Authors: Keith Laumer
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief’s chair. Bright blue
eyes peered out from under a white chef’s cap.
“Givin’ you the cold shoulder, heh, mister?”
“Looks like it, old timer. Maybe I’d better go join the
skipper; his party seems to be having all the fun.”
“Fella has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over
there.”
“I see your point.”
“You set right where you’re at, mister. I’ll rustle you up a
plate.”
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two-ounce
Delmonico nicely garnished with mushrooms and garlic butter.
“I’m Chip,” the chef said. “I don’t like the cap’n. You can
tell him I said so. Don’t like his friends, either. Don’t like them dern
Sweaties; look at a man like he was a worm.”
“You know how to fry a steak, Chip,” Retief said. He poured
red wine into a glass. “Here’s to you.”
“Dern right,” Chip said. “Dunno who ever thought up broiling
’em. I got a Baked Alaska comin up in here for dessert. You like brandy in yer
coffee?”
“Chip, you’re a genius.”
“Like to see a fella eat. I gotta go now; if you need
anything, holler.”
Retief
ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to Jorgensen’s Worlds.
Then, if Magnan’s information was correct, there would be four days to prepare
for the Soetti attack. It was a temptation to scan the tapes built into the
handle of his suitcase; it would be good to know what Jorgensen’s Worlds would
be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef handed out the Baked
Alaska and coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr.
Tony and his retainers still sat at the captain’s table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table, sauntered
across the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table, dipped the lighted end in
Retief’s coffee, looked at it, dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
“You must want to get to Jorgensen’s pretty bad,” the thug
said in a grating voice. “What’s your game, hick?”
Retief looked at the coffee up, picked it up.
“I don’t think I want my coffee,” he said. He looked at the
thug. “You drink it.”
The thug squinted at Retief. “A wise hick,” he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the
thug’s face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug went
down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, who stood open-mouthed.
“You can take your playmates away now, Tony,” he said. “And
don’t bother to come around yourself. You’re not funny enough.”
Mr. Tony found his voice. “Take him, Marbles,” he growled.
The
thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic, brought out a long-bladed
knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him. “Here you go,
mister,” Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed French knife lay on
the sill.
“Thanks, Chip. I won’t need it for these punks.”
Thick-neck
lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him under the table. The
other man stepped back, fumbled a power pistol from his shoulder holster.
“Aim that at me, and I’ll kill you,” Retief said.
“Go on, burn him, Hoany!” Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him the
captain appeared, white-faced.
“Put that away, you!” he yelled. “What kind of—”
“Shut up,” Mr. Tony said. “Put it away, Hoany. We’ll fix this
bum later.”
“Not on this vessel, you won’t,” the captain said shakily. “I
got my charter to—”
“Ram your charter,” Hoany said harshly. “You won’t be needing
it long—”
“Button your floppy mouth, damn you,” Mr. Tony snapped. He
looked at the two men on the floor. “Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump
the slobs . . .” He turned and walked away. The captain signaled
and two waiters came up. Retief watched as they carted the casualties from the
dining room.
The panel opened. “I usta be about your size, when I was your
age,” Chip said. “You handled them pansies right. I wouldn’t give ’em the time
o’ day.”
“How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?”
“Sure, mister. Anything else?”
“I’ll think of something,” Retief said. “This is shaping up
into one of those long days.”
“They don’t like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin,”
Chip said. “But the cap’n knows I’m the best cook in the Merchant Service; they
won’t mess with me.”
“What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?” Retief asked.
“They’re in some kind o’ crooked business together. You want
some more of that smoked turkey?”
“Sure.
What have they got against my going to Jorgensen’s Worlds?”
“Dunno; hasn’t been no tourists got in there fer six or eight
months. I sure like a fella that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was
yer age.”
“I’ll bet you can still handle it, old-timer. What are
Jorgensen’s Worlds like?”
“One
of ’em’s cold as hell and three of ’em’s colder. Most o’ the Jorgies live on
Svea; that’s the least froze up. Man don’t enjoy eatin’ his own cookin’ like he
does somebody else’s.”
“That’s where I’m lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo’s the
captain got aboard for Jorgensen’s?”
“Derned if I know. In and out o’ there like a grasshopper,
ever few weeks. Don’t never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I
says. Don’t know what we even run in there for.”
“Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?”
“To Alabaster; that’s nine days’ run in-sector from
Jorgensen’s. You ain’t got another of them cigars, have you?”
“Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this
ship.”
“Plenty of space, mister. We got a dozen empty cabins.” Chip
puffed the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and
brandy.
“Them Sweaties is what I don’t like,” he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
“You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly-lookin’ devils. Skinny legs,
like a lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery-lookin’
head; you can see the pulse beatin’ when they get riled.”
“I’ve never had the pleasure.”
“You’ll prob’ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh
ever trip out; act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin’.”
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the
floor.
