Retief at Large (35 page)

            "Exactly."
Treadwater beamed around at the others as the front-runners of the North
Skweeman delegation arrived, uttering cries of delight and pledging eternal
friendship. "It appears we'll have a solid electorate behind us,
gentlemen! My job—that is to say, the future of Terran-Skweeman relations seems
secure. Now, if we just had an adequate Project Proposal to offer Sector
Headquarters, our cup would be brimming." He stepped forward, began
shaking members left to right. "Sir!" Secretary Dimplick bounded
forward. "I've a dandy notion! Why not build a new capital for United Skweem
to replace the former city swept away by the flood?"

            "Of
course!" Colonel Pluckwyn chimed in. "My idea exactly; just waiting
for an appropriate moment to mention it. I'd also suggest a massive aid program
to rectify the other ravages of the disaster."

            "Food!"
the Agricultural Attache shouted. "I think I can justify a schedule of
deliveries under the Chrunchies for Lunchies program that will keep two dozen
Corps bottoms in use for the next fiscal quarter!"

            "Superb,
gentlemen!" Treadwater warbled. "I can see promotions all around—to
say nothing of extra staff, monuments to Skweeman independence and democratic
solidarity, larger operational budgets, and a magnificent new Terran Chancery
rising from the ruins!"

            "Say,
Mr. Retief." The junior Third Secretary plucked at his sleeve. "I
thought these North Skweemans were little better than dacoits and brigands;
suddenly they're welcomed as bosom friends.

            "True,
they're a shifty lot," Retief confided as he accepted a moist Skweeman
handshake. "But who are we to be choosy?"

-

            THE
VOICE of Consul General Magnan, Terran envoy to Slunch, crackled sharply
through Vice-consul Retief's earphones as he steered the slab-sided mud-car up
the slope through the dense smog issuing from the innumerable bubbling
mud-pockets in the rocky ground.

            "Retief,
this whole idea is insane! We're likely to bog down or be blown up; we'll have
to turn back!"

            "It's
just a few hundred yards now," Retief replied.

            "Look
here! As chief of mission, I'm responsible for the safety of all Terran
personnel on Slunch, which means, specifically, you and me. It's not that I'm
timid, you understand, but—Look out!" he shouted suddenly, as Retief cut
hard at the wheel to avoid the uprearing form of a twenty-foot tangleworm.
Magnan chopped with his machete as the blind creature swung its capacious jaws
toward him. Brown juices spattered as the severed, football head tumbled into
the car, still biting the air.

            He
kicked it away and wiped a mud-stained sleeve across his face, peering ahead
through the smoky air.

            "There
it is now," Retief pointed. Through the murky atmosphere, a dull glow swam
into visibility. Half a minute later the mud-car came to a halt at the brink of
a vast sinkhole, from which choking, sulphurous fumes rose in ochre billows,
reflecting the fitful play of light from below.

            Retief
swung over the side of the car, went forward to the precipitous edge. Magnan
advanced cautiously behind him.

            "You
see those openings down there?" Retief pointed through the swirling
vapors. "I think we can work our way down along the ledge on this side,
then—"

            "Great
heavens, Retief!" Magnan broke in. "You seriously propose that we
explore this—this subterranean furnace—on foot?" His voice rose to the
breaking point.

            "We'll
be all right inside our thermal suits," the junior diplomat said. "If
we can discover which vents are the ones—"

            "Mark!"
Magnan raised a hand. A new, deeper, rumble was rising to drown the fretful
murmurings from underfoot.

            "Is
that—could that be high tide coming?" he gasped.

            Retief
shook his head. "Not due for six hours yet. You're not by any chance
expecting a ship today?"

            "A
ship? No, I wasn't—but yes—it could be ..." Far above, a faint bluish
light flickered through the clouds, descending. "It is!" Magnan
turned toward the car. "Come along, Retief! We'll have to go back at
once!"

            Ten
minutes later, the car emerged from the fumes of the field onto an expanse of waving
foot-high stems which leaned to snatch at the car's oversized wheels with tiny
claws. Retief shifted to low gear, to the accompaniment of ripping sounds as
the strands of tough grabgrass parted. Beyond the town, the newly arrived
vessel stood, a silvery dart against the black clouds rolling slowly upward
from the tar pits in the distance.

            "Retief,
that's a Corps vessel!" Magnan said excitedly. "Heavens! You don't
suppose Sector has decided to cut the tour of duty on Slunch to three months,
and sent our relief along a year and a half ahead of schedule?"

            "It's
more likely they're shipping us a new ping-pong table .to soften the blow of
the news the tour's being extended to five years."

            "Even
ping-pong equipment would be a shade nearer the mark than the six gross of
roller skates the Recreational Service sent out, Magnan sniffed.

            "They're
running out the VIP pennant," Retief called.

            Magnan
shaded his eyes. "Damn it! No doubt it's a party of junketing legislators,
out to be wined and dined out of our consular luxury allowance."

