Authors: Keith Laumer
"Now, if we're
quite
ready," His Excellency began in an ominous tone, "I—"
"A moment, if you
please, Harvey," Jith spoke up in his breathy whisper. "It happens to
be my turn to chair the meeting, so if you don't mind—"
"What's this, one
of your little jokes?" Pouncetrifle barked. "Most amusing, Mr.
Ambassador. Now, as I was saying—"
"Just hand me the
gavel, there's a good chap, and we'll get on with the meeting." Jith
plucked the microphone from before the Terran dignitary. "Fellow
beings—" he started.
"Look here, Jith,"
the Terran said sharply, "you know perfectly well you took precedence in
the elevator this morning—and at breakfast, I distinctly noted the bearer
handing you your menu before so much as whisking the crumbs off my chair—"
"Doesn't
count," Jith cut in tersely, and keyed the microphone. "This
afternoon, I should like to review our progress in bringing racial equality to
Lumbaga." His amplified voice crackled through the room.
"—to say nothing
of your subtle maneuver in bribing the chief of the motor pool to repaint your
parking space upwind of mine!" Pouncetrifle's remonstrance rose above the
PA system.
"And in bringing
the blessings of noncombatant status to the unhappy natives of this benighted
world," Jith continued, "no offense to our native guests intended, of
course." The Groaci inclined three of his five eyestalks in a perfunctory
salute to the latter—a pair of observers squatting silently on a bench by the
far wall, both bulky, multilimbed, and heavily swathed in beaded robes. They
returned the gesture with stony expressions.
"Now, the past six
years during which the Interplanetary Peace Tribunal has exercised its good
offices in the search for an avenue of racial rapprochement have not been
unmarked by progress," Pouncetrifle stated, leaning across to address the
microphone. "To date, we've completed forty-two VIP villas for Class One
personnel and above, a hundred-table billiardium, and a forty-bed fun
house—"
"Frivolities
aside," Jith breathed, recommandeering the mike, "I direct your
attention to the recent consecration of a hundred-stall cybernetic
confessional, featuring coin-operated holy sand dispensers, a scourgomat
capable of processing one gross of penitents per hour, and a most ingenious
mechanized collection plate, employing 1000-Gauss magnets—"
"On the
substantive side," Pouncetrifle's voice boomed out amid a vicious feedback
howl as he ripped the mike from his rival's grasp, "pacification efforts
proceed apace. In reply to certain critics I can report that close statistical
analyses by departmental teams skilled in the detection of obscure phenomena
report that the percentage of casualties among unemployed frume-leaf gatherers
between the ages of eighteen and forty-nine during the daylight hours in
alternate months are down a big, big .0046 percent over a similar period last
year."
Jith ducked under
Pouncetrifle's arm to clutch the microphone.
"While it's quite
true that the bases of the racial conflicts here on Lumbaga have not yet been
isolated," he stated breathily, "nor have the precise ideological
battle lines been delimited, nor the values involved definitely identified, some
progress has been made in the study of native beadwork, a circumstance which
lends substance to the hope that in the near future—say the next half-dozen
years—we may meet with limited success in determining who is fighting whom—or
should I say whom is fighting who—if not why."
"Come to the
point," the assistant military attaché muttered. "What it boils down
to is that with all these rival cliques, factions, races, mobs, unions,
congregations, bands, platoons, crews, and clans constantly involved in
squabbles, bickerings, pitched battles, bombings, disagreements, feuds,
wrangles, wars, altercations, misunderstandings, ruptures, brawls, rows,
sit-ins, shoot-ins, and assorted Donnybrooks, with the participants changing
sides at irregular intervals according to no known scheme, our chances of
unifying the planet under a single flag are on a par with the likelihood of my
making Light Colonel by Voom Festival."
"Alas, I fear
we're actually losing ground," the Groaci functionary seated beside him
whispered in tones of deepest pessimism. "Not content with strewing each
other's members in the public ways, the aborigines now widen the scope of their
hostilities to include us selfless diplomats. Only yesterday I was savaged by a
seeing-eye leg—"
"Heavens, what
about me?" Magnan cut in. "Only minutes ago I was forced to deal
sharply with a chap intent on an audacious diplomatnapping."
