Authors: Keith Laumer
"If so, it's
working perfectly," Retief said, and started down the steps. At the
bottom, he used his pocket flash to quickly check the room; it was empty but
for stacked crates and cartons bearing stenciled markings.
"Electronic
gear," Retief said. "And surgical supplies."
"Here's one
labeled
Acme Theatrical Services
," Magnan whispered. "Curious;
I never suspected the Groaci had an interest in amateur dramatics."
"I suspect they
may have entered the field at a professional level," Retief said.
The storeroom opened
into a narrow, dimly lit passage. Faint murmurings sounded from behind a door
along the way. Retief went to it, put his ear against the panel:
". . . to have
come within an ace of discovery!" hissed a breathy Groaci voice. "To
make all haste now—"
"The
inadvisability of rushing the cadence!" another voice replied. "To
not louse up the triumphant culmination of my researches!"
"Yes, yes, to get
on with it. To have a tight schedule." A muted humming sound started up; a
faint odor of ozone filtered past the closed door. "Sounds like an illegal
transmitter," Retief said. "What's illegal about a transmitter?"
Gloot demanded. "Let's find out." Retief turned the doorknob
silently, eased the door open an inch. Two Groaci, one in bile-green shorts and
orange and violet argyles, the other in a stained white laboratory smock, and
holding a clipboard, stood before a wide panel with a puce crackle finish
thickly set with dials, switches, oscilloscope tubes, and blinking indicator
lights. One side of the room was given over to stacked cages in which eyeballs,
kidneys, adenoids, and other forms of Lumbagan wildlife perched disconsolately
on twigs or moped glumly in corners amid scattered straw.
". . . the
completion of preliminary testing," the technician was whispering,
"to be ready now to conduct field trials of limited range, after which, on
to the final stage in the fulfilment of selfless Groaci objectives with all
deliberate haste!"
"To spare me the
propaganda," the other snapped. "To have read the official handouts.
To now tellingly demonstrate the effectiveness of the device without further
procrastination."
"The eagerness
with which I confirm the accuracy of my theoretical predictions," the
white-smocked Groaci hissed sharply. "To anticipate the prompt material
gratitude of our government."
"To deliver the
goods in accordance with specs, or to promptly adorn the Wall of Hooks as an
example to other boasters!" the other whispered harshly.
The technician wiggled
his oculars in expression of righteous fury courteously restrained, and turned
to the control panel, began setting dials in a complicated sequence, referring
frequently to the clipboard.
"Haste,
haste," the other Groaci muttered. "To not procrastinate in the eye
of the metaphorical cannon—or is it the mouth of the needle?"
"To be unfamiliar
with Terry saws," the white-smocked alien hissed, continuing with the
check list. The observer watched for a moment in sour silence; then:
"Pah!" he burst out. "To reject out of hand this transparent
hoax! To perceive that you stall the proceedings in order to extort even more
golden promises of future emoluments!"
"To commit a wrong
of vast proportions, thus to accuse me!" the technician cried. "To
underestimate the insidious subtlety of the mechanism—"
"To have penetrated
your deception—and to remind you of the redundance of mere technical personnel
after completion of their function!"
"The
inadvisability of threats to my person! My indispensability to the
scheme—"
"Is at an end! To
point out that even a cretinous underling is fully capable of closing a
switch!" The Groaci stepped forward and before the other could intercept
him, pushed the largest button on the panel.
With a hoarse bellow,
Gloot plunged past Retief into the room. The two Groaci whirled, uttered shrill
yelps and dived in opposite directions. The small creatures in their cages had
gone into a flurry of activity, Retief noted peripherally, hurling themselves
against the wire mesh as if frantic to come to grips with their neighbors. The
momentum of Gloot's charge carried him full tilt against the button-studded
console. Lights flashed; harsh buzzings sounded, ending in a crackle of arcing
electricity. Gloot staggered back and sat down hard. The lab animals subsided
as abruptly as they had leaped into motion. Retief jumped forward in time to
nab the technician as he dithered, unsure which way to run. A door slammed at
the back of the room.
