William Tuning - Terro-Human - Fuzzy 04 - Fuzzy Bones

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FUZZY REDUX

Chapter 1

"Tis a pity she's a whore," the Marine said.

"Don't bet your ass or your pension on it," the priest said.

The two of them were perched at the bar of the first-class passengers' lounge

on the City of Asgard, outbound for Zarathustra. They sipped their drinks and

chatted while the rest of the first-class passengers "ooohed" and "ahhhed" at

the ever-changing panoramas of space that were presented in the observation

screens around the edge of the lounge deck.

The Marine nodded toward the object of the conversation, a strawberry blonde

named-correction-calling herself Christiana Stone. "That might be your first

convert on Zarathustra," he said.

The Marine was Master Gunnery Sergeant of Fleet Marines Philip Helton. The

priest preferred to be called The Rev.

They had hit it off immediately. The Rev was dressed like a priest-collar and

all-but thought like a Marine-one who had been able to take the time to absorb

and appreciate some of the galaxy's variety of culture.

You can take the boy out of the Marines, Helton had thought when he met him,

but you can't take the Marine out of the boy. Retired, perhaps. Officer,

maybe. Tough, yes.

The Rev snorted derisively. "Do the old Magdalene caper? Not a chance."

"Why not?" Helton said. "Souls are where you find 'em."

"Several reasons," The Rev replied, as he chewed noisily on an ice cube from

his drink. "First, it's not my style. Round the souls up every spring, put The

Brand on them, and drive them to market? That's a mug's game. Second;

unnecessary. If that young thing is a pros tie, then I'm the Archbishop of

Nifflheim."

"You sound pretty sure of yourself," Helton said.

The Rev snorted again. "My lad, I daresay you've observed just about as many

whores in your profession as I have in mine. What the lady says she is and

what she is don't have to come to the same thing." He wagged his finger as

Helton started to interrupt. "She may, however, intend to become one when we

get to Zarathustra."

"But you don't think she's a-ummmmmm- journeyman," Helton said.

The Rev slapped his hand lightly on the bar and leaned forward slightly. "Of

course not! " he said quietly. "Otherwise she would have been working the

ship. Lots of lonely business types in the first-class. A young lady with her

looks and just the slightest amount of enterprise could rack up quite a bundle

during a six-month hypertrip."

"That's where you've missed," Helton said with a chuckle. "You don't have all

the data to draw a conclusion."

The Rev's face took on an expression of mock menace. "Well, son, you get to be

pretty damned observant in my trade."

"And in my trade," Helton said, "I travel quite a bit of the time by

commercial carrier."

"So?" The Rev was not impressed.

"So I happen to know the ship captain on this trip. His name is Hermann

Kaltenbrunner and he makes the Orthodox-Monophysites look like a bunch of

reckless hedonists. I was on the City of Malverton once-when the old boy was

stalking his quarterdeck-and I saw him put a professional gambler out the

airlock for starting up a card game on Sunday."

"Great Ghu!" The Rev gasped. "He does sound to be just a trifle on the

puritanical side. Uh-what happened to the rest of the players?"

"Nothing," Helton said flatly. "They were not professional card-players. Oh,

they got a sermon about evil-doing that would set fire to your underwear, but

that was about it."

"So someone tipped her off mighty quick," The Rev said, "perhaps in hopes of

receiving some-ahhhh-non-professional thanks."

Helton smiled. "Oh, I don't know. There are people who just have that old soft

spot in them."

"Hunh!" The Rev grumped. "I 'd hate to have to hold my breath between meeting

the first one and the next one."

"Now that you've muffed your first great deduction," Helton said, "what do you

think her game is?"

The Rev shrugged and swigged from his drink. "She might be a spoiled rich kid

who's out to get even with Mommy and Daddy-come home from Zarathustra with a 1

bundle of money and rub their noses in how it was earned. Or, she might have a

decrepit old Mum back home on Terra, and this is the only way she can earn

enough sols fast enough to let the old lady live out her last years in style

and respectability."

"Sadie Thompson, and all that," Helton mused.

"Star-travel makes strange bedfellows," The Rev said. He rapped his knuckles

on the bar for two more drinks. "Who was that you were quoting a minute ago?"

"You mean, 'Tis a pity . . .'?" Helton asked.

The Rev nodded.