“I ain’t superstitious ner nothin’,” said Chip, “but I’ll be
triple-danged if that ain’t them boardin’ us now.”
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,
accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy knock
sounded.
“They got to look you over,” Chip whispered. “Nosey damn
Sweaties.”
“Unlock it, Chip.” The chef threw the latch, opened the door.
“Come in, damn you,” he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny
hoof-like feet tapping on the floor. A metal helmet shaded the deep-set
compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees. Behind the
alien, the captain hovered nervously.
“Yo’ papiss,” the alien rasped.
“Who’s your friend, captain?” Retief said.
“Never mind; just do like he tells you.”
“Yo’ papiss,” the alien said again.
“Okay,” Retief said. “I’ve seen it. You can take it away
now.”
“Don’t horse around,” the captain said. “This fellow can get
mean.”
The alien brought up two tiny arms from the concealment of
the mantle, clicked toothed pincers under Retief’s nose. “Quick, soft one.”
“Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks
brittle, and I’m tempted to test it.”
“Don’t start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel
with those snappers.”
“Last chance,” said Retief. Skaw stood poised, open pincers
an inch from Retief’s eyes.
“Show him your papers, you damned fool,” the captain said
hoarsely. “I got no control over Skaw.”
The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in
the same instant Retief half turned to the left, leaned away from the alien,
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous knee-joint.
Skaw screeched, floundered, greenish fluid spattering from the burst joint.
“I told you he was brittle,” Retief said. “Next time you
invite pirates aboard, don’t bother to call.”
“Jesus, what did you do! They’ll kill us!” the captain
gasped, staring at the figure flopping on the floor.
“Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat,” Retief said. “Tell him
to pass the word; no more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space.”
“Hey,” Chip said. “He’s quit kickin’.”
The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He
leaned close, sniffed.
“He’s dead.” The captain stared at Retief. “We’re all dead
men. These Soetti got no mercy.”
“They won’t need it. Tell ’em to sheer off; their fun is
over.”
“They got no more emotions than a blue crab—”
“You bluff easily, captain. Show a few guns as you hand the
body back. We know their secret now.”
“What secret? I—”
“Don’t be dumber than you gotta, Cap’n,” Chip said. “Sweaties
dies easy; that’s the secret.”
“Maybe you got a point,” the captain said, looking at
Retief. “All they got’s a three-man scout. It could work.”
He went out, came back with two crewmen. They circled the
dead alien, hauled him gingerly into the hall.
“Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti,” the captain said,
looking back from the door. “But I’ll be back to see you later.”
“You don’t scare us, Cap’n,” Chip called as the door closed.
He grinned at Retief. “Him and Mr. Tony and all his goons. You hit ’em where
they live, that time. They’re pals o’ these Sweaties. Runnin’ some kind o’
crooked racket.”
“You’d better take the captain’s advice, Chip. There’s no
point in your getting involved in my problems.”
“They’d of killed you before now, mister, if they had any
guts. That’s where we got it over these monkeys; they got no guts.”
“They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.”
“They
don’t scare me none.” Chip picked up the tray. “I’ll scout around a little and
see what’s goin’ on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything about that Skaw
fella they’ll have to move fast; they won’t try nothin’ close to port.”
“Don’t worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they
won’t do anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.”
Chip looked at Retief. “You ain’t no tourist, mister. I know
that much. You didn’t come out here for fun, did you?”
“That,” said Retief, “would be a hard one to answer.”
Retief awoke at a tap on his door.
“It’s me, mister: Chip.”
“Come on in.”
The chef entered the room, locked the door. “You shoulda had
that door locked.” He stood by the door, listening, then turned to Retief.
“You want to get to Jorgensen’s pretty bad, don’t you,
mister?”
“That’s right, Chip.”
“Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw.
The Sweaties didn’t say nothin’; didn’t even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. Mr. Tony and that other crook they call Marbles—they
was fit to be tied. Took the cap’n in his cabin and talked loud at him fer half
an hour. Then the cap’n come out and give some orders to the mate.”
Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.
“Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?”
“He hated Skaw’s guts. But with him it was business. Mister,
you got a gun?”
“A 2mm needler. Why?”
“The orders Cap’n give was to change course fer Alabaster;
we’re by-passin’ Jorgensen’s Worlds. We’ll feel the course change any minute.”
Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out
a short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.
“Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the
captain’s cabin?”
“This is it,” Chip said softly. “You want me to keep a eye on
who comes down the passage?”
Retief nodded, opened the door, and stepped into the cabin.
The captain looked up from his desk, then jumped up. “What do you think you’re
doing, busting in here—”
“I hear you’re planning a course change, Captain.”
“You’ve got damn big ears.”
“I think we’d better call in at Jorgensen’s.”
“You do, huh?” The captain sat down. “I’m in command of this
vessel. I’m changing course for Alabaster.”