"Retief! What in
the world . . . ?" Magnan quavered, peering into the room.
"Oh boy,"
Gloot muttered, fingering his head with all three hands as he sat weaving in
the middle of the room. "Oh boy oh boy oh boy. . . ."
"Would you care to
amplify that remark?" Retief said, holding the struggling Groaci.
"I guess I blew
it, huh?" the Lumbagan said blurrily. "I don't know what come over
me, Retief. It was like festival time and spring rites and the fall offensive
all hit me at once! All of a sudden I was raring to go! Too bad that Terry got
away, I would have liked to field-strip the little rascal, just to see what
color juice ran out of him." He eyed Retief's prisoner wistfully.
"The fit's passed—but I still got kind of a lingering urge to pull that
Terry apart, one skinny leg at a time."
"I thought you
Lumbagans saved all your hostilities for each other, with none left over for
tourists," Retief said.
"Yeah—me too. But
somehow, all of a sudden it was open season on Terries. Funny, huh? I never
been nuts about 'em, but this is the first time I appreciated to the full what
a really swell sensation it would be to rip 'em to shreds—"
Far away, an alarm bell
clanged harshly.
"Now are you
undone, abominable intruders," the Groaci hissed. "In moments my
well-trained bullies will fall upon you, your misshapen members to distribute
over the immediate landscape!"
"Retief, we have
to get out of here at once!" Magnan yelped. "If a platoon of
peacekeepers should get their nasty little digits on us . . . !"
"Yeah, let's
blow," Gloot agreed. "Me and cops never did get on too good
together."
Retief released the
Groaci, who at once darted for cover behind the nearest rank of cages. The hall
was empty; a lone peacekeeper appeared at the far end of the corridor and set
up a weak shout as they dashed for the storeroom. Inside, Retief and Gloot
paused long enough to stack half a dozen crates against the door before
ascending to the roof. Magnan was at the parapet, staring down into the
darkness.
"Trapped!" he
hissed. "Retief—the grounds are swarming with them! And—" he uttered
a stifled exclamation. "Retief! Look!"
In the gloom below,
Retief could discern the forms of several dozen armed troops in flaring
helmets, polished greaves, and spined hip-cloaks moving efficiently out to
surround the building.
"Retief! What does
it mean? This laboratory, hidden in the wilds; that insane monster farm, and
that horrible little Nith—and his obscure experiments—and now Groaci troops
secretly garrisoned in the boondocks!"
"It means we know
enough now for a preliminary report. If you'll give Ambassador Pouncetrifle the
details of what we've learned—"
"But—Retief—what
have we learned?"
"That the Groaci
have worked out a method of controlling Lumbagan evolution, plus a method of
selectively stimulating the natives' natural love of hostilities."
"But—whatever
for?"
"You'd better get
going now, Mr. Magnan; I seem to hear the sounds of a posse pounding on the
door down below."
"Get going? You
sp-speak as though I we-were expected to descend alone into that lion's
den!"
"Not descend;
ascend. The copter is a standard Groaci export model—"
"Yes, but—but I
don't have my driver's license with me!"
A loud thumping sounded
from below as the stacked cases toppled. Gloot slammed the trap door and stood
on it.
"Better hurry, Mr.
Magnan," Retief said. "Head due west, and stay clear of the
peaks."
Magnan made vague
sounds of protest, but scrambled awkwardly into the copter. He pressed the
starter; the rotors turned, spun quickly up to speed.
"It seems a trifle
irresponsible, dashing off and leaving you here alone, Retief," he said,
and winced as thunderous pounding shook the trapdoor.
"I hope them
Terries don't take a notion to send a few rounds of explosive slugs through
this hatch," Gloot said, struggling for balance as it heaved under him.
"—but as you point
out, duty calls," Magnan added quickly, and with a hasty wave, lifted off
into the night.
"I don't get
it," Gloot said as the sound of the machine faded. "You said
Ambassador Pouncetrifle? I thought he was the head Terry."
