Retief at Large (45 page)

            "Well,
why doesn't one of them just go mandate somewhere else?" a commerce man
demanded. "There are scads of available planets out that way."

            "The
Groaci state that Yudore falls within their natural sphere of influence,"
Thunderstroke said. "As for the Slox, their position is that they found
the place first."

            "They
could flip a coin for it," the commerce man snapped. "Then we could
all get back to matters of importance, such as the abnormal rate of increase in
the rate of decrease of the expansion of the trend toward reduction of
increasing berp-nut consumption among unwed fathers ages nine through ninety on
backward worlds of the Nicodeman group; a development which I just detected
this morning through the use of refined psychostatistical techniques."

            "Good
lord, Chester—" a political forecast specialist picked up the
cue—"what will be the projected impact of this downturn in the
upturn?"

            "Upturn
of the downturn, if you must use layman's language," Chester corrected.
"Why, at the present rate it appears that by fiscal ninety-seven there'll
be a record high in unwed fathers."

            "To
return to the subject at hand, gentlemen," Thunderstroke cut in ominously,
"both parties to the dispute have dispatched battle fleets to stand by off
Yudore, primed for action."

            "Hmm.
Seems to me there's a solution of sorts implicit in that datum," someone
murmured.

            "Let
us hope not. An outbreak of hostilities would blot our copybooks badly,
gentlemen." Thunderstroke glared at the offender. "Unfortunately the
Groaci ambassador has assured me privately that his government's position is
unalterable. Groaci doctrine, as he explained matters, makes accommodation with
what he terms 'vile-smelling opportunists' impossible, while a spokesman for
the Slox has announced they refuse to yield an inch to the 'five-eyed sticky
fingers—' as he calls the opposition party."

            "It
sounds like a major policy blunder on the part of the Groaci," Magnan
observed contentedly. "How refreshing that for once the CDT is not
involved."

            "We
could hardly be said to be uninvolved, Mr. Magnan," Thunderstroke pointed
out sternly, "if we undertake to mediate the dispute."

            "No,
I suppose not—but why be pessimistic? Who would be idiot enough to suggest
poking our nose into that bag of annelids?"

            "As
it happens," Thunderstroke said in a voice like an iceberg sliding into an
Arctic sea, "I did!"

            "You,
sir?" Magnan croacked. "Why, what a splendid notion—now that I've had
time to consider it in depth, I mean."

            A
fragile-looking acting section chief sprang to the undersecretary's support.

            "After
all, our function as diplomats is to maintain interplanetary tensions at a
level short of violence."

            "Would
you want to make that 'reduce tensions,' Chester?" the information agency
representative inquired, pencil poised. "Just in case you're quoted out of
context."

            "No
reporters," Thunderstroke decreed. "I shudder to think what critics
of the Corps might make of any little slip in our part in this affair."

            "I
suppose you'll be sending along a hundred-man Conciliation Team with a squadron
of Peace Enforcers to deal with the matter," Magnan said, a speculative
look on his narrow features.

            "Hardly,"
Thunderstroke said flatly. "This is a job for finesse, not brute diplomacy.
In a situation of this nature, a single shrewd, intrepid, coolly efficient
negotiator is the logical choice."

            "Of
course, sir, how shallow of me not to have seen it at once." Magnan pursed
his lips thoughtfully.

            "Naturally,
the task calls for a man of wide experience—"

            "With
a total contempt for deadly personal danger," someone put in.

            "Preferably
without a family," Magnan added, nodding.

            "Too
bad that lets me out," a deputy assistant undersecretary said briskly.
"As you know, I'm the sole support of twelve cats and a most demanding
parakeet—"

            "I
wasn't thinking of you, Henry," Thunderstroke said severely. "I had
in mind a senior diplomat, a man of lofty IQ, unshakable principle and
unquestioned dexterity in the verbal arena."

            "Good
lord, sir," Magnan blurted. "I appreciate your confidence, but my
duties here—"

            "Unfortunately,"
Thunderstroke bored on, "the files have failed to produce the name of any
such paragon. Hence I must make do with the material at hand."

            "Well!"
Magnan muttered under his breath, then paled as Thunderstroke fixed him with an
imperious eye.

            "I
assume your inoculations are in order?" the undersecretary inquired
coldly.

            "Mine,
sir?" Magnan said, pushing his chair back and rising hastily.
"Actually, my hayfever shot is due in half an hour—"

            "I
suggest you ask for a heavy dosage of anti-radiation drugs while you're
there," the assistant for ET affairs said cheerfully. "And of course
a tetanus shot wouldn't do any harm."

            "Kindly
be  seated, Magnan," Thunderstroke barked. "Now, you'll be going in
in a plainly marked courier vessel. I suggest you exercise caution as you
approach the battle flotillas. The Slox are said to be even more trigger-happy
than the notoriously impetuous Groaci."

