Authors: Keith Laumer
“Here, what’s this, Fiss?” he blurted. “These are tourists?”
“Of course? What else? Please note the presence of the ladies
and also a number of lovable Groaci grubs. Yes, innocent, fun-loving tourists
all.”
“Why are they in armored cars?” Magnan watched as the
vehicles moved off in the direction of the towering glass temples. “Here, where
are they going?”
“Since the entire local populace is fully occupied with Voom
Festival activities,” Fiss hissed blandly, “Groac Tours has thoughtfully
arranged to occupy available unused housing . . .”
“Why, that’s the local Holy of Holies,” Magnan expostulated.
“You can’t go in there . . . !”
“The structures are not in use,” Fiss whispered. “And I see
no objection on the part of the aborigines.” He indicated the cab driver who
was watching indifferently as the first tractor moved under a graceful
crystalline arch into the sparkling glass-bricked avenue.
“Hey, Mac-Tic,” the driver called to Retief in Yalc. “Time’s
up. I wanna get there before the mud cools . . .”
“Are
you out of your mind, Mr. Fiss?” Magnan demanded. “You’re deliberately
precipitating an incident! I’m warning you, I’ll refer this to Sector HQ and
call for a squadron of Peace Enforcers—”
“What need for Peace Enforcers, my dear fellow?” Fiss
murmured. “Peace reigns! We are unarmed; no act of violence is contemplated.”
“We’ll see about this!” Magnan fumed. He turned and stamped
toward the waiting taxi.
“So thoughtful of you to welcome us,” Fiss’s faint voice
followed him. “I shall be calling at the Legation later to arrange a number of
formalities—all quite legal, I assure you.”
“It’s worse than I thought,” Magnan groaned to Retief as he
climbed into the cab. “When a Groaci starts citing statutes, you can be sure
there’s mischief afoot.”
“This is incredible!” Magnan barked at the screen where
Oo-Rilikuk’s multi-colored visage nodded blandly against a background of
sinuously moving Yalcan dancing-wenches. “You calmly admit that these
foreigners are occupying every pagoda on the planet, strewing dope-stick butts
and algae-bar wrappers—”
“This is Voom season, Mr. Magnan,” Rilikuk said reasonably.
“What could be more fitting?”
“Your concept of propriety confounds me. There are fifty
thousand of these fellows—and I have the distinct impression they’re planning
an extended stay!”
“Very likely,” Rilikuk agreed, twitching in time to the music
in the background. “And now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” The
screen blanked.
Magnan threw up his hands. “I don’t like it, Retief; there’s
an aspect of this we’re missing—”
A chime sounded; the door opened and the Groaci Fiss bustled
in, breathing noisily under the weight of a heavy briefcase.
“Ah, Mr. Magnan! So good of you to await me. I have the
papers here . . .” He hoisted the case onto the desk and undid
stout straps. “I’m sure you’ll find all in order: Territorial claims,
governmental charter, application for League membership—”
“What’s this?” Magnan scanned the heavy documents. “What are
you saying, sir? That Yalc—that the Groaci—that you—”
“Quite right,” Fiss nodded. “This world is now Groaci
property.”
There was a loud crash from the direction of the now deserted
street. Magnan swiveled, stared out at a band of business-like Groaci, hard at
work on a shuttered shop with pry-bars.
“What are they doing?” he yelped. “Mr. Fiss, order those
vandals away at once! The situation is getting out of hand!”
“Not at all; those chaps are merely following my
instructions. And now if you have any belongings you wish to take along, please
feel free—”
“Eh? Belongings? I’m not going anywhere!”
“Permit
me to contradict you,” Fiss hissed softly, prodding a paper with a damp-looking
finger. “This is the eviction order. I find that this humble structure will
adequately fulfill my requirement for a field-office here in the village.”
“F-field office?”
“I expect we shall be busy here for a few days,” Fiss said.
“Transferring useful items to our quarters.” He waved airily toward the
sparkling towers beyond the swamp.
“You’re violating the Legation?” Magnan’s eyes bulged.