"John Ford," Helton said.

The Rev stroked his chin a moment. "John Ford the First Century screenplay

director?"

Helton smiled. "John Ford the obscure Elizabethan dramatist; Fourth Century

Pre-Atomic."

The Rev's eyebrows shot up. "Pretty exotic reading for a Gunnie."

Helton looked at him levelly. "I get a lot of time for reading," he said.

"So do I," The Rev said, "so do I."

Chapter 2

Helton smiled as he recalled the conversation, which took place only a few

days out from Terra.

He stood, now, with his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back, and

rocked up and down on the balls of his feet. It was a habit of his which

tended to cause nervousness in units and commands he was auditing; one of the

principal assets in his trade was the ability to keep people just a little bit

off balance.

At one point in his life he had owned a pair of boots which squeaked softly as

he rocked on the balls of his feet. They had been among his most favored

possessions, because with them he could, at will, cause others to be visibly

disturbed in his presence.

There was no one to audit at the moment. There was not even another Terran

human on the first-class lounge deck; only Philip Helton standing in front of

the armor-glass observation screen, auditing the star-pinioned darkness of

space beyond the vessel-and rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

One of the moons of Zarathustra was slowly traversing the screen, but at this

distance Helton couldn't tell which one. It might be Xerxes, the site of his

next assignment at the huge Navy base that occupied all of it; or it might be

Darius, where Terra-Baldur-Marduk Spacelines maintained Zarathustra's

commercial port.

The City of Asgard would dock on Darius in about two hours-just in time to

disrupt everyone's lunch schedule.

Helton turned toward the small noise behind him.

"Good morning, Sergeant," Christiana Stone said, as she walked across the

carpeted deck toward him.

"I would think," he said, "that after six months of travel in hyperspace, you

might not find it improper to call me by my first name."

The dim starlight from the observation screen reflected on her reddish-blond

hair as she smiled good-naturedly. "I suppose so-Phil," she replied. "I find

it difficult to be informal with people, though. It's a business habit."

During the trip, Helton began to suspect The Rev was right; Christiana didn't

likely know much more about the oldest profession than one might learn in a

steamy romance novel. But there was a big boom happening on Zarathustra, with

fortunes to be made by all sorts of means; if Christiana said she was going

there to clean up on the influx of population generated by the Pendarvis

Decisions, Helton was willing to go along with it.

It made little difference to him, anyway. He was just as glad to be by himself

as around others. He was used to operating alone. There were very few Master

Gunnery Sergeants of Fleet Marines, so it was not the usual thing for him to

settle in with his peer group at cocktail hour and talk shop. Maybe once every

year or two he would run into another Master Gunnie. Mostly he just did his

job, auditing weapons systems, gunnery performance, and readiness levels. Most

often he traveled by civilian transportation to avoid excessively widespread

knowledge of his destination and wasn't much obliged to answer to anyone below

the rank of Fleet Admiral or Force-General.

"Is our fellow passenger about, this morning?" Christiana asked.

"I didn't see him at breakfast," Helton replied, "but then I never see him at

breakfast." He looked at the readout on the wall. "Nearly ten hundred,

galactic standard, though. The bar will open in a few minutes and that should

fetch him out."

I rarely see you at breakfast, either, he thought, but I suppose you're in the

habit of sleeping late in the morning.

Chapter 3

At the first rattle of ice into the bin as the barman began to open up, the

third passenger appeared in the companionway as though answering a mysterious

call to nature. He was sporting a Zarathustran sunstone in the neckcloth below

his clerical collar. At the start of the trip he had introduced himself-rather

grandiloquently-as "The Right Reverend Father Thomas Aquinas Gordon," but

allowed as how he would answer just as readily to "Rev," "Tom," "Father G,"or

"Thursday."

"Thursday?" Christiana had said, falling for it.

"I certainly am!" The Rev boomed. "Let's have a drink!"

"Good morning, children," The Rev said, without breaking stride as he headed

for his favorite barstool. He clapped his hands together and rubbed the palms

against each other vigorously. "Sustenance, Harry," he said to the barman,

"sustenance."

Phil Helton was a bit youngish-early forties-to be a Master Gunnery Sergeant,

but he didn't think of himself as "children" in any sense of the word. To The

Rev, though, maybe I am, he thought. But, then, when he talks about "gathering

his flock" on Zarathustra, I don't reckon he means herding sheep, either.