            "I'm
to go into that hornet's nest, sir—in an unarmed boat?"

            "You'll
be armed with instructions, Magnan. Buck up, man. This is no time to show the
white feather."

            Magnan
sank into his chair. "As for myself, I'm delighted, of course," he
said breathlessly. "I was just thinking of all those innocent crew
members."

            "I'd
considered that aspect, Magnan. And of course you're right. It would be folly
to risk the lives of an entire crew."

            Magnan
brightened.

            "Therefore,
you'll be dropped a fractional A.U. from the scene of action in a fast one-man
scout."

            "A
one-man boat? But—" Magnan paused. "But unfortunately," he went
on in tones of relief, "I don't know how to pilot one."

            "Why
not?" Thunderstroke demanded.

            "Sector
regs discourage it," Magnan said crisply. "Only last month a chap in
my department received a severe dressing down for engaging in acrobatics over
Lake Prabchinc—"

            "Oh?
What's this fellow's name?"

            "Retief,
sir. But as I said, he's already received a reprimand, so it won't be
necessary—"

            "Retief."
Thunderstroke made a note. "Very well. Make that a two-man scout,
Magnan."

            "But—"

            "No
buts, Magnan. This is war—or it will be if you fail. And time is of the
essence. I'll expect you and this Retief fellow to be on the way to the battle
zone within the hour."

            "But
sir—two diplomats against two fleets?"

            "Hm.
Phrased in that fashion, it does sound a bit unfair. Still—they started it. Let
them take the consequences."

           
Strapped into the confining seat
of the thirty-foot skiff, waiting in the drop-bay of the Corps transport,
Magnan watched the launch clock nervously.

            "Actually,"
he said, "the undersecretary had his heart set on a one-man mission—but at
my insistence he agreed to send me along with you."

            "I
wondered who my benefactor was," Retief said. "Nice to know you were
thinking of me."

            "Retief—are
you implying—" Magnan broke off as the voice of the captain of the mother
ship rang from the panel speaker.

            "Fifteen
seconds, gentlemen. Say, I hope your policies are all paid up. From what my
translator tells me about the transmissions those boys are exchanging up ahead,
you're going to arrive just in time for M minute."

            "I
wish he'd trip the launch lever," Magnan snapped. "Iil be profoundly
happy to depart this hulk, if only to be away from that gloating voice."

            "I
heard that," the captain said. "What's the matter, no sense of
humor?"

            "I'm
convulsed," Magnan said.

            "Better
unconvulse," came the swift suggestion. "This is it. Happy
landings—"

            There
was a slam of relays, a thud, a jolt that dimmed the passengers' vision for a
long, dizzying moment. When it cleared, black space dotted with fiery points
glared from the screens. Astern, the transport dwindled and was gone.

            "I'm
picking them up already," Retief said, manipulating the controls of the
R-screen. "Our daredevil captain dropped us practically in their
midst."

            "Has
the shooting started?" Magnan gasped.

            "Not
yet'. But from the look of those battle formations it won't be long."

            "Maybe
we ought to transmit our plea for peace from here," Magnan said hurriedly.
"Something eloquent to appeal to their finer natures, with just a smidgin
of veiled threat on the side."

            "I
have a feeling it's going to take more than sparkling conversation to stop
these fellows," Retief said. "Anybody who owns a new battlewagon has
a natural yen to see if it works."

            "I've
been thinking," Magnan said abruptly. "You know how short the CDT is
of trained personnel—now that we've seen the hopelessness of the task, it's our
duty to salvage what we cart from the debacle. Besides, an eyewitness report
will be of inestimable value to the undersecretary when the board of inquiry
starts digging into the question of how he allowed a war to start right under
our noses."

            "I'm
with you so far, sir."

            "That
being the case," Magnan went on quickly, "if you should insist on
withdrawing from the scene at this point, I hardly see how I could prevent
you."

            "You're
in command, Mr. Magnan," Retief pointed out. "But I have a distinct
feeling that our reception back at Sector would be less then enthusiastic if we
don't have at least a few blast burns on the hull to show for our
trouble."

            "But,
Retief!" Magnan pointed at the screen on which the long, deadly-looking
shape of a Groaci cruiser was growing steadily. "Look at that monster,
bristling with guns from stem to stern. How can you reason with that kind of
firepower?"

            At
that moment a crackle of static blared from the screen. A pale, alien visage
with five stalked eyes stared out at the Terrans from under a flared war helmet.

            "To
identify yourselves at once, rash interlopers," a weak voice hissed in
sibilant Groaci; "To be gone instantly or suffer dire consequences—"

            "Why,
if it isn't Broodmaster Slith!" Magnan cried. "Retief, it's
Broodmaster Slith. You remember Broodmaster Slith of the Groacian Trade Mission
to Haunch Four?"