"I think it's time
for me to clear up a slight misapprehension you've been laboring under,
Gloot," Retief said. "Those aren't actually Terries down there;
they're Groaci."
"Huh? But they
look just like what's-his-face, Nith, only bigger!"
"Correct. That's
because Nith is a Groaci, too."
"But if he's a
Groaci—then what about whozis—the one that just ran out on us?"
"Mr. Magnan,"
Retief confided, "is actually a Terry."
"Aha! I should
have known! Talk about masters of disguise! Pretty slick, the way you got rid
of him. ..." Gloot paused reflectively. "But—if they're Groaci down
there, how come we don't just open up, and shake hands all around?"
"They think I'm a
Terry."
"Oh, boy, that
complicates things. How come you don't tell 'em who you really are, and—"
"Undercoyer
operation."
"Oh, I get it. Or
do I?" Gloot said vaguely. "But I guess I can worry about that later,
after we get out of this mess. What nifty trick are you going to pull out of
the hat now? Frankly, if I didn't have lots of confidence in you, Retief, I'd
be getting worried about now."
"I think you may
as well go ahead and worry, Gloot," Retief said. "On this occasion,
I'm fresh out of hats."
"You mean . . .
?" At the words, the hatch gave a tremendous lurch, sending the Lumbagan
staggering. It flew open, and a Groaci warrior bounded forth, power gun aimed,
his fellows crowding out behind him.
"He means, nocuous
encroacher, that now indeed is your fate upon you!" the white-jacketed
Groaci technician hissed, thrusting forward.
"How about it,
Retief," Gloot said from the corner of his mouth. "We could jump
'em—but what I say is, why give 'em the fun of blowing us into sausage?"
"Wait!" a
piercing, yet curiously timbreless voice called from the rear. The Groaci
soldiery fell back, came to rigid attention. In the sudden silence, the
technician ducked his head servilely, stepping aside as an impressive figure
wrapped in a black cloak with a twist of gold braid adorning the stiff collar
strode forward. Typically Groacian except for his near six-foot height, the
newcomer stared Retief up and down, ignoring Gloot.
"So, impetuous
Terry," he rasped in a voice surprisingly vigorous for a Groaci. "We
meet at last."
"Swarmmaster Ussh,
I presume?" Retief said. "Your Ultimateness has led us an interesting
chase."
"And one pursued
to your indescribable sorrow," Ussh grated.
"I agree it's
saddening to see so much effort wasted," Retief agreed. "Yours, I
mean—not ours."
"Wasted effort is
for lesser creatures, Terran!" Ussh waggled his oculars in token of
amusement. "For all the diligence of your prying, you have failed,
naturally, to correctly assess the full scope of my genius."
"Possibly,"
Retief said. "But I think you've failed to correctly assess CDT policy on
sensitive issues like genocide, slavery, and vivisection—"
"Pah—what care I
for a gaggle of diplomats? I happen to be the forerunner of a superrace, to
whom ordinary values have no application!"
"I've seen your
experimental monster farm," Retief said. "The woods seemed to be full
of unsuccessful experiments in forced evolution—"
"True, there were
a certain number of failures before I was able to reproduce the precise forms
needed in the Great Plan; but even those had their uses—"
"And I've seen
your matched sets of garrison troops. Not bad, except that they didn't seem to
be a great deal brighter than armies usually are—"
"As I suspected,
the true implications of their existence were lost on your limited imagination.
Soon, however—"
"I think I got it.
Manipulating Lumbagans at random is all very well, but it would be a bit
difficult to stage anything more organized than a free-for-all unless you could
elicit uniform responses. Ergo—uniform puppets."
"You've correctly
gauged the more pedestrian portions of my plot, Terran dupe! But you've failed
utterly to grasp the incredible scope of my true greatness! While you dashed
hither and thither, assembling your trifling clues, my giant intellect has been
coolly completing the final detail work. And now—tonight!—the New Age dawns,
ushered in by the successor to all previous life forms, namely myself!"