Papa Fuzzy pointed up.

Holloway looked up.

Above him, the spikewoods were filled with fuzzys. Dozens of them.

“Holy God,” Holloway said, and sat up.

The fuzzys started climbing down from the trees, dropping down into the landing pad until it was packed with the creatures. Holloway looked at them all, partly amused at the convention of creatures, and partly apprehensive. A human had just killed two of their number. It was entirely possible the fuzzys were planning to take it out on him. He couldn’t say that he would blame them.

On the periphery of the landing pad, one of the smaller fuzzys caught his eye. Holloway stared at it for a few seconds, wondering why this particular fuzzy was so interesting, when it occurred to him that it wasn’t a fuzzy at all.

Holloway peered at it intently.

It was a capuchin monkey.

“You have got to be shitting me,” Holloway said.

Papa Fuzzy looked at Holloway curiously. Holloway pointed at the monkey. “I know that monkey,” he said. “Damn thing stole my wallet once. I can’t believe it’s still alive. I can’t believe it’s been with you guys.”

Papa Fuzzy followed Holloway’s pointing finger toward the monkey, and then looked back at Holloway with what for all intents and purposes was a noncommittal shrug. Yes, so, it’s a monkey, it seemed to be saying. What about it?

“This has become a very strange day,” Holloway said.

An object was moving forward through the crowd to Holloway, carried by a single fuzzy who held its arms outstretched, and sort of wobbled its way through the group, other fuzzys parting to let it through. The fuzzy came up to Papa Fuzzy, who squeaked something at it. The other fuzzy offered the object to Holloway, who took it.

It was an infopanel.

Holloway wondered for a second if it wasn’t his spare panel, saved from the cabin fire, when he realized that it was a different make and model. This one was a lower-end model than any of Holloway’s, but featured one high-end feature: solar panels on the non-display side. Leave it out in the sunlight for an hour, it’d be charged up for a week. Useful, actually, for people who spent most of their time out surveying.

Holloway turned on the display.

Andy Alpaca, the mascot of the Super Reading Adventures line of skill-adaptive electronic reading primers, beamed back at him, making eye contact with Holloway by way of facial identification software tied into the infopanel’s camera.

“Hi there!” it said. “I’m Andy Alpaca! Would you like to go on a reading adventure with me?”

It was Sam Hamilton’s infopanel, all right. Poor, semi-literate Sam, whose skimmer went down years ago. The monkey quite obviously survived. It didn’t seem too likely Sam did.

“Should have bought that emergency fence, Sam,” Holloway said.

He looked down at the infopanel again, where Andy Alpaca waited for him to respond. Then he looked out at the fuzzys, who stared up at him, patiently.

For the third time that day, the gears in his brain engaged, hard.

Chapter Twenty-one

Joe DeLise was mightily displeased when he walked through the door of Warren’s Warren and found someone occupying his favorite stool. He was even more displeased when the man turned toward him and DeLise recognized who he was.

“I don’t care what that son of a bitch lawyer said,” DeLise said, from the door. “If you’re not off of my stool by the time I get over there, I’m breaking your face.” “You should know that son of a bitch lawyer is right over there,” Holloway said, pointing to Sullivan, who was shooting pool by himself.

DeLise paused. “Can’t go anywhere without your protection, Jack?” he said, after a second. He started walking toward his stool again. “I guess I got you that scared, don’t I.” Holloway peered at DeLise. “Jesus, Joe, what happened to your face?” he asked. “You look like you tried to tongue-kiss a cat and the cat objected.” “None of your damn business,” DeLise said.

“Mind you, I don’t blame the cat,” Holloway said, and looked again. “How long ago did that happen, anyway? Looks like maybe four, five days ago.” “Kiss my ass,” DeLise said. He was hovering over Holloway now. “And get off my stool.” “I was planning to,” Holloway said. “It smells bad. All those years of you farting into it, I suppose.” “That’s right,” DeLise said. “Keep it up.”

“But before I do that, I’ve got something for you,” Holloway said.

“What?” DeLise said.

“This,” Sullivan said, slapping a court notice against his shoulder. He had walked up behind DeLise while the man had been threatening Holloway. “You’ve got a court date. Preliminary hearing.” DeLise looked back at his shoulder but didn’t touch the notice. “What for?” he said.

“For burning down my house, you asshole,” Holloway said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” DeLise said. “I’ve been here or I’ve been working. And I have people who will tell you that in both places.” “Well then, you have nothing to worry about, do you?” Sullivan said. “You can show up in three days with some of your witnesses and let them chat with Judge Soltan and then you’ll be free to go.” “I don’t recall you calling in your little fire to security,” DeLise said.

“Funny about that,” Holloway said.

“Considering the possible involvement of a ZaraCorp security officer, Mr. Holloway asked the judge to allow him to file a request for a preliminary hearing directly,” Sullivan said. “And I, as legal representative of ZaraCorp, indicated to her that the company wouldn’t have a problem with that. And here we are.” “Surprise,” Holloway said, to DeLise.

DeLise sneered at Holloway and looked back to Sullivan. “Even if it’s true, which it’s not, what do you care?” he asked Sullivan. “You’re ZaraCorp’s lawyer, not his. He’s not a ZaraCorp employee. His house isn’t ZaraCorp property. Shit, I’m the one who works for ZaraCorp, not this schmuck.” “You’re not working for ZaraCorp when you’re allegedly burning down someone’s house, now, are you, Mr. DeLise?” Sullivan said. “That’s on your own time.” DeLise smirked at that. “I don’t think you really want to serve that notice to me, Counselor,” he said.

“A tip for you, Mr. DeLise,” Sullivan said. “Just because you haven’t touched the notice with your fingers doesn’t mean it hasn’t been served to you.” DeLise snorted, took the notice, and set it on the bar. He turned to Sullivan. “This is going to be a waste of everybody’s time,” he said. “And I don’t take very kindly to being made to look like an asshole, Counselor.” He jerked a thumb at Holloway. “You think you’re doing yourself a favor latching on to this piece of shit, but between you and me, Sullivan, I think you’ve picked the wrong horse this time. I don’t think you’re going to like where he’s going to end up taking you.” “Well, Mr. DeLise, coming from a man I once had to stop from killing Mr. Holloway in a ZaraCorp holding cell, that’s certainly an ironic slice of food for thought,” Sullivan said. “You can be assured I’ll give it the consideration it deserves.” “Yeah, I’m sure you will,” DeLise said. “But he’s not in the holding tank this time. He’s not the untouchable you made him out to be. And when this is all done, we’ll just see who the asshole is, won’t we.” He turned toward Holloway, who blinded him with a flash.

“What the hell?” DeLise said.

“Just taking a picture,” Holloway said, lowering the camera. “Your scratched-up face amuses the crap out of me, Joe.” “Get off my stool, asshole,” DeLise said. “Now.” “All yours,” Holloway said, getting up. “Enjoy it while you can.” DeLise grunted and sat.

*

“Have I told you today how much I hate you?” Chad Bourne said, to Holloway. The two of them were walking Carl, who snuffled happily down one of the side streets of Aubreytown. Bourne had called Holloway to meet with him in his cubicle, but Holloway refused. A little bit of yelling later and they were walking down the street with a dog. It was muggy and hot. Bourne was not dressed for a walk and was already sweating profusely.