Retief-Ambassador to Space (20 page)

 Tussore,
catching sight of Retief, broke ranks and cantered over to the group, puffing
smoke from the cigar clamped in his mouth.

 "Well,
we're off," he called heartily. "And glad to be going! The old place
isn't the same any more. I can't even step on the grass without some
whisk-broom handler jumping out and giving me a hard time. And that dying sun!
Paugh! It gives me the Deep Willies!" He puffed out a great cloud of
smoke, raised an eyebrow at Retief.

 "Say,
why don't you change your mind and join us, Retief?" he demanded.
"We'll have a lot more fun out there chasing across the universe than you
will staying back here with these stick-in-the-muds."

 "It's
a temptation," Retief said. "Maybe some day I'll take you up on it. I
have an idea your trail will be easy to follow."

-

 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.

 "My
shoes!" he yelped. "Magnan, you idiot, get me out of this mud at
once!"

 Coughing,
the newcomers sloshed across to the vehicle, mounted the rude ladder, stared
with dismay at the mud-coated benches.

 "Hold
tight," Magnan called with an attempt at gaiety. "Weil have to hurry
to get you in out of the weather. Don't be alarmed. We should get through with
no more than a few mud burns, and maybe the old firebug bite."

 At
the wheel, he gunned the car in a wide circle, inadvertently sending a sheet of
mud sluicing over the polished stern of the vessel and the crisp whites of the
crewmen peering from the lock. There were shrill cries as the passengers went
reeling to form an untidy heap at the rear of the car. Of the visitors, only
Inspector Rainsinger remained on his feet, gripping the upright that supported
the sheet-metal awning.

 "You'll
soon catch on," Magnan called over his shoulder. "Gracious, you
already look like old veterans, and you've only been here ten minutes!"

 
Magnan
steered the car across the soft, black half-inch mud of the plaza, pulled up
before an entry where a paunchy, splay-footed little humanoid with a flattened
skull and a loose, liver-colored hide leaned on a combination broom-rake,
humming to himself.

 "Drive
on, Mr. Magnan," Rainsinger barked." We can tour the slum areas
later, after my staff and I have had an opportunity to freshen up a bit."

 "But—but
this is the consulate," Magnan explained with a glassy smile.

 Rainsinger
stared with a darkening expression at the scorched, chipped and discolored
facade, banked with drifted muck from which tufts of greenery sprouted.

 
"This
is the new building, completed only ninety standard days ago at a cost of
one hundred thousand credits of Corps funds?"

 "Ah,
that's right, sir." Magnan climbed down from his seat.

 Rainsinger
looked down at the sea of oleaginous black mud in which the car rested
hub-deep. "I'm supposed to walk through that?" he demanded.

 "Retief
could carry you," Magnan proposed brightly.

 Rainsinger
shot him a sharp look. "If there's any carrying to be done, I'll do
it." He stepped down, followed by his staff, squelched through the
ankle-deep mud that coated the ornamental tile steps. As they passed, Magnan
beckoned to the native sweeper.

 "See
here, Freddy, let's see a little more spit and polish," he whispered.
"Don't just knock those mud-puppy nests down; sweep the extra mud into
neat little piles or something. We don't want our visitors to imagine we've
grown slovenly, you know. And you'd better dig out the entrance to the snack
bar and squirt a little more deodorant around; the stench-fungus is getting the
upper hand again."