"You didn't lend
substance to any potential charges of Terran intellectual brutality, I trust,
Magnan?" a sharp-eyed cultural attaché said.
"Naturally not,"
Warbutton spoke up. "I was present, luckily, and smoothed the incident
over."
"Pah!" the
Groaci whispered. "There are plots afoot here, I feel it in my
cartilaginous members!"
"Poppycock,"
Warbutton snorted. "The natives may appear to detest our internal
integuments, but down deep they like us."
"About six feet
down, preferably," someone muttered.
"Now, before we
can set about establishing one-world rule on Lumbaga," Pouncetrifle cut
through the chatter, the smooth flow of his diction somewhat marred by the
silent scuffle in which he was engaged for possession of the floor. "It's
clear that until we devise some means of discriminating—pray pardon the
expression—between the wildlife and the population, certain problems will
inevitably crop up in categorization of life forms as to vermin, livestock, and
constituents. I now call on Mr. Lunchbun, our xenoecologist, for a brief report
on the complexities of Lumbagan biology." The ambassador favored his
Groacian colleague with a frosty smile and subsided. From his place near the
foot of the table, a sad-faced chap with thinning hair rose, rattled papers,
and cleared his throat.
"As his Excellency
so discerningly pointed out," he began in a nasal drone, "the
ecological situation here on Lumbaga is hardly susceptible to analysis by
conventional means. To begin with, we've so far identified over two hundred
thousand distinct phyla of basic wild life running loose on the islands, a
circumstance which has sent our ecological computer into catatonic
withdrawal—"
"Yes, yes, Mr.
Lunchbun," Jith prompted impatiently. "If you have nothing further to
report—"
". . . we deduce
from paleontological evidence," Lunchbun bored on, "that life has
spontaneously arisen from the primordial Lumbagan mud on at least a hundred
thousand separate occasions—"
"Fascinating, no
doubt," Jith said sibilantly. "Now to other matters, such as
provisions for a rest and recreational camp for Groaci ladies and their lovable
grubs—"
"While all of the
surviving life forms are mutually infertile," Lunchbun droned on,
"—in fact, reproduction in the conventional sense is not practiced by
Lumbagan life—it seems that symbiotic relationships provide the necessary
proliferation of ecological niche-holders necessary for the full exploitation
of the environment—"
"Yes, yes, quite
so," Jith piped faintly. "Now as for my proposal for a gift to the
Lumbagan masses of a Bolshoi-type ballet theater—"
"Now, as for the
VH—vital hierarchy, a term referring to the ascending order of complexity of
competing and cooperating species—it appears we're faced here with a regular
gradation from the mindless free-living gall bladder and/or medulla oblongata
through the
pneumopteryx
, or flying lung, the night-blooming liver, or
Hepaticus
noctens
—"
"Kindly speak
either Terran or Groaci," a representative of the latter species whispered
irritably, "as a courtesy to those of us who are not specialists in arcane
linguistic lore."
"—to the
subcultural forms such as the Gliding Leg,
Pedis volens
, and the
Bounding Rib Cage,
Os leapifrons
—"
"Splendid,"
Pouncetrifle said heartily, "I'm sure we all enjoyed Mr. Lunchbun's most
lucid rundown on the subject on which he has just presented his briefing. Now,
the next item on the agenda—"
"To
continue," Lunchbun cut through the rising conversation level, "I've
recently achieved a breakthrough, classificationwise." He turned to pull
down a wall chart. "The basic building blocks of Lumbagan life, which I've
designated here with Chinese ideographs for convenience, are capable of a large
but finite number of cross-combinations, indicated by Egyptian hieroglyphics,
which compound forms in turn are capable of further linkages to create still
more complex entities, shown on the accompanying schematic by Greek letters,
Norse runes, and the letters A thru Q inclusive. The chart represents
schematically the theoretical relationships of biological subgroups and groups
within the hyper- or supergroups, in light of the presumed intergroup taboo
structure, the affinity-schemes implicit in observed pro- and counter-indications
social-mobilitywise, and the mutual interdependency pattern as deduced from a
careful sifting of rumors from the interior. Naturally, it's only
approximate."