The Rev himself was some indeterminate age which could fall anywhere between

thirty and sixty, even allowing for a good deal of hyperspace travel. His hair

was gray at the temples, but thick and healthy. He was a little on the fat

side, but had the fast, light-footed movements of a young man. There were

wrinkles around his eyes but the eyes themselves were an alert and piercing

dark blue.

He took a respectful swig of his first drink and shuddered violently for

several seconds. "Ahhhhhhhh," he said. "Like blood to a vampire."

While The Rev swapped pleasantries with the barman- and gambled him out of the

next two drinks playing Double-O-Helton and Christiana drifted around the rim

of the lounge toward the bar, drinking in the different views in the

observation screens.

Helton had been on Zarathustra before, but not recently, so his replies to

Christiana's barrage of questions about the planet were less than informative.

Everything would be changed by the current land rush, in any case.

The two of them had drifted over to The Rev's roost at the bar.

"Only a couple more hours," Helton said, nodding toward the image of the

Zarathustran moon. "Then the last leg down to Mallorysport for you and the

shuttle to Xerxes for me. What's the name of the place where you'll be setting

up your mission, Rev? I may get down and see you."

The Rev shrugged. "I don't know what it's called or where it is. But I know

Mallorysport is the largest city on the planet-seventy-five thousand or so.

Might be double or triple that by now, with all this immigration. So there's

bound to be a slum section for me to work in-some place that's crying for a

soup kitchen and medical mission."

"A slum?" Christiana said. "Already? Zarathustra's only been settled for a

little more than twenty-five years."

"Oh, it's there, all right," The Rev said, tapping his index finger alongside

his nose as though he could smell the place already. "Wherever Terrans go,

vice and squalor are in hot pursuit and soon pitch camp with the rest of the

pilgrims."

Chapter 4

He was right, of course. The slum of Mallorysport had the name Junktown and in

it teemed the throngs of the unwashed and the unfortunate-losers, thieves,

gamblers, cut-throats, prostitutes, dope-runners, racketeers, hoodlums, the

impoverished, and the eternally down-on-their-luck.

Though there were only the three in the first-class lounge, the economy-class

decks of the City of Asgard were crammed with a fresh crop of immigrants to be

deposited in Mallorysport. As soon as the word of the Pendarvis Decisions

reached Terra, colonists had stampeded toward Zarathustra. A Class-IV,

inhabited, planet. No more Company monopoly. Free land. A chance to make your

fortune. A chance to get away from Terra-where no one ever had enough room.

When they discovered that it might take longer than a couple of standard

galactic days to become deliriously rich, their grubstakes would start running

out.

The people who scraped together every sol they could lay hands on to migrate

to a colony world weren't just worthless bums, though; they all had skills,

knowledge, and abilities that were needed. The Chartered Zarathustra Company

had carved out the modern city of Mallorysport with such people and with the

intelligent management of their talents.

Sixteen years earlier, Mallorysport had been a cluster of log and prefab huts

beside an improvised landing field. The town had not grown up out of the

ground like a tree. People had built it. And, it was built, for the most part,

by people like those who were now crowded into the lower decks of the City of

Asgard-people who were betting every last centisol they had that they could

make a go of it on a new world.

Some, though, would wind up in Junktown when they found the streets of

Mallorysport were not actually paved with sunstones.

The Rev ran his finger around his throat, between the cleric's collar and his

neck. The warmth of his hand, brushing across the sunstone in his neckcloth,

caused the gem to flare brighter, which cast a glossy light against the ring

on his right little finger.

"You figure there are a lot of souls to save in Mallorysport, then?" Helton

said conversationally.

The Rev pulled his finger out from under his collar with a disdainful gesture.

"I told you I don't save souls," he said. "Leave that for the

Orthodox-Monophysites. I just help God look out for people who can't look out

for themselves- temporarily or permanently. Theology has to pay its own

freight; I don't preach."

"What about the souls of the Furries?" Christiana put in. "Don't-"

"Fuzzies," Helton interrupted irritably. "You mean Fuzzies."

"Sure," she said. "Fuzzies. What about the souls of the Fuzzies. Don't they

need saving?"

"Don't know," The Rev said. "Their souls may be in better shape than ours are.

