Retief at Large (39 page)

            "Let's
just blame it on local conditions and let it go at that," Retief
suggested. He looked at the gauge on his wrist. "The temperature in here
is ninety-one and a half degrees Centigrade. It looks as if drowning is
out."

            "Look,
the mud's hardening as it comes through the barrier," Rainsinger said.
"The trickle's choking off." He looked thoughtful. "By now the
level outside our door is up to the blockage. If the lava that squeezes through
that hardens as fast as this did ..."

            A
tremor went through the cave's floor. "Oh-oh!" Rainsinger rocked on
his feet. "Looks like this is it, Retief ..."

            "Set
your suit air on maximum pressure!" Retief said quickly. "Then lie
down and wrap your arms around your knees and hold on!" His voice was
drowned in an end-of-the-universe boom as the side of the mountain blew out.

            Retief's
first impression, as he came back to consciousness, was of a gentle rocking
motion, which ended rudely as something hard gouged him in the back. He rolled
over and got to his feet. He was standing in shallow mud at the shore of a
placid expanse of brown, already stiffening into hardness. A few yards distant,
a lumpy mansized object stirred feebly. He went to it, assisted Rainsinger to
his feet.

            "Quite
a view, eh?" He indicated the cone rising from the mists wreathing the
expanse of mud. The entire wall of the volcano was gone, and from the vast rent
a glistening river of gumbo poured.

            "We're
alive," Rainsinger said groggily. "Remarkable! And it looks as though
we succeeded in diverting the mud." He pulled off his suit helmet,
revealing a face puffed and bruised. "My apologies to you, Mr. Retief—for
a number of things."

            "And
mine to you, Mr. Rainsinger, for an equal number of things. And I suggest we
get these suits off before we harden into statues."

            The
two men stripped off the suits, thickly coated with rapidly hardening mud.

            "Well,
we may as well be getting back, I suppose," the trade mission chief said
glumly. "I'll transmit my resignation to Sector, then gather up my chaps
and be on my way."

            They
tramped along the lake shore in silence for half an hour. Rounding the curve of
the mountain, the valley came into view. Where the town had been, a pattern of
building tops reared up above a glossy expanse of eggplant brown.

            "I
came here to make commercial history," Rainsinger muttered. "Instead
I destroyed a city, including enough Corps property to keep me in debt for six
lifetimes ..."

            "I
wonder what's going on down there?" Retief said, pointing. On the level
mud surrounding the buried buildings of the town, small figures darted and
swooped.

            "They
look like giant water-bugs," Rainsinger said wonderingly. "What do
you suppose it means?"

            "Let's
go down and see," Retief said.

            "It's
remarkable!" Magnan rubbed his hands together and beamed at the lively
group of Slunchans disporting themselves on the mirror-flat surface of the
hardened [ mud flow that occupied the former town plaza, brightly illuminated
by the light from the surrounding windows. "It was Blabghug who discovered
the crates stores in the consulate attic. He opened them, imagining they might
contain something to eat—and discovered roller skates!"

            "Rainsinger
Mr., Hey!" One of the gracefully cavorting locals came whizzing across the
newly formed rink, executed a flashy one-toe reverse spin and braked to a halt
before the trade mission chief. "Foot-wheels these of shipment a get we can
soon how?"

            "They've
had to set up a rotation system," Magnan said. "Every Slunchan who
sees them simply goes mad for them!"

            "With
start to, sets thousand hundred a about take we'll," Blabghug cried.
"More take we'll, ready rinks more get we as soon as!"

            "I
... I don't understand," Rainsinger said. "The mud—what's happened to
it? It feels like top-quality asphalt, worth fifty credits a ton!"

            Magnan
nodded happily. "Just after the mud began to recede, Freddy was doing a
little foraging—for salvage, of course—and accidentally got into the powdered
tombstones. When the mud contacted the plastic, it started hardening up. It
must have had some sort of catalytic action, because the whole plaza froze
over."

            "So
that's why the volcano plugged up so quickly," Rainsinger said in
wondering tones. "And it's still hardening, just as fast as it's exposed
to the air and the, er, catalyst!"

            "You've
brought off a real coup, sir!" Magnan caroled. "The Slunchans have
never had anything but squishy mud underfoot before. Now that they see the
possibilities, we'll be able to sell them on all the court games: tennis,
volleyball, badminton—then on to the whole gamut of wheeled vehicles! I can see
it now: Round-the-planet motorcycle races! The Grand Prix to end all Grand
Prixes!"

            "Grands
Prix," Rainsinger corrected absently. "But not only that, Magnan, my
boy! This new material—I'll wager we can corner the paving market for the
entire Galactic Arm! And it's virtually free!"

            "Ah,
am I to understand then, sir, that your report won't place as much emphasis on
certain apparent custodial deficiencies as your earlier remarks might have
indicated?" Magnan inquired smoothly.

            Rainsinger
cleared his throat. "My first impressions were a bit wide of the
mark," he said. "I was just wondering if you'd find it necessary in
your report of my visit to detail the
precise
circumstances surrounding
the discovery—or should I say invention?—of this new product."

