Authors: Keith Laumer
“Give diplomatic processes a chance,” said Retief. “The Note
hasn’t even been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results.”
“If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you’re
out of luck. From what I hear, he’s likely to come back with his ears stuffed
in his hip pocket.”
“I’ll deliver the Note personally,” Retief said. “I could use
a couple of escorts—preferably strong-arm lads.”
The Chef d’Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. “I
wasn’t kidding about these Aga Kagans,” he said. “I hear they have some nasty
habits. I don’t want to see you operated on with the same knives they use to
skin out the goats.”
“I’d be against that myself. Still the mail must go through.”
“Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief?”
“A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic
custom,” Retief said.
The Chef d’Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. “I used
to be a pretty fair elbow-wrestler myself,” he said. “Suppose I go
along . . . ?”
“That,” said Retief, “should lend just the right note of
solidarity to our little delegation.” He hitched his chair closer. “Now,
depending on what we run into, here’s how we’ll play it . . .”
Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the
capital, a black-painted official air car flying the twin flags of Chief of
State and Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.
Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d’Regime waved his cigar glumly at
the surrounding hills.
“Fifty years ago this was bare rock,” he said. “We’ve bred
special strains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and we
followed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We planned to put
the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like the goats will get
it.”
“Will that scrub-land support a crop?” Retief said, eyeing
the lichen-covered knolls.
“Sure.
We start with legumes, follow up with cereals. Wait until you see this next
section. It’s an old flood plain, came into production thirty years ago. One of
our finest—”
The air car topped a rise and the Chef dropped his cigar,
half rose, with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads
among a stand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar’s
arm.
“Keep calm, Georges,” he said. “Remember, we’re on a
diplomatic mission. It wouldn’t do to come to the conference table smelling of
goats.”
“Let me at ’em!” Georges roared. “I’ll throttle ’em with my
bare hands!”
A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working.
“Look at that long-nosed son of a—!” The goat gave a derisive
bleat and took another mouthful of ripe grain.
“Did you see that?” Georges yelled. “They’ve trained the son
of a—”
“Chin up, Georges,” Retief said. “We’ll take up the goat
problem along with the rest.”
“I’ll murder ’em—!”
“Hold it, Georges. Look over there . . .”
A hundred yards away a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped
a rise, paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then galloped down
the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaks billowing out
behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-golden grain, cutting three
narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep from the ridge to the air car where
Retief and the Chef d’Regime hovered, waiting.
Georges scrambled for the side of the car. “Just wait till I
get my hands on the son of a—”
Retief pulled him back. “Sit tight and look pleased, Georges.
Never give the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you’re a goat lover—and
hand me one of your cigars.”
The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a
clatter of pebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust.
Retief peeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed at it, thumbed it alight. He drew
at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke, and glanced casually at the trio of Aga
Kagan cavaliers.
“Peace be with you,” he intoned in accent-free Kagan. “May
your shadows never grow less.”
The
leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard, unlimbered his rifle,
fingered it, frowning ferociously.
“Have no fear,” Retief said, smiling graciously. “He who
comes as a guest enjoys perfect safety.”
A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath,
leveled his rifle at Retief.
“Youth is the steed of folly,” Retief said. “Take care that
the beardless one does not disgrace his house.”
The leader whirled on the youth, snarled an order; he lowered
the rifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief.
“Begone, interlopers,” he said. “You disturb the goats.”
“Provision is not taken to the house of the generous,” Retief
said. “May the creatures dine well ere they move on.”
“Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga
Kaga.” The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. “We welcome no
intruders on our lands.”
“To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him
appear foolish,” Retief said. “These are the lands of the Boyars. But enough of
these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler.”
“You may address me as ‘Exalted One,’” the leader said. “Now
dismount from that steed of Shaitan—”
“It
is written, ‘If you need anything from a dog, call him ‘sir,’ ” Retief said. “I
must decline to impute canine ancest
ry to a
guest. Now you
may conduct me to
your
headquarters.”
“Enough of your insolence—!” The bearded man cocked his
rifle. “I could blow your heads off—”
“The hen has feathers, but it does not fly,” Retief said. “We
have asked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man, a
hint is enough.”
“You mock me, pale one. I warn you—”
“Only love makes me weep,” Retief said. “I laugh at hatred.”
“Get out of the car!”
Retief puffed at his cigar, eyed the Aga Kagan cheerfully.
The youth in the rear moved forward, teeth bared.
“Never give in to the fool, lest he say, ‘He fears me,’”
Retief said.
“I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults,” the
bearded Aga Kagan roared. “These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as
well!”