On the other hand they might not be what people think they are, these Fuzzies.

I make up my mind about such things when I've seen for myself."

"Sounds odd coming from a priest," Christiana said.

"So it might," The Rev agreed, "so it might. I don't worry too much about this

intellectual stuff. We have priests in my order who sit around with computers

and try to mathematically calculate the ages of the prophets and the angels.

That's swell for them; I just go to where there are people who are hurting and

try to put something in their bellies and keep them from catching the

polka-dot plague."

She smiled. "Is that why they sent you to such a helluva-such a Nifflheim of a

place? According to my packet, there isn't a religious congregation on

Zarathustra."

The Rev took a long, noisy suck at his drink, then smacked his lips. "Don't be

particular about cussing around me, daughter," he said. "I don't give a damn

one way or the other."

He paused, staring at the observation screen. "If my superior had his way-or

wanted to spend that much more money-I suppose he would have sent me even

further into the celestial boondocks. Someplace like the Gartner Trisys-tem. I

hear that's real rough-and-ready country since crazy old Genji Gartner died at

Storisende. Everyone's been wearing out holsters to see who's going to control

Poictesme."

"But don't they have a chartered company there?" Christiana asked, "With a

Resident General and Federation troops?"

The Rev laughed mirthlessly. "Of course, sweetheart," he said, "and all the

settled planets in the trisystem are Federation members. So what?"

She wasn't so sure of what she meant, now. "Well, if they have a colonial

government, how can law and order break down that way-just over the death of

one man?-even if he did establish the first settlement on the planet."

"Systematically," The Rev said-genuinely amused, now. "Systematically. You

know how long it takes just to get some heavy Federation troops out here?"

Helton frowned for a moment, being logical. "Out there-not less than a year's

turnaround time."

"Right," The Rev said. "Six months going and six more coming back. If you

squawk for troops out here, it takes at least a year to get any-if you get

any. The Federation may decide the request is unwarranted and just send back a

message that says 'Sorry.' "

"Even at that," Helton said, "it's usually all over by the time they get

there. Most often, the only thing left for troops to do is put some muscle

behind the reorganized government and make sure it's going to honor the old

trade agreements that made the place worth commercial traffic to begin with."

Christiana looked shocked, and just a little bit frightened by what they had

said. "Th-that couldn't happen on Zarathustra, could it?"

The Rev shrugged. "The Federation depends on every planet to do its own

policing. A charter company or colony world is only as tough as the fist on

the end of its own arm. I don't suppose things could really fall apart on

Zarathustra." He gestured toward the moon in the observation screen. "The

Navy's right close at hand, there, on Xerxes-or Darius-whatever-but things

could get pretty wild and woolly under the right set of circumstances. You

know- push come to shove and all that. . .

"Which, I suspect, is why our friend here is arriving- after just enough time

has passed for word to get to Terra and for someone to be assigned to the

job-to audit weapons systems and readiness levels. Am I right, Gunnie?"

Helton smiled.

Chapter 5

While the passengers of the City of Asgard prepared for the last leg to

Zarathustra-or Xerxes-it was early morning on Beta Continent and coffee-break

time in Mallorysport.

Up Cold Creek Canyon from the Snake River, the K0 sun of Zarathustra slanted

orangish light across the growing settlement which the latest maps called

Holloway Station. A year ago the place had been a quiet one-man camp from

which Jack Holloway prospected for sunstones and lived a peaceably solitary

life.

There wasn't much stirring at this hour of the morning, but later on the place

would be bustling with activity. Jack Holloway still lived here, but not in

the privacy and seclusion he would have preferred. The place was now the

administrative center for the Native Affairs Commission.

For the first several weeks, the Commission had been operated out of

Holloway's own bungalow from a jumble of

cardboard-boxes-turned-filing-cabinets, extra tables, and steno equipment

scattered around the living room-and confusion. Now it took up a half-dozen

big prefab huts and was straining at the seams of those.

The headquarters and barracks for the Zarathustran Native Protection Force was

across the creek. It was home base for the police force which protected the

Fuzzies and maintained surveillance of their territory against Terran

intrusion. That alone accounted for over two hundred men, if you counted the

Marines loaned to the ZNPF by Commodore Napier.