            "No
point in burdening Sector with excess detail," Magnan said crisply.

            "Now,
about transport," Rainsinger mused aloud. "I'd estimate I could place
ten million tons at once on Schweinhund's World—and another ten or twenty
million tons on Flamme ..."

            "I
think it would be wise to place immediate orders for pogo sticks, croquet sets
and bicycles," Magnan thought aloud. "We'll want to work through the
small items before bringing on the heavy equipment ..."

            The
two strolled away, deep in conversation.

            "Say,
all this excitement has given me an appetite," the fat attache said.
"I believe I'll go get myself a sandwich. Possibly two sandwiches."
As he hurried off, Sir Frederik Gumbubu scooted up to Retief, executing a
speed-braking stop.

            "Terry,
us join and pair a grab!" he shouted.

            "Good
idea," Retief said, and swung off across the plaza, arm in arm with the
foreign minister.

-

            AN
EVENING BREEZE bearing the fragrance of ten-thousand year old Heo trees in
bloom moved across the Embassy dining terrace. In the distance pipes sounded
softly, picking out a haunting melody, like fairy feet retracing a forgotten
path through an enchanted forest. The setting sun, vast and smoky red, cast
crimson shadows along the leaf-shaded streets below.

            "A
pity all this is dying." First Secretary Magnan of the Terran Mission to
Sulinore waved a hand toward the fragile, crumbling towers silhouetted against
the dusk. "In spite of a million years of civilization and a reputation
for immortality, the Sulinorians seems impotent to stem the population decline.
I suppose in a century or less they'll all be gone."

            "With
ninety-nine per cent of the planetary surface devoted to cemeteries, historical
shrines and monuments to the past, there's not much room for the living,"
Second Secretary Retief commented. "And you can tie up a lot of minerals
in a planet-wide graveyard."

            "I
suppose you're referring to their belief that the world's supply of Divine
Effluvium is exhausted," Magnan sniffed. "Mere folklore.of course.
Still, one might almost be tempted to look into the matter of depletion of
essential elements—except that Corps policy forbids poking into local religious
doctrine. And in any event, they won't permit any deep-mining operations which
might disturb the hallowed dead—or the sleeping heroes, as they prefer to put
it."

            Magnan
cocked an eye at the small humanoid waiter standing at a discreet distance,
apparently lost in thought. "One can't help thinking that the modern
Sulinorian is a far cry from his legendary ancestors," he said behind his
hand. "Just compare these civilized little chaps with those ghastly
statues you see everywhere."

            The
local turned, approached the table, a polite expression on his elfin features.

            "You
wished something, sir?"

            "Why,
ah, tell me." Magnan cleared his throat. "How does the Sulinorian in
the street feel about all this? Wouldn't you be willing to see a modest
rock-mining operation set up here to unlock some of those scarce elements that
are tied up in the planetary crust?"

            "Modest,
my lord? The figure I heard was a million metric tons per day per unit, and
Great Tussore knows how many units." He looked toward the ruin-crowned
skyline. "
Rather the easy erosion of eons than eaten by industry's
engines insatiable,"
he quoted. "At least that's what the poet
Eulindore said a couple of millenia ago. Me, I wouldn't know."

            "But
what about importation?" Magnan persisted.

            "Why,
your Administrative Council turned thumbs down flatly on the CDT proposal that
we haul in a few million cubic miles of useful minerals and establish raw
material dumps that all could draw on freely!"

            "I
guess we'd rather look at the landscape the way it is, sir," the
Sulinorian said. "And besides, rooting in a dump isn't our style. You
know, a race of heroes and all that." He flicked an imaginary crumb from
the table. "How about another flagon of ancient wine, my lords? Laid down
by Yodross in the year 574,635. That would be about 3600 B.C., old Terry
reckoning."

            "I
think not—" Magnan broke off as the table-side P.A. unit pinged and lit
up. The plump features of Ambassador Shindlesweet snapped into mirror-bright
focus on the one-way screen.

            "Ah,
gentlemen," the portly diplomat beamed. "It's my pleasure to inform
the staff that the Blug delegation has, after all, been prevailed upon to be
present at the Peace Conference here on Sulinore."

            "What,
those
bloodthirsty little killers?" Magnan gasped. "With their
armor and their opaque atmosphere helmets and their sneaky ways? Why, everybody
knows they're the Groaci's protégés, and responsible for all the
fighting!"

            "At
least that's a dozen or so Blugs that won't be off plundering somewhere—as long
as the conference is on anyway," Retief pointed out.

            "...
a gesture which reflects their sincere desire to see peace restored to the
Sector," Shindlesweet was rumbling on. "And with all due modesty, I
think I may say—"

            A
pale visage sporting five stalked eyes crowded onto the screen, thrusting the
Terrestrial ambassador aside.

            "As
you're perhaps aware," the Groaci ambassador whispered in his faint voice,
"it was through my efforts as co-sponsor of the present talks that this
happy eventuality was brought about. And—"

            "Look
here, Mr. Ambassador," Shindlesweet muttered from the side of his mouth,
turning a glassy smile to the camera. "I was on the air first!"