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And Ham O'Brien! No, he didn't have to blame himself for O'Brien. O'Brien was one of Nick Emmert's boys. And he hadn't picked Nick, either. The squawk-box on the desk made a premonitory noise, and a feminine voice advised him that Mr. Coombes and his party had arrived. "All right; show them in." Coombes entered first, tall suavely elegant, with a calm, untroubled face.
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.
And he's issuing a warning that until the status of the Fuzzies is determined, anybody killing one will face charges of murder." "That's fine, Gus! Have you seen the girl or her father yet?" Brannhard snarled angrily. "The girl's in the Company hospital, in a private room. The doctors won't let anybody see her. I think Emmert's hiding the father in the Residency.
We did pick up the two car cops, but they don't know anything on anybody but Woller." That was good enough, as far as it went, Brannhard thought, but it didn't go far enough. There were those four strange Fuzzies showing up out of nowhere, right in the middle of Nick Emmert's drive-hunt.
He inverted the jug over his glass. "Think we could stand another cocktail before dinner?" Space Commodore Napier sat at the desk that had been Nick Emmert's and looked at the little man with the red whiskers and the rumpled suit, who was looking back at him in consternation. "Good Lord, Commodore; you can't be serious?" "But I am. Quite serious, Dr. Rainsford." "Then you're nuts!"
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