Besides that cluster of buildings there was the bungalow where Gerd and Ruth

van Riebeek lived and the big laboratory and infirmary where they conducted

studies of Fuzzy biology and psychology, a Reception Center, a Fuzzy School

for learning Lingua Terra, and other such structures as might be of use or

interest to a Fuzzy.

This conglomeration, the scientific corner of Holloway Station, was referred

to informally as Fuzzy Institute.

Add to all this the constant comings and goings by officials of the new

Colonial Government, people from the Company headquarters in Mallorysport,

Constabulary officers, the Adoptions Bureau that had been set up for Fuzzies

who wanted to live with human people and love them, and everyone else who had

business involving Fuzzies-to say nothing of a couple hundred curious and

playful Fuzzies- and Holloway Station was the kind of place that might need

traffic cops before long.

Major George Lunt was puzzled.

That's why he was in his office so early this particular morning. When George

Lunt was puzzled about something, he had to turn his detective's mind loose on

it one bite at a time, and he couldn't do that with a dozen people pestering

him about two dozen things at once.

He hoped he would have a handle on it by the time the day watch started coming

in to go on duty at 0800. After that mere would be the whole tedious business

of inspecting the watch in ranks and sitting in on the watch briefing; not

that he needed to-the watch commander was perfectly competent-but as

Commandant of me ZNPF he was sort of expected to do it on occasion. It was

good for morale.

George reached out with his left hand and blanked the shade on his window,

then pulled out a section of printout from the stack of survey logs in front

of him and bent down his head to study the rash of squiggly lines which the

computer had superimposed on the strip map of a section of northern Beta

Continent, the Fuzzy Reservation.

There it is, again, he thought . . . plain as can be.

He slewed the stacks of paper around and matched up the registry marks on two

parallel strips of geography. That's nuts, he said to himself. If all the

various kinds of titanium compounds on Zarathustra were put together in one

spot, it still wouldn't cause these readings-! think.

George leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Two possibilities seemed

to him equally likely to account for the odd data recorded in the survey

printout of north Beta: malfunction of the scanner or recorder, or sloppy

procedure on the part of Paine's Marines. George thought it would be better

all around if he could kiss off Paine's Marines. George Lunt was uneasy about

commanding men over whom he did not have direct control. He hadn't been a

major long enough to have a clear handle on delegating duty and staff work to

others.

The third alternative was too preposterous-that there really was a big

concentration of titanium compounds on north Beta. Why, you could practically

take all the titanium in the entire crust of Zarathustra and put it in your

hip pocket. And here this damned readout was telling him there was a big slug

of it up there, in several different forms.

Well, he'd ask Jack Holloway about it. Jack knew a good deal about geology-had

to to be a successful sunstone prospector. Gerd van Riebeek could tell him

more, too. Gerd was a zoologist-used to work for the Chartered Zarathustra

Company-so he knew a lot about paleontology from working with fossils and rock

layers.

George Lunt yawned and stretched. While his arms were extended, he snapped

open the shade on his office window once more, then pushed back the chair and

got to his feet.

Chapter 6

Major Lunt wasn't the only person, at that hour, to be slaving over puzzling

entries on hard-copy printouts and trying to interpret their meaning and

importance.

Three time-zones to the east, in Mallorysport, it was mid-morning. Hugo

Ingermann-attorney-at-law-sat alone in his office, absently massaging his

smooth, round, pink cheeks, and studied the printout pages before him on the

large desk. The commercial manifests-cargo and passenger-of the City of Asgard

had been broadcast to the port on Darius and the capital at Mallorysport as

soon as the ship dropped into normal space. Cargo and passengers were known to

those who planned to receive them-persons who expected goods or passengers,

the customs inspectors, brokers for commercial shipments, lading and freight

contractors, and other interested parties. Preparations could then be speedily

made to receive that which occupied the decks and holds of the vessel before

it actually docked.

Very efficient.

Hugo Ingermann was in the category of "other interested parties." As the

moving and guiding force behind all activities illegal or even slightly shady

in Mallorysport, Ingermann was interested in everything and everybody that

might be on an incoming hypership from Terra.

This was not to say that Hugo Ingermann would turn honest business from his

door. During the seven years or so that he had maintained his busy law

practice in Mallorysport he had represented at least eight clients who were

completely honest and respectable persons. He owned some land north of the

capital city. And he was a partner in several perfectly legal businesses-to

say nothing of being a major shareholder in a dozen more.