"Yes, yes, we all
know the woods are full of tongues, elbows and less mentionable members,"
Pouncetrifle prompted the speaker. "Get to the point, man!"
"Well, I'm
skipping over the most fascinating part—but as it happens, Mr. Ambassador, I
have a few slides for you this afternoon," Lunchbun said hastily.
"Freddy . . . ?" He signaled to a local employee hidden in the wings;
the lights dimmed and a pair of vivid trideo images flickered into existence
above the ornamental fungus centerpiece adorning the long board. One of the
beings represented was a seven-foot creature with an oversized head crowded
with sensory appendages in no particular arrangement, surmounting a cluster of
arms of varying lengths, which sprang directly from a flattened pelvic girdle
to which were attached three long, skinny legs, each ending in a pair of
multitoed feet, the whole encased in a warty hide of a mottled purplish hue.
The other was some four feet in height, with a lumpy head adorned by antlers,
fangs, tusks, eyestalks, and a bushy magenta crest matching a ruff springing
from the base of a long, limber neck. The remainder of the creature consisted
largely of a pendulous, leathery paunch of a peculiarly objectionable yellowish
shade, featuring stubby wings, tentacles, pincers, and a clump of noodlelike
appendages presumably designed for locomotion.
"Here we have lab
mock-ups of a pair of hypothetical composites, embodying what appear to be the
most popular elements of what I term the ABCD and WXYZ forms," Lunchbun
stated in a proprietary tone.
"On the
whole," Colonel Warbutton commented, "I think the chap on the left has
the more wholesome look about him. True, he's gone a bit overboard
frequency-of-occurrencewise, but those are recognizable arms, legs, and the
like—"
"I assume the
simulacrum on the right represents the higher form," Ambassador Jith spoke
up, "inasmuch as it has tastefully selected handsome stalked oculars,
efficient grasping chelae, and a most soothing pigmentation, reminiscent of my
own."
"Hold it right
there," a reedy voice interrupted the proceedings. One of the local
observers was on his feet—six in number—waving several arms. "I object!
You foreigners are profaning the arcane mysteries by exhibiting undraped bodies
without throwing in some redeeming entertainment value. What do those fellows
do? Dance? Sing? Nonstop pray? Juggle zingfruit? No! They just stand
there!"
"Why, how
remarkable," Magnan whispered to Retief. "I didn't know the observers
spoke Terran. Heavens, I wonder if we've uttered any indiscretions,
racial-prejudicewise. . . ."
"They're full of
surprises," Retief agreed. "Not the least of which is the fact that
they've stayed awake through Lunch-bun's lecture."
"Curious,"
Magnan mused. "I would have sworn that yesterday the one with the six feet
had three eyes and a half a dozen snoof-organs; today he's down to two of the
latter and only one of the former."
"Now, now, ah, sir
or madam," Pouncetrifle was soothing the aroused local, "I'm sure no
offense to your local mores was intended. I'll see that it doesn't happen
again—"
"Don't do that,
sport," the Lumbagan said in a more expansive tone, producing a tambourine
from beneath his robes. "Just drop a little something in the old
collection box, and on with the show."
"Why, yes, of
course, I suppose a small contribution to a worthy charity would be quite in
order," the ambassador agreed hastily.
"Small, nothing,
sport! A couple thousand standard creds would be about right—and don't try to
tell me how to spend it. I'm not in business for my health. And while I've got
the floor, maybe I can interest some of you gents, Terry and Five-Eyes alike,
in a snappy line of musical spud peelers for which I happen to be sole agent in
this end of the archipelago—"
"What's this?
Mercantile endeavor in the midst of solemn diplomatic proceedings?"
Ambassador Jith whispered. "And a competing line, at that!"
"Look here—you
can't conduct yourself as a peddler," Pouncetrifle said sternly.
"Why not? Anything
shameful about honest merchandising, sport?"