"Mr.
Magnan went across the line into North Skweem, alone?" Retief inquired
casually.
"I
believe that is where his Groacian Excellency is usually to be found,"
Treadwater replied testily, glancing at his finger watch. "And he was
distinctly directed to be back before tiffin time."
"The
present crisis may have thrown off the tiffin schedule," Retief
conjectured.
Treadwater
frowned ominously. "Are you suggesting the scoundrels may have so far
forgotten their protocol as to have
detained
an accredited diplomat in
the performance of his duty?"
"Something
seems to have detained him," Pluckwyn offered.
"I
hope he didn't go sniffing too closely around the dam," the Political
Officer said soberly. "Those North Skweemans can be pretty nasty. I saw
some atrocity photos our visual aid people mocked-up, based on reliable
rumors—"
"Oh,
boy." The Press Attache doddered to his feet. "This'll make great
copy, chief. 'TERRY ENVOY MURDERED ...' "
"Who
said anything about murder, you cretin!" Treadwater roared. "I merely
noted that the man is late for Staff Meeting!"
"Yes,
I suppose you're right." The Press Attache sat down reluctantly. Then he
brightened. "Still, if he hasn't shown up by sundown ..."He began
jotting notes on his scratch pad.
"Well,
if there are no further follies with which to waste our time, that's all for
this morning, gentlemen," the Ambassador growled. "But I shall be
looking for results—prompt, dramatic results!" He swept the group with a
final expectant glare, moved ponderously down from the shaky platform.
"Say,
Mr. Retief," the young Third Secretary came up beside him as they stepped
out into the hot, dusty sunlight. "What really
is
the difference
between North Skweemans and South Skweemans?"
"Very
simple, Teddy. South Skweemans are natural democrats."
"Oh
..." The youth fell back as Treadwater beckoned Retief over.
"About
Magnan," the Ambassador said offhandedly. "It's occurred to me the
situation might bear looking into. Never can tell what these unprincipled
foreigners might take a fancy to perpetrate—not that I think Magnan is in any
difficulty, of course. But I've been thinking possibly we might just dispatch
someone to make sure."
"Excellent
idea, sir," Retief agreed.
"Actually,
I've been wondering whom I could spare long enough to attend to the
chore." Treadwater put a thoughtful finger to his chins.
"Indeed,
sir?" Retief encouraged.
"Frankly,
your
name popped into my mind."
"Very
flattering, Mr. Ambassador. A pity you assigned me to do the liquor inventory.
Ottherwise I'd be delighted."
"Never
mind the inventory—if you're sure you really feel you should go ..."
"Well
..."
"Very
well, then, if you insist. Though personally I think you young fellows spook
too easily. Well, I must hurry along, Retief. Let me hear from you." He
turned and strode away.
"How'd
it go, Retief?" Uptakapacheenobufers called from his doorway.
"Predictably,"
Retief said.
The
once-purple and verdant countryside of Skweem was a wan, sun-baked expanse of
water-starved fields criss-crossed with the dusty gulleys of empty irrigation
ditches. Tinder-dry stalks of mudwheat stood in endless, arid rows across the
cracked, concrete-like clay.
Retief
studied the view as he steered the official ground-car with the CDT pennant
flapping from the prow along the rocky road that paralleled the dry river bed,
where stranded boats rested high and dry, their formerly bright paint and
rigging as bleached and sere as the land. A few listless South Skweeman
peasants waved spiritless greetings from the shade of their huts as he passed.
Others merely stared with drooping visual organs.
It
was an hour's drive to the heavy barbed-wire fence that marked the North
Skweeman border. Retief pulled to a stop at the gate. A large, warty North
Skweeman in official loops of braid decorated by dangling straps and medals
undulated over, fingering a blast rifle of unmistakable Groaci manufacture.
"What's
your problem, Two-eyes?" he inquired in Skweemish.
"Just
a courtesy call," Retief replied in the same tongue. "Tell me, did
you see another Terry pass here early this morning?"
The
Skweeman's eyes shifted. "Naw, nothing like that," he said flatly.
"This
fellow would be hard to miss," Retief persisted. "Twelve feet tall,
flaming red hair all over, three eyes—"
"Frinkle-fruit!
The guy wasn't as big as you, and ..." His voice trailed off.
"I
see," Retief nodded. "Well, he was taking a birthday cake to the
Groaci Ambassador, and it seems he lost the cherry off the top of it. We
Terries are pitching in to help locate anyone who might have delayed him."
"Not
me, Terry! I waved him through and he headed straight for town—thataway."
He pointed along the road.
"Fine.
I'll tell them you're clean, then."
"Gee,
thanks, fella." The guard set his gun aside and opened the gate.
"Think
nothing of it." Retief waved cheerily and drove through.