            Five
minutes later, the car pulled up in the lee of the gleaming vessel with the
ornate crest of the
Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne
blazoned on its
prow. Already, a few questing runners of creeper vine had found the ship and
were making their way rapidly up the landing vanes and twining over the access
lock. As Magnan descended, machete in hand, to clear the entry, the ship's exit
lock swung open and extruded a landing ramp. Half a dozen Terrans, resplendent
in pearl-gray pre-tiffin sub-informal coveralls and lime green seersucker
dickeys emerged, drawing deep, healing lungfuls of air and immediately coughing
violently.

            "No
time to waste, gentlemen," Magnan called, his voice muffled by his
breathing mask. "Everybody out and into the car!"

            A
stout man with the look of a senior attache shied violently as Magnan
confronted him. Those behind recoiled toward the lock.

            "Good
Lord! Dacoits!" The fat man raised his hands, backing away. "Don't
strike sir! We're merely harmless bureaucrats!"

            "Eh?"
Magnan stared at the newcomers. "Look here, I don't wish to alarm you, but
unless you come along at once, you're all going to be in serious danger. The
air ..."

            "Ransom!"
the fat man cried. "I have a doting auntie, sir, who'll pay handsomely!
The old minniehas more money than she knows what to do with."

            "What's
going on here!" A tall, broad-shouldered man had appeared at the lock,
staring down at the tableau with a stern look.

            "Lookout,
sir!" a small, wispy staffer chirped. "He has a dreadful-looking
sword!"

            "I'll
handle this!" The big man pushed forward, stared down at Magnan. "Now
then, what was it you wanted, fellow?"

            "Why,
ah," the consul general temporized, backing a step. "I just came out
to welcome you to Slunch, sir, and to offer you transportation back to the
consulate—"

            "You
're from the consulate?" the big man boomed. "Of course."

            "I'll
have a word to say to the consul about sending a sweeper to welcome an arriving
trade mission," the fat attache said, pushing forward. "I knew the
moment I laid eyes on him."

            Magnan
gobbled. "A full-scale trade mission? But I've only been here three
months! There hasn't been time—"

            "Ha!"
the big man cut him off. "I'm beginning to understand. You're a member of
the diplomatic staff, are you?" He looked Magnan up and down, taking in
the hip boots, the gauntlets, the battered poncho, the black smudges of soot
under his eyes.

            "Of
course. And—"

            "Yes,
you'd be that fellow Whatshisname. They told me about you back at Sector. Well,
there are a number of matters I intend to set you straight on at the outset."
The big man's steely eye transfixed the astounded Magnan. "I'm putting you
on notice that I have no sympathy with undisciplined upstarts!"

            "I
... I think your excellency has the wrong upstart," Magnan stammered. "That's
Retief over there, in the old horse blanket. I'm Magnan, the principal
officer."

            "Wha
...?"

            "It's
not really a horse blanket," Magnan amended hastily. "Actually it's
an urze-beast blanket. It's for the mud, you understand; and the rain, and the
soot, and the nitmites—"

            "Well,
anyone could have made the mistake," the fat staff member said. "This
chap certainly
looks
ferocious enough."

            "That's
enough!" The new arrival thrust out his lower lip. "I'm Rainsinger.
Just pass along what I said to the proper party."

            He
smoothed his features with an effort. "Mr. Magnan, you'll be delighted to
know I've brought along a number of items for you."

            "How
grand!" Magnan beamed. "Gourmet foods for the consulate larder, I
suppose? A nice selection of wines, of course—and possibly—" he winked
playfully—"a library of racy sense-tapes?"

            Rainsinger
blinked. "Nothing so frivolous," he said flatly. "Actually, it's
an automatic tombstone factory, complete, adequate to serve a community of one
hundred thousand souls." He rubbed his hands together briskly. "After
we've gotten the natives started on proper interment, we can expand into the
casket and embalming end. The possibilities are staggering." His eye fell
on the mud car. "What's
that?"

           
"You gentlemen will have to
excuse the' limousine," Magnan said. "Freddy didn't have time to dust
it up after the little shower we had this morning. Mind your trousers,
now."

            "This
is a Marx DC diplomatic issue limousine?" The fat man gaped at the
conveyance. "Why, it's made of baling wire and clapboards!"

            "The
mud crabs ate the other body," Magnan explained. "They found the
plastic highly palatable. I saved the cigar lighters, though."

            "By
golly, speaking of eating, I could do with a bite of lunch," the fat man
said to no one in particular.

            Rainsinger
gave Magnan a hard stare. "Well, under the circumstances, I suppose a case
could be made for a Report of Survey. By the way, how is the berp-nut
crop?" He looked around the mud-coated port. "How many bottoms will
you require for the first shipment?"

            "Ah
... none, to be precise," Magnan said faintly. "There isn't any
shipment."

            "No
berp-nuts?" Rainsinger's left eyebrow went up as the right came down in a
ferocious scowl. "As I understand your instructions, Magnan, your sole
mission here is to flog up a little enthusiasm among the Slunchans for Terry
goods. Since berp-nuts are the sole Slunchan source of foreign exchange, I fail
to see how we can succeed without them!"

            "Unfortunately,
the mud seems to have a corrosive effect on most everything we manufacture,"
Magnan said. "Like shoes, for example." He eyed Rain-singer's feet.
The visitor followed his gaze.