Authors: Keith Laumer
"You were
accredited here as an official observer, not a purveyor of novelty items!"
"Nix, sport. That
was another fellow entirely—or almost entirely; I picked up a nice used
clavicle from him on the way out."
"Where did he
go?"
"He had to get
back home and see to his liver and lights, you know how it is."
"He was in need of
surgery?" Pouncetrifle gasped.
"Are you kidding?
The guy runs a small giblet ranch two islands over."
"Then—what are
you
doing here?"
"I came in to get
out of the cold wind. Why?"
"What about your,
ah, the other one?" Pouncetrifle demanded, indicating the second local,
who had not stirred during the exchange.
"Him? That's my
sidekick, name of Difnog. I kind of look out for him, you know, since he lost
his wits."
"In an
accident?" the press attaché inquired with morbid interest, craning his
neck for a better look at the victim.
"Nope, in a game
of nine-handed
splung
. Difnog was a shrewd player, but he was
outclassed; he only had seven hands at the time."
"Well, I'm sure
that's all very interesting, Mr., er—"
"Gnudf. Yeah, but
I got to be going. If you'll hand over the cash, I might still be able to make
it down to the body shop before closing time."
"The effrontery of
the fellow," Magnan sniffed as the ambassador and the budget and fiscal
officer went into a huddle. "It's a well-established principle that the
CDT only gives handouts to bona fide enemies."
"Maybe he's hoping
to qualify," Retief suggested.
"It's a status
much sought after, of course," Magnan conceded. "But a seasoned
diplomat like Pouncetrifle will require proof of authentic hostility, not mere
aspiration to the role."
"Maybe Gnudf can
establish that he was part of the gang that broke all the windows out of the
Information Service Library yesterday."
"Nonsense, Retief,
that was merely an expression of youthful impatience with established social
forms."
"What about the mob
that invaded the chancery at gunpoint last week and threw the classified files
out the window along with the code clerk?"
"A student prank,
nothing more."
"And I suppose the
fellows who slipped the stink bombs into the ambassador's kitchen during the
banquet were actually only expressing legitimate minority aspirations."
"Doubtless—although
the matter nearly got out of hand. The ambassador didn't wish to offend the
cook by complaining of what he assumed was the aroma of native cookery, and the
guests were equally hesitant to appear critical of the ambassadorial cuisine.
We might have all stifled in silence if Ambassador Jith hadn't chosen to take
it as a direct affront to the Groacian state."
"Golly, I wish I'd
been there," the assistant military attaché commented. "Old Jith
didn't care for the smell, eh?"
"On the contrary,
it seems that the effluvium of burning hot-water bottles closely resembles that
of sacred Groacian incense. Pouncetrifle had to promise to book a troop of
Groaci ritual grimacers for the next culturefest before he could placate
him."
"I see your point,
Mr. Magnan," Retief conceded. "It's not easy to qualify for enemy
status these days."
"Precisely. It's
one of the hopeful signs I like to point out to those who complain that our
culture is going downhill."
The B-and-F officer
having departed with the two locals to work out a settlement, the ambassador
gaveled the meeting back to order.
"Gentlemen,"
he said firmly, "my predecessors waged pacification on Lumbaga for six
years with no visible result. The native passion for mutual mayhem rages
unabated. The confounded locals appear to
like
to fight! Now, then, it's
vital at this juncture in my career—vital, that is, to the success of our
mission—that we produce a breakthrough, racial-tolerancewise, without further
delay. Naturally, I have a vastly effective plan all ready for implementation,
but still, I'd be willing to listen to suggestions from the floor. Now, who's
first?"
"I propose
saturation bombing of the entire planet," a Groaci attaché proposed in a
crisp whisper, "followed by mop-up squads armed with flamethrowers,
fragmentation grenades, and other pesticides."
"Why—how
brutal!" Magnan blurted.
"But
effective," the Groaci pointed out. "One cannot deny: No
population—no popular unrest!"