A
mile and a half past the gate he encountered a small village, identical with
its South Skweeman equivalent. Rows of grass huts, of various sizes depending
on the status of their occupants, were arranged around a small grassed plaza in
the center of which the public structures were grouped. As Retief pulled up to
the tall, conical buildings which presumably housed the town officials, half a
dozen uniformed North Skweemans came to the alert. One, more elaborately
decorated than his fellows, wobbled forward and looked the car over with the
air of a Customs officer tipped off to a load of contraband.
"What
brings
you
here?" he demanded.
"I'm
looking for the Groaci Consulate General," Retief said.
"Yeah?
Where'd you lose it?" the Skweeman came back snappily.
"The
last I heard it was neck-deep in North Skweeman internal affairs," Retief
replied breezily. "But that's for you fellows to worry about." He
looked around the somnolent town square. "I don't suppose you know where I
might find a fellow Terry who wandered over the line while chasing a
promotion?"
"You
got that one right," the Skweeman nodded.
"Well,
in that case I'll just move along and take a look at the dam the Groaci
suckered you into letting them build on your property." He glanced along
the line of the arched river-bed to the looming wall of concrete half a mile
distant. "I see it's still holding. Water's about halfway to the spillway
now, eh?" He looked thoughtful.
"Whattaya
mean, suckered? That's the finest dam on Skweem!"
"Um,"
Retief said. "What's it for?"
"Huh?
To hold back the water, whattaya think?"
"Why?"
"Onacountof
... so we can ... I mean, it's for ..." The Skweeman broke off.
"Listen, you better talk to old Five-eyes personal; I mean, what's the big
idea trying to pump me for military secrets?"
"Military
secrets, eh? Well, that's interesting. Just what sort of illegal military plans
are you concocting over on this side of the line?"
"We
got no illegal plans!"
"Any
military plans are illegal," Retief said flatly.
"Who
says so?"
"The
CDT."
"Oh,
yeah?"
"Uh-huh.
And we have the military resources to back it up, if you'll goad us far enough.
Starting a war ought to do it. And now, if you'll just sort of slither to one
side, I'll get on with my business."
"Hey,
you can't—" The North Skweeman's words were drowned in a cloud of dust as
Retief gunned the car off toward the massive pile of the dam.
Retief
parked the car on a stretch of bulldozed gravel on the shoulder of the hill
against which the abutment was anchored. Carrying a pair of miniaturized 100x9
binoculars, he moved up in the shelter of a small shed housing the dam's power
controls, looked over the scene below.
To
the right of the massive concrete barrier a parched valley wound away toward
the North Skweeman border. Patches of mud gleaming here and there at the bottom
of the gorge were all that remained of the former river. To the left stretched
a broad lake of blue-black water, its breeze-riffled surface reflecting the
greenish late-morning sun. Under it lay a hundred square miles of South
Skweem's best farm land, now forty feet deep in backed-up river water.
A
narrow catwalk lined with pole-mounted polyarcs for night operations crossed
the top of the dam. On the far side a crew of Skweeman construction workers in
baggy ochre overalls toiled under the supervision of a spindle-legged Groaci engineer,
putting the finishing touches on the job. Other Skweeman's, heavy-laden,
struggled up a trail across the steep slope from below like a column of ants. A
touch of color met Retief's eye. He fine-focused the glasses, picked out the
sagging shape of a small hut half-concealed in the brush near the base of the
dam. Through its open door he saw the edge of a coil of wire, shelves, the
corners of packing cases.
A
Groaci supervisor stepped into the field of vision, closed the door, hung a
lock on it, followed the workers up the trail. Retief lowered the glasses
thoughtfully. Then, keeping low, he moved off in the concealment of deep brush.
It
was a stiff climb down to the floor of the ravine. Retief completed it without
arousing unwelcome attention. He came up on the supply hut from the rear.
Nothing moved near it now. The lock looked stout enough, but the warped boards
of the door were riddled with dry rot. At a sharp kick it bounced rattlingly
open.
Inside,
Retief looked over a stock of tools, reinforcing steel fittings, detonator
caps, mechanical spares for the pumps—and a generous supply of compressed
smashite: three-inch rods of a bilious yellow color, each capable of excavating
a hundred cubic yards of hard rock in one blast. Quickly, Retief selected
materials and set to work.
He left the shed ten minutes
later, unreeling a coil of two-conductor insulated wire behind him. The ascent
to the cliff-top took half an hour, by which time the workmen had completed the
task at hand and were busily packing up their tools. Retief made his way
up-slope to the control shed.
Its
corrugated metal door stood half open. Inside, the floor was littered with
snipped-off bits of wire, empty cartons that had contained switching gear and
the butts of several dozen Groaci dope sticks. An inspection of the panels
showed that the wiring was complete. Five more minutes' study indicated that
the large white toggle switch beside the door controlled the polyarcs atop the
dam.