Authors: Keith Laumer
“Come to the point,” the Aga Kaga cut in. “You’re here to
lodge a complaint that I’m invading territories to which someone else lays
claim, is that it?” He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks, and lit one. “Well,
I’ve been expecting a call. After all, it’s what you gentlemen are paid for.
Cheers.”
“Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things,” Retief
said.
“Call me Stanley,” the Aga Kaga said. “The other routine is
just to please some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative members of my
government. They’re still gnawing their beards and kicking themselves because
their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemy and got themselves stranded
in a cultural dead-end. This charade is supposed to prove they were right all
along. However, I’ve no time to waste in neurotic compensations. I have places
to go and deeds to accomplish.”
“At first glance,” Retief said, “it looks as though the
places are already occupied and the deeds are illegal.”
The Aga Kaga guffawed. “For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief.
Have another drink.” He poured, eyeing Georges. “What of M. Duror? How does he
feel about it?”
Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. “Not bad,” he
said. “But not quite good enough to cover the odor of goats.”
The
Aga Kaga snorted. “I thought the goats were overdoing it a bit myself,” he
said. “Still, the greybeards insisted. And I need their support.”
“Also,” Georges said distinctly, “I think you’re soft. You
lie around letting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an
honest day’s work.”
The
Aga Kaga looked startled. “Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron bar as thick as
your thumb.” He popped a grape into his mouth. “As for the rest, your pious
views as to the virtues of hard labor are as childish as my advisors’ faith in
the advantages of primitive plumbing. As for myself, I am a realist. If two
monkeys want the same banana, in the end one will have it, and the other will
cry morality. The days of my years are numbered, praise be to God. While they
last, I hope to eat well, hunt well, fight well, and take my share of pleasure.
I leave to others the arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions.”
“You admit you’re here to grab our land then,” Georges
said.
“That’s the damndest piece of bare-faced aggression—”
“Ah, ah.” The Aga Kaga held up a hand: “watch your
vocabulary, my dear sir. I’m sure that ‘justifiable yearnings for territorial
self-realization’ would be more appropriate to the situation. Or possibly
‘legitimate aspirations for self-determination of formerly exploited peoples’
might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition, an activity carried on only
by those who have inherited the mantle of ‘Colonial Imperialism.’”
“Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most
notorious planet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you—”
“Call me Stanley.” The Aga Kaga munched a grape. “I merely
face the realities of popular folk lore. Let’s be pragmatic; it’s a matter of
historical association. Some people can grab land and pass it off lightly as a
moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely for holding onto their own.
Unfair, you say. But that’s life, my friends. And I shall continue to take
every advantage of it.”
“We’ll fight you!” Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of
whiskey and slammed the glass down. “You won’t take this world without a
struggle—”
“Another?” the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges
glowered as his glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light.
“Excellent color, don’t you agree?” He turned his eyes on Georges.
“It’s pointless to resist,” he said. “We have you outgunned
and outmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we’re prepared
to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we do not immediately
require until such time as you’re able to make other arrangements.”
“And by the time we’ve got a crop growing out of what was
bare rock, you’ll be ready to move in,” the Boyar Chef d’Regime snapped. “But
you’ll find we aren’t alone!”
“Quite alone,” the Aga Kaga said. He nodded sagely. “Yes, one
need but read the lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne will
make expostulatory noises, but it will accept the
fait accompli
. You, my
dear sir, are but a very small nibble. We won’t make the mistake of excessive
greed; we shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shall be
dubbed warmongers.”
“I see you’re quite a student of history, Stanley,” Retief
said. “I wonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the world-be empire
nibblers of the past?”
“Ah, but they grew incautious; they went too far, too fast.”
“The confounded impudence,” Georges rasped. “Tells us to our
face what he has in mind . . .”
“An
ancient and honorable custom, from the time of
Mein Kampf
and the
Communist
Manifesto
through the
Porcelain Wall
of Leung. Such declarations
have a legendary quality; it’s traditional that they’re never taken at face
value.”
“But always,” Retief said, “there was a critical point at
which the man on horseback could have been pulled from the saddle—”
“COULD have been,” the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the
grapes and began peeling an orange. “But they never were. Hitler could have
been stopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of the
primitive atomics of the West in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extended at Rangoon.
But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome. It has been the fate
of your spiritual forebears to carve civilizations from the wilderness, and
then, amid tearing of garments and the heaping of ashes of self-accusation on
your own confused heads, to withdraw, leaving the spoils for local political
opportunists and mob leaders, clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth.
Have a banana.”
“You’re stretching the analogy a little too far,” Retief
said. “You’re banking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong.”
“I shall know when to stop,” the Aga Kaga said.
“Tell me, Stanley,” Retief said, rising. “Are we quite
private here?”
“Yes, perfectly so. None would dare to intrude in my
council.” He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. “You have a proposal to make in
confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would not like to see him
disillusioned . . .”
“Don’t worry about Georges. He’s a realist, like you. He’s
prepared to deal in facts. Hard facts, in this case.”
The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. “What are you getting at?”
“You’re
basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps will sit by,
wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of interplanetary piracy—”
“Isn’t it the custom?” the Aga Kaga smiled complacently.
“I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance,
neck-wringing seems more in order than hand-wringing . . .”
The Aga Kaga frowned. “Your manner—”
“Never mind our manners!” Georges blurted, standing. “We
don’t need any lessons from goat-herding land-thieves!”