"Heavens,"
Magnan confided to Retief, "it wouldn't do to say so for the record, but
one must concede there is a certain directness about Groaci methods."
"Possibly someone
can offer a less spectacular alternative," Pouncetrifle said grimly.
"Perhaps one designed to preserve an electorate for the new world
government to govern!"
"Ah—what about a
contest, sir?" Magnan piped up. "Cash prizes for snappy integration
jingles, say."
"/ know," the
assistant military attaché cried, "cash rewards for defectors, deserters,
scabs, AWOLs and turncoats!"
"What about
straight cash grants to all who'll come and stand in line for them?" the
senior economic attaché proposed grumpily. "If they're standing in line
they can't be out participating in raids."
"Splendid notion,
Godfrey," Colonel Warbutton spoke up. "We can stall them along until
we have the majority of the able-bodied personnel queued up. Then—a lightning
swoop, and we round up all the troublemakers at a stroke!"
"Don't we run the
risk of accidentally scooping up a percentage of innocent noncombatants?"
the press attaché said doubtfully.
"You can't break
eggs without dropping a few on the floor, or however the old saying goes,"
Warbutton stated curtly. "In any event, since the majority of the
population are activists, part-time guerrillas, undercover commandos, and/or
weekend warriors, the risk is statistically negligible."
"But—what do we do
with them, once we've clapped them all in concentration camps?"
"Pension 'em
off," Warbutton stated firmly.
"There appears,
gentlemen," Pouncetrifle cut in coldly, "to be an emphasis on the
materialistic in your proposals. While I recognize that massive
handouts—monetary aid to the deserving, that is to say—have long been a staple
of Terran policy, I feel in this instance an approach on a loftier level is in
order."
"Oh—oh," the
commercial attaché muttered. "That sounds like budget-cut to me."
"Gentlemen. . .
." The chief of the Terran delegation looked bleakly along the table.
"Unless we achieve a discernible advance toward planetary unification
within the next thirty days, I suspect a number of promising diplomatic careers
will be nipped in the bud."
"Frankly, Mr. Ambassador,"
Magnan spoke up, "unless the local anti-Terran prejudices can be overcome
in the near future, we may be nipped before we can be fired. Why, only
today—"
"Anti-Terran
prejudice? Nonsense, Magnan! Mere rumor! I've already pointed out how popular
we Terrestrials are—"
With a loud crash, the
window on the ambassadorial left burst inward, scattering a shower of glass
chips over the table, while a paper-wrapped brick thudded to the floor. An
eager vice-consul retrieved the latter.
"Why—it's a
message," he exclaimed. "It says: A GOOD TERRY IS A DEAD TERRY!"
"You see?"
Pouncetrifle said heartily. "Only a dear friend would feel free to
perpetrate such a broad practical joke. And now"—he rose
hastily—"we'll adjourn and make ready for tonight's reception."
"Good idea,"
Warbutton said sourly as the meeting broke up. "Before our unknown
prankster decides to lob a grenade through and really bring down the
house."
Standing before the
mirror in his apartment in the Terran wing, Retief flicked a speck of dust from
the chrome-plated lapel of his celery-top-green, midevening, hyperformal
cutaway and checked the effect in the rippled surface.
"Wow, Mr. Retief,
quel splendor," his valet commented with an envious sigh. "Jeez,
youse don't happen to have a old suit like this one you don't need anymore, I
guess?"
Retief surveyed the
five-foot figure of the local youth, vaguely humanoid except for the unusual
number and variety of eyes, ears, and snoof-organs adorning his cranium, plus
the circumstance that his shoulders seemed to spring directly from his hips
without the intervention of a torso.
"Not precisely,
Fnud," the diplomat replied, opening the closet door. "But how about
a banana-yellow, demi-informal jumpsuit, appropriate for croquet, mah jong, and
ouija board sessions during the hours twelve noon to three pee em
inclusive?"
"Gangbusters, Mr.
