will for the Company, though that was present, nor because

the Chief Justice was riding him. The Colonial Marshal was pro-Fuzzy. So

were the Colonial Constabulary, over whom Nick Emmert's administration

seemed to have little if any authority. Colonel Ian Ferguson, the

commandant, had his appointment direct from the Colonial Office on Terra.

He had called by screen to offer his help, and George Lunt, over on Beta,

screened daily to learn what progress was being made.

Living at the Hotel Mallory was expensive, and Jack had to sell some

sunstones. The Company gem buyers were barely civil to him; he didn't try

to be civil at all. There was also a noticeable coolness toward him at the

bank. On the other hand, on several occasions, Space Navy officers and

ratings down from Xerxes Base went out of their way to accost him,

introduce themselves, shake hands with him and give him their best wishes.

Once, in one of the weather-domed business centers, an elderly man with

white hair showing under his black beret greeted him.

"Mr. Holloway I want to tell you how grieved I am to learn about the

disappearance of those little people of yours," he said. "I'm afraid

there's nothing I can do to help you, but I hope they turn up safely."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Stenson." He shook hands with the old master

instrument maker. "If you could make me a pocket veridicator, to use on

some of these people who claim they saw them, it would be a big help."

"Well, I do make rather small portable veridicators for the constabulary,

but I think what you need is an instrument for detection of psychopaths,

and that's slightly beyond science at present. But if you're still

prospecting for sunstones, I have an improved micro-ray scanner I just

developed, and...."

He walked with Stenson to his shop, had a cup of tea and looked at the

scanner. From Stenson's screen, he called Max Fane. Six more people had

claimed to have seen the Fuzzies.

Within a week, the films taken at the camp had been shown so frequently on

telecast as to wear out their interest value. Baby, however, was still

available for new pictures, and in a few days a girl had to be hired to

take care of his fan mail. Once, entering a bar, Jack thought he saw Baby

sitting on a woman's head. A second look showed that it was only a

life-sized doll, held on with an elastic band. Within a week, he was

seeing Baby Fuzzy hats all over town, and shop windows were full of

life-sized Fuzzy dolls.

In the late afternoon, two weeks after the Fuzzies had vanished, Marshal

Fane dropped him at the hotel. They sat in the car for a moment, and Fane

said:

"I think this is the end of it. We're all out of cranks and exhibitionists

now."