“There
has been a change of status quo since my arrival,” Fiss pointed out. “No formal
relations exist between my
government and
the CDT; therefore, this is merely an office,
and you are unregistered
aliens—”
“This is an outrage!” Magnan sputtered. “I’m not leaving!”
“So?” Fiss murmured. He stepped to the door, opened it, waved
in a quartet of bigger-than-average Groaci.
“To intimidate the soft ones,” he hissed in Groaci. “To make
threatening gestures.”
Two of the newcomers stepped to Retief. He took them casually
by their thin necks, escorted them to the window, and tumbled them out. The
second pair jumped at him in time to meet a stiff-arm which slammed both of
them onto their backs. Fiss emitted a weak but impassioned bleat.
“Unhand them, brute! These are lawfully appointed bailiffs—”
Retief tossed the stunned Groaci after their fellows and took
a step toward Fiss. The Tour Director squeaked and darted through the door.
“Retief!”
Magnan yelped. “Stop! After all, these papers—”
Retief gathered in the parchments, tossed them after the
intruders. The outraged face of Tour Director Fiss appeared at the opening.
“Ruffians! Bandits! Our legal and just claim—”
“—isn’t worth the plastic it’s printed on,” Retief stated.
“And if any more tourists wander into the Legation I won’t be so polite with
them.”
Fiss turned and made frantic gestures to the foraging crew.
“To enter and evict the madmen!” he hissed. “To cast them forth bodily!”
The several dozen Groaci who had gathered moved in a body
toward the Legation door.
“I’m disappointed in you, Fiss,” Retief said, shaking his
head sadly. “I thought you were going to pretend that this was all perfectly legal,
and here you are about to violate a diplomatic mission in broad daylight.”
Fiss hesitated, then hissed an order to his men. They halted.
“Very well, Soft One,” he whispered. “What need of force?
Unlike the higher races, you require water at frequent intervals, I believe.
Since, alas, I cannot authorize further deliveries through the village mains,
you will soon emerge to seek it. We will be waiting.”
Magnan tottered to Retief’s side. “Mr. Fiss,” he croaked.
“This is madness! You can’t possibly hope to justify this outrageous seizure—”
“On the contrary, Mr. Magnan,” Fiss waved a fistful of paper.
“If you will re-read your Colonial Code, Title Three, Section XXI, paragraph
9b, you will find that, and I quote, ‘any planetary body lacking an indigenous
culture may be considered as available for homesteading by any Power covenant
to these articles—’”
“Surely,
Fiss, you don’t imply that Yalc is uninhabited! Great Heavens, the world is
known throughout the Sector for the beauty of its glass and ceramics work—”
“I refer further to paragraph 12d,
ibidem
,” Fiss bored
on, “which provides the following criteria for determination of cultural level
within the meaning of the Code: (a) an active, organized government competent
to represent native interests; (b) a degree of social organization
characterized by cities of at least one thousand inhabitants; and (c)
individual or group IQ (as applicable), averaging .8 (standard) as evidenced by
GST Test scores—”
“Have
you lost your wits?” Magnan cut in. “You’re standing in the midst of a Yalcan
City! I deal daily with representatives of the Yalcan government! And as for
intelligence—”
“
Inhabited
city, Mr. Magnan, permit me to remind you minimum population, one thousand
individuals.” Fiss waved a hand at the empty street. “I see no individuals
here.”
“But they’re all away participating in a festival—”
“As for government,” Fiss continued blandly, “I have been
totally unsuccessful in discovering any
active
organization. I confess I
have been unable to secure a specimen of the local fauna for IQ Testing, but I
feel sure any such effort would be unrewarded.”
“You deliberately timed this coup to take advantage of local
customs!” Magnan said in shocked tone. “The Code will be amended, Fiss—!”
The Groaci vibrated his throat sac, a contemptuous gesture.
“Ex post facto legal manipulations can hardly be expected to affect the present
situation retroactively, my dear Magnan.”
Magnan
clutched the edge of the window. “Retief,” he gasped weakly. “This is insane,
but I have a sudden, awful conviction that he’s legally on firm ground.”
