He pointed out on the map where it had happened.  There were three other people who had actually seen Fuzzies; none were sure how many, but they were all positive about locations and times.  Plotting the reports on the map, it was apparent that the Fuzzies were moving north and west across the outskirts of the city.

Brannhard showed up for lunch at the hotel, still swearing, but half amusedly.

“They’ve exhumed Ham O’Brien, and they’ve put him to work harassing us,” he said.  “Whole flock of civil suits and dangerous-nuisance complaints and that sort of thing; idea’s to keep me amused with them while Leslie Coombes is working up his case for the trial.  Even tried to get the manager here to evict Baby; I threatened him with a racial-discrimination suit, and that stopped that.  And I just filed suit against the Company for seven million sols on behalf of the Fuzzies—­million apiece for them and a million for their lawyer.”

“This evening,” Jack said, “I’m going out in a car with a couple of Max’s deputies.  We’re going to take Baby, and we’ll have a loud-speaker on the car.”  He unfolded the city map.  “They seem to be traveling this way; they ought to be about here, and with Baby at the speaker, we ought to attract their attention.”

They didn’t see anything, though they kept at it till dusk.  Baby had a wonderful time with the loud-speaker; when he yeeked into it, he produced an ear-splitting noise, until the three humans in the car flinched every time he opened his mouth.  It affected dogs too; as the car moved back and forth, it was followed by a chorus of howling and baying on the ground.

The next day, there were some scattered reports, mostly of small thefts.  A blanket spread on the grass behind a house had vanished.  A couple of cushions had been taken from a porch couch.  A frenzied mother reported having found her six-year-old son playing with some Fuzzies; when she had rushed to rescue him, the Fuzzies had scampered away and the child had begun weeping.  Jack and Gerd rushed to the scene.  The child’s story, jumbled and imagination-colored, was definite on one point—­the Fuzzies had been nice to him and hadn’t hurt him.  They got a recording of that on the air at once.

When they got back to the hotel, Gus Brannhard was there, bubbling with glee.

“The Chief Justice gave me another job of special prosecuting,” he said.  “I’m to conduct an investigation into the possibility that this thing, the other night, was a frame-up, and I’m to prepare complaints against anybody who’s done anything prosecutable.  I have authority to hold hearings, and subpoena witnesses, and interrogate them under veridication.  Max Fane has specific orders to cooperate.  We’re going to start, tomorrow, with Chief of Police Dumont and work down.  And maybe we can work up, too, as far as Nick Emmert and Victor Grego.”  He gave a rumbling laugh.  “Maybe that’ll give Leslie Coombes something to worry about.”