Ever alert to the opportunities which abound on a colony planet, Ingermann was

also the architect and principal advisor of several loosely and informally

organized conglomerates in Mallorysport.

Ivan Bowlby's entertainment enterprises-telecast productions, prize-fights,

nightclubs formed the visible surface of his activities. Out of

sight-prostitution, murder for hire, the black-market, and a little dope

business here and there.

Spike Heenan's specialty was gambling: crap games, numbers, bookmaking, and

fixing sports events. His respectable front-in which Hugo Ingermann was a

partner-was a company which leased vending machines and electronic games.

Raul Laporte's talents leaned toward racketeering, extortion, plain

old-fashioned country-style crime, and stolen goods. He had expertly developed

a system of fences for illegal sunstone buying when the Company had been the

only legal buyer for them. Rather than let that part of his operation lay

fallow since the Pendarvis Decisions, Laporte had sketched out a plan to

expand into straight robbery of sunstone prospectors right at the diggings-cut

out the middleman-just as soon as he could find time to organize the operation

personally.

The most respectably-fronted of Ingermann's proteges was Leo Thaxter, Loan

Broker and Financier-also shylock, smuggler, bag-man, and protection

racketeer. He used Laporte's strongarm employees for collections.

When Thaxter came to Zarathustra ten years earlier, he had fooled around with

some small-time rackets, set up some crooked labor unions and a couple of

marketing cooperatives to put the squeeze on planters. Nothing really big,

though, until he fell under the tutelage of Ingermann some four or five years

later-who had showed him how to make good money by laundering bad money and

investing the profits in six-for-five loans to people who couldn't borrow

anywhere else.

His sister, Rose Thaxter, had married Conrad Evins, who later became the chief

gem-buyer for the CZC. At the height of the Fuzzy craze, the three of them had

kidnapped some Fuzzies and trained them to get into the Company gem vault

through the ventilation system. Ambitious enterprise that; the vault contained

upwards of one hundred million sols worth of sunstones.

They almost got away with it. Two minor henchmen, Phil Novaes and Moses

Herckerd, had been caught inside Company House with the loot. Herckerd managed

to get well-ventilated by a Company policeman with a submachine gun. Novaes

lived to stand trial on charges of enslavement, with Mr. and Mrs. Evins, and

the three of them received the mandatory sentence for that crime-death

administered by a pistol shot in the back of the head; no discretion of the

court allowed.

Ingermann angrily jerked out a fresh printout. The fools, he thought. If only

the idiots had consulted me, I could have showed them the weak spots in their

plan.

As it was, he had just barely managed getting Thaxter off, and had actually

been arrested himself when the police started rounding up everyone connected

with Thaxter.

The whole matter had been a great source of aggravation for Attorney General

Gustavus Adolphus Brannhard, who "knew" they were all guilty, but didn't quite

have enough on them to take it to court.

The hincty bastard tried to put me under veridication for questioning to have

me disbarred. Ingermann became enraged every time he thought of the incident.

Patience will put the whole goody, goody lot of them in my hands, sooner or

later; then I'll squeeze the juice out of their pious guts.

What irritated Ingermann was not that the caper had gone wrong, not that four

people had been caught, not that he himself had come close to veridicated

questioning about his enterprises, a thing that would have meant ruin and

jail; but that the whole scheme had gone sour before he could get hold of the

sunstones. He would have considered it a profitable bargain to trade the lives

of four of his own people for- say-a double handful of sunstones.

Ingermann shook his head sadly and went back to perusing the printout sheets.

Now, here was an interesting item. Three first-class passengers from Terra.

The passage voucher number of one of them had an "R" suffix. Restricted entry;

data not available except to official inquirers, and then on a "need to know"

basis only. No way to match the number up to a name at this end of the trip.

Payment vouchers were like boarding passes or baggage tickets. Passengers

presented their vouchers to the chief steward upon entering the ship and he

recorded the number on his manifest. After that it was a matter of

head-counting and tally-keeping. Three boardings first-class for Zarathustra;

and if three got off at Zarathustra all was in order. Anything more detailed

was a violation of the Privacy Act.

An "R " suffix indicated the possible presence of a Federation official or

government employee of fairly high rank among those three first-class

William Tuning - Terro-Human - Fuzzy 04 - Fuzzy Bones

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