Retief." Fnud fondled the gleaming garment. "I'll get my tailor to
stitch the sleeves right onto the waistband, and then watch me shine at the
neighborhood booze-and-knife bust tonight!" He snapped two of the nine
fingers on his right hand. "Say—why don't you drop around, Mr. Retief?
Plenty of straight grain formaldehyde and bloodshed—all the markings for a
memorable night on the town. What do you say?"
"Sorry, Fnud. The
joint ambassadors are staging the annual Victory Ball tonight, and I'll have to
be there to keep an eye on the silverware. Maybe next week."
"It's a
date." Fnud studied his employer's six-foot-three-inch physique, wagging
his asymetrical head admiringly. "You know, that's kind of a neat
arrangement you Terries use at that, Mr. Retief. A nifty idea, having just the
two of everything, like eyes and ears and all. But how come only one nose?"
"Just for
contrast. You can overdo a good thing, you know."
"Yeah. You know, a
nose ain't a bad idea at that. Maybe I'll invest in one when I get my next step
increase. What does a deluxe job like the ambassador's run?"
"I see you have an
eye for a noble organ, Fnud. I'd say the cost in brandy alone would be well up
into three figures."
"I guess it's outa
my reach then. Oh, well—I'll settle for a more modest shnozz and maybe install
a spare kidney. A fellow can't have too many kidneys, they say."
The valet seemed
suddenly to recollect himself. "But Jeez, Mr. Retief, I don't guess you
got time to waste talking about my development program. The shindig starts in a
few minutes, and I'm due in the kitchen."
"You go ahead,
Fnud. I'll make it on time."
When the door had
closed behind the local, Retief opened the casement window and lifted a potted
jelly-flower from the planting box on the sill, extracted from beneath it a
flat 2mm needier which he tucked under his gold-satin cummerbund. As he turned
away, something caught his eye, dangling just beyond the window. It was a
heavy-gauge rope ladder, swaying slightly in the breeze. At that moment there
was a soft sound from the direction of the hall door, as of stealthy fingers
examining the latch. Retief turned swiftly to the open closet, lifted a formal
black coverall from the rod and crossed the room to hang the garment from the
curtain rail above the open window. He switched off the light and stepped
silently behind the bathroom door as the outer door swung open soundlessly. A
small, spindle-legged Groaci in a drab-colored hip cloak and plain eye shields
slipped into the room, pushed the door shut, and headed directly for the
closet. He was halfway there when the wind stirred the empty suit hanging in
the window. The intruder snatched a bulky power gun from his tunic and aimed it
at the garment.
"So—to have
mistakenly judged your chambers to be unoccupied, Soft One," the alien
hissed in his native tongue. "To place your manual extremities above your
organ cluster and to prepare to go quietly!"
The hanging garment
stirred. The Groaci jumped backward. "One more move, Soft One, and jsssp!
to join your forebears in the Happy Burrowing Ground!"
The suit seemed to edge
sideways as the breeze thrust at it.
"To make no move
to escape!" the Groaci keened. "To turn slowly and mount the ladder
thoughtfully provided by a trusted lackey. . . ." The alien's faint voice
faded out as he apparently noted something amiss with the supposed target. "Retief
. . . ?" he whispered, advancing cautiously. A yard from the window, he
uttered a hiss of annoyance and lowered the gun.
"Not bad
technique, Lilth," Retief said, emerging from concealment, the needier
leveled at the Groaci. "Except that your draw was a little on the slow
side—"
With a soft cry, the
startled intruder whirled, leaped to the window, thrust aside the hanging
coverall and lunged, checked himself too late. For a moment, he teetered on the
sill; then with a despairing cry he toppled outward and dropped from view.
Retief arrived at the window in time to observe the splashdown in the moat five
stories below, marked by an imposing column of stagnant water and fruit rinds
fountaining upward. The rope ladder, he noted, was gone.
"Too bad," he
murmured. "It's getting so you just can't trust a lackey anymore."