“Of course,” Fiss went on, “article 68 of the Code expressly
prohibits occupation by force of any world, cultured or otherwise. However,
since our arrival was carried out in complete tranquility, this is hardly germane—”
“The festival will be over tomorrow,” Magnan burst out. “What
then?”
“Now that we have established legal possession of this
planet,” Fiss whispered, “it will, of course, be necessary to enforce the just
laws which are even now being enacted. To this end, certain arms are of course
necessary.” He spat rapid Groacian at a trio of newcomers in black hip-cloaks,
who silently produced heavy particle-guns from sequined holsters strapped to
their thighs.
“You aren’t planning—violence?” Magnan gasped. “Not against
us!
”
“As to that,” Fiss whispered, “I was about to point out that
naturally, a formal request for diplomatic status addressed to the present
regimé would, of course, receive consideration.”
“Tour Director Fiss—” Magnan gulped.
“Planetary Coordinator
Pro Tem
Fiss, if you please,”
the Groaci hissed. “A pity the large Soft One acted in such haste, but I am
prepared to overlook the incident.”
“Why, ah, very good of you, I’m sure, Pla—”
“You’re out of luck, Fiss,” Retief cut in. “You’ll have to
conduct your piracy without CDT sanction.”
Magnan tugged at Retief’s sleeve. “Here, Retief, this is
hardly a time for truculence—”
“It’s as good a time as any, Mr. Magnan. And Minister
Barnshingle might be irritated if he came back and discovered that these
squatters had been recognized as a legal government.”
Magnan groaned. “I . . . I suppose you’re
right.”
“So? But, no matter, Soft One,” Fiss whispered. “Why treat
with underlings, eh? My scouts report a party of Terrestrials in difficulty on
an awkward slope some leagues from here. Doubtless the person Barnshingle of
whom you speak will be grateful for relief. A timely rescue by selfless Groaci
homesteaders will establish a correct mood for initiation of formal relations.”
“The Minister’s in trouble?” Magnan squeaked.
“He is at present dangling over a crevasse of awesome depth
by a single strand of rope. Diplomat muscles appear unequal to the task of
drawing him up—”
There was a rending crash from a shop across the plaza as a
barred door collapsed under the impact of a power ram. Swarms of Groaci were
systematically looting the stalls already opened, loading foodstuffs,
glassware, and other merchandise into wheeled vehicles.
“This is wholesale hijackery!” Magnan yelped. “Open pillage!
Highway robbery!” You can’t do this without a license!”
“Curb
your tongue, sir!” Fiss hissed. “I shall for a while indulge your arrogant
preemption of Groaci property out of sentimental respect for the niceties of
diplomatic usage, but I shall tolerate no insult!”
“Threats, Mr. Fiss?” Magnan choked.
“Call it what you will, Soft One,” Fiss said. “When you are
ready to indicate your acquiescence, send word to me. Meantime, leave this
building at your peril!”
Dusk had fallen. The sounds of shattering locks and
maneuvering vehicles continued in the streets outside. Beyond the window,
booted Groaci Peace-keepers paced monotonously, heavy blast guns at the ready.
Now and then, in a momentary lull, the sound of Yalcan voices raised in song
could be heard emanating from the bog, where torches flared, reflecting from
the mirror-dark waters. The two lesser moons were high in the sky in their slow
orbits; the third had risen above the horizon and cast purple shadows across
the floor of the silent Legation office.
“It’s nearly dark,” Magnan muttered. “Retief, perhaps I’d
better accompany you. Fiss may change his mind and batter the door down—”
“He could come in through the window anytime he decided to,”
Retief said. “He’s nicely bluffed for the present, Mr. Magnan, and someone has
to stay here to maintain occupancy of the Legation—”
“On second thought, I’m changing my instructions,” Magnan
said decisively. “You’d better not go. After all, if Minister Barnshingle
wishes to recognize the coup, I see no reason—”
“I don’t think the Minister will be reasoning at his most
lucid level while dangling over a precipice. And there’s also Miss Braswell to
consider. She’s out there somewhere.”