“When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings,” Retief
said. “Distress in misfortune is another misfortune.”
The bearded man’s face grew purple.
Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the
car.
“Now, I think we’d better be getting on,” he said briskly.
“I’ve enjoyed our chat, but we do have business to attend to.”
The bearded leader laughed shortly. “Does the condemned man
beg for the axe?” he inquired rhetorically. “You shall be allowed audience with
the Aga Kaga, then. Move on—and make no attempt to escape, else my gun will
speak you a brief farewell.”
The horsemen glowered, then at a word from the leader, took
positions around the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following the
leading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh.
“That was close,” he said. “I was about out of proverbs.”
“You sound as though you’d brought off a coup,” Georges said.
“From the expression on the whiskery one’s face, we’re in for trouble. What was
he saying?”
“Just a routine exchange of bluffs,” Retief said. “Now when
we get there, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and your
insults sound like flattery, and you’ll be all right.”
“These birds are armed—and they don’t like strangers,”
Georges said. “Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined
this expedition.”
“Just stick to the plan. And remember: a handful of luck is
better than a camel-load of learning.”
The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry
river bed, across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand, to a green
oasis, set with canopies.
The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense
tent of glistening black, before which armed men lounged under a pennant
bearing a lion
couchant
in crimson on a field vert.
“Get
out,” Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, drawn sabers catching
sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from the car onto rich rugs spread on the
grass, followed the ferocious gesture of the bearded man through the opening
into a perfumed interior of luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in
the air, and the strumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of
sound behind the decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end
of the room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently clad man
with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape into his mouth,
wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offered by a hand-maiden,
belched loudly, and looked the callers over.
Blackbeard cleared his throat. “Down on your faces in the
presence of the Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of the East and West—”
“Sorry,” Retief said firmly. “My hay-fever, you know.”
The reclining giant waved a hand languidly.
“Never mind the formalities,” he said. “Approach.”
Retief
and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew toward them. The
reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on another silken scarf, and
held up a hand.
“Night and the horses and the desert know me,” he said in
resonant tones. “Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen—” He paused,
wrinkled his nose, and sneezed again.
“Turn off that damned air-conditioner,” he snapped. He
settled himself, motioned the bearded man to him; the two exchanged muted
remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked his head, and withdrew to
the rear.
“Excellency,” Retief said, “I have the honor to present M.
Georges Duror, Chef d’Regime of the Planetary government—”
“Planetary government?” The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the
rug. “My men have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they’re in
distress, I’ll see about a distribution of goat-meat.”
“It
is the punishment of the envious to grieve at another’s plenty,” Retief said.
“No goat-meat will be required.”
“Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben
Abdallah Katib Jelebi,” the Aga Kaga said. “I know a few old sayings myself.
For example, ‘A Bedouin is only cheated once.’”
“We have no such intentions, Excellency,” Retief said. “Is it
not written, ‘Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you’?”
“I’ve had some unhappy experiences with strangers,” the Aga
Kaga said. “It is written in the sands, ‘All strangers are kin.’ Still, he who
visits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated.”
Hand-maidens brought cushions, giggled, and fled. Retief and
Georges settled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence.
“We have come to bear tiding from Corps Diplomatique
Terrestrienne,” Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offered grapes.
“Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge,” the Aga
Kaga said. “What brings the CDT into the picture?”
“The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern,”
Retief said. “Whereas the words of kings . . .”
“Very well, I concede the point.” The Aga Kaga waved a hand
at the serving maids. “Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph. These
are mere diplomats: men of words, not deeds.”
The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after
him.
“Now,” the Aga Kaga said. “Let’s drop the wisdom of the ages
and get down to the issues. Not that I don’t admire your repertoire of
platitudes. How do you remember them all?”
“Diplomats and other liars require good memories,” Retief
said. “But, as you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I’m here to effect a
settlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetary
authorities. I have here a Note, which I’m conveying on behalf of the Sector
Under-Secretary. With your permission, I’ll read it.”
“Go ahead.” The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the
floor, eased a bottle from under the couch, and reached for glasses.
“The
Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to his Excellency
the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, Hereditary Sheik, Emir of
the—”
“Yes, yes; skip the titles.”
Retief flipped over two pages.
“ . . . and with reference to the recent
relocation of persons under the jurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor
to point out that the territories now under settlement comprise a portion of
that area, designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms of the Agreement
entered into by his Excellency’s predecessor, and as referenced in Sector Ministry’s
Notes numbers G-175846573957-b and X-7584-736 c-1, with particular pertinence
to that body designated in the Revised Galactic Catalogue, tenth edition, as
amended, Volume Nine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to
hereinafter as Flamme—”