The Aga Kaga’s face darkened. “You dare to speak thus to me,
pig of a muck-grubber—”
With a muffled curse Georges launched himself at the
potentate. The giant rolled aside, grunted as the Boyar’s fist thumped in his
short ribs, then chopped down on Georges’ neck. The Chef d’Regime slid off onto
the floor as the Aga Kaga bounded to his feet, sending fruit and silken
cushions flying.
“I see it now!” he hissed. “An assassination attempt!” He
stretched his arms, thick as tree-roots—a grizzly in satin robes. “Your heads
will ring together like gongs before I have done with
you . . . !” He lunged for Retief. Retief came to his feet,
feinted with his left, and planted a short right against the Aga Kaga’s jaw
with a solid smack. The potentate stumbled, grabbed; Retief slipped aside. The
Aga Kaga whirled to face Retief.
“A slippery diplomat, by all the houris in Paradise!” he
grated, breathing hard. “But a fool. True to your medieval code of chivalry,
you attacked singly, a blunder I would never have made. And you shall die for
your idiocy!” He opened his mouth to bellow—
“You sure look foolish, with your fancy hair-do down in your
eyes,” Retief said. “The servants will get a big laugh out of that—”
With
a choked yell, the Aga Kaga dived for Retief, missed as he leaped aside. The
two went to the mat together, rolled, sending a stool skittering. Grunts and
curses were heard as the two big men strained, muscles popping. Retief groped
for a scissors hold; the Aga Kaga seized his foot, bit hard. Retief bent nearly
double, braced himself, and slammed the potentate against the rug. Dust flew.
Then the two were on their feet, circling.
“Many times have I longed to broil a diplomat over a slow
fire,” the Aga Kaga snarled. “Tonight will see it come to
pass . . .”
“I’ve seen it done often at staff meetings,” said Retief. “It
seems to have no permanent effect—”
The Aga Kaga reached for Retief, who feinted left, hammered a
right to the chin. The Aga Kaga tottered. Retief measured him, brought up a
haymaker. The potentate slammed to the rug—out cold.
Georges
rolled over, sat up. “Let me at the son of a—” he muttered.
“Take over, Georges,” Retief said, panting. “Since he’s in a
mood to negotiate now, we may as well get something accomplished.”
Georges eyed the fallen ruler, who stirred, groaned
lugubriously. “I hope you know what you’re doing. But I’m with you in any
case.” Georges straddled the prone body, plucked a curved knife from the low
table, prodded the Aga Kaga’s Adam’s apple. He groaned again and opened his
eyes.
“Make one little peep and your wind-bag will spring a leak,”
Georges said. “Very few historical figures have accomplished anything
important after their throats were cut.”
“Stanley won’t yell,” Retief said. “We’re not the only ones
who’re guilty of cultural idiocy. He’d lose face something awful if he let his
followers see him like this.” Retief settled himself on a tufted ottoman.
“Right, Stanley?”
The Aga Kaga snarled.
Retief selected a grape, ate it thoughtfully. “These aren’t
bad, Georges. You might consider taking on a few Aga Kagan vine-growers—purely
on a yearly contract basis, of course.”
The Aga Kaga groaned, rolling his eyes.
“Well,
I believe we’re ready to get down to diplomatic proceedings now,” Retief said.
“Nothing like dealing in an atmosphere of realistic good-fellowship. First, of
course, there’s the matter of the presence of aliens lacking visas.” He opened
his briefcase, withdrew a heavy sheet of parchment. “I have the document here,
drawn up and ready for signature. It provides for the prompt deportation of
such persons, by Corps Transport, all expenses to be borne by the Aga Kagan
government. That’s agreeable, I think?” Retief looked expectantly at the purple
face of the prone potentate. The Aga Kaga grunted a strangled grunt.
“Speak up, Stanley,” Retief said. “Give him plenty of air,
Georges.”
“Shall I let some in through the side?”
“Not yet. I’m sure Stanley wants to be agreeable.”
The Aga Kaga snarled.
“Maybe just a little then, Georges,” Retief said judiciously.
Georges jabbed the knife in far enough to draw a bead of blood. The Aga Kaga
grunted.
“Agreed!” he snorted. “By the beard of the Prophet, when I
get my hands on you . . .”
“Second item: certain fields, fishing grounds, et cetera,
have suffered damage due to the presence of the aforementioned illegal
immigrants. Full compensation will be made by the Aga Kagan government.
Agreed?”
The Aga Kaga drew a breath, tensed himself; Georges jabbed
with the knife point. His prisoner relaxed with a groan. “Agreed!” he grated.
“A vile tactic! You enter my tent under the guise of guests, protected by
diplomatic immunity—”
“I had the impression we were herded in here at sword point,”
said Retief. “Shall we go on? Now, there’s the little matter of restitution for
violation of sovereignty, reparations for mental anguish, payment for damaged
fences, roads, drainage canals, communications, et cetera, et cetera. Shall I
read them all?”
“Wait
until the news of this outrage is spread abroad—”
“They’d never believe it. History would prove it impossible.
And on mature consideration, I’m sure you won’t want it noised about that you
entertained visiting dignitaries flat on your back.”
“What about the pollution of the atmosphere by goats?”
Georges put in. “And don’t overlook the muddying of streams, the destruction of
valuable timber for camp fires, and—”
“I’ve covered all that sort of thing under a miscellaneous
heading,” Retief said. “We can fill it in at leisure when we get back.”
“Bandits!” the Aga Kaga hissed. “Thieves! Dogs of unreliable
imperialists!”
“It’s disillusioning, I know,” Retief said. “Still, of such
little surprises is history made. Sign here.” He held the parchment out and
offered a pen. “A nice clear signature, please. We wouldn’t want any quibbling
about the legality of the treaty, after conducting the negotiation with such
scrupulous regard for the niceties.”