Retief-Ambassador to Space (22 page)

 "No,
it's just to keep the worst of the soot and mud out of the building during the
eruption."

 "What's
this about an eruption?"

 "It's
a sort of mud geyser. Shoots a few million tons of glop into the air every
twenty-seven hours."

 Rainsinger
blinked. "A million tons of glop?"

 A
third, even more vigorous tremor caused the ballroom to sway drunkenly.
Rainsinger braced his feet, thrust out his chin, glared at Magnan, who was
staring anxiously toward the door.

 "Glop
or no glop, this is an official diplomatic function, gentlemen! We'll carry on,
and ignore the disturbance!"

 "Frankly,
I don't like the sound of that mud, sir." Magnan turned to the window,
peered through a crack in the shutter.

 "No
doubt the consulate has weathered such conditions before," Rainsinger said
uncertainly. "No reason why ..."

 His
voice was drowned by an ominously rising bubbling sound swelling outside. At
the window, Magnan emitted a sharp yelp, leaped back as something struck the
side of the building with an impact like a tidal wave. Jets of ink-black mud
squirted into the room like fire hoses through every cranny around the
shutters. One stream caught Rainsinger full in the flowered weskit, almost
knocked him down.

 "One
bad a is this!" Blabghug called over the hissing and splattering.
"Look a have and roof the for head better we'd think I!"

 "He's
right, sir!" Magnan raised his voice. "This way!" He led the
excited party along a hall, up a stair splattered with steaming mud from a
shattered window on the landing. Emerging on the roof, Rainsinger ducked as a
head-sized cinder slammed down beside him, bounded high and disappeared over
the side. A rain of mud splattered down around them. The air was thick with
tarry soot. Coughing, Rainsinger hastily donned the breathing mask offered by
Magnan.

 "This
must be the worst disaster ever recorded here," he shouted over the
groaning and squishing of the mud welling along the street below them.

 "No,
actually, by the sound of it, it's a rather mild one, as eruptions go,"
Retief leaned close to shout. "But the mud seems to be running wild."

 "There
look!" Blabghug shouted, pointing. "Seven-sixty in back made mark
mud-high record the over it's!"

 "There's
something wrong," Retief called over the still-rising roar of the flowing
mud. "The tide's not acting normally. Too fluid—and too much of it."

 "Why
on Slunch, with an entire planet to choose from, was the town situated in a
disaster area?" Rainsinger frowned ferociously as sounds of massive
gurglings and sloshing sounded from below.

 "It
appears this was one of the rush jobs," Magnan called. "The entire
city was erected in four days which happened to be during a seasonal lull in
the underground coolery."

 "See
here, Magnan, why didn't you report the situation?"

 "I
did. As I recall, my dispatch ran to three hundred and four pages!"

 "A
three hundred page dispatch? And nothing was done?"

 "We
received a consignment of twelve brooms, six dust-pans and a gross of mops.
They must have been overstocked on mops back at Sector."

 "And
that's
all?"
Rainsinger's voice almost cracked.

 "I
think that's about as far as Headquarters could go without admitting a mistake
had been made." Across the street, the swelling, bubbling surface of the
mud flow was rising past the first row of windows. Shutters creaked and burst
inward. Refugees were crowding onto roofs all along the streets now. Retief
stepped to the edge of the roof, looked down at the heaving bosom of the sea of
mud, dotted with small, sodden forms, floating inertly. A great mass of dead
creeper vine came sweeping along on the flood. A tongue of mud sluicing in from
a side street struck a wall, sent a great gout thundering upward to descend on
the crowded consulate roof. Diplomats and locals alike yelped and slapped at
the hot, corrosive muck.

 "Look
there!" Magnan pointed to the feebly struggling body of a large vine-rat,
which gave a final twitch and expired.

 "Trouble
in we're, oh-oh!" Premier Blabghug exclaimed, as other Slunchans gathered
about, talking rapidly.

 "Why
all the excitement about a dead animal?" Rainsinger barked.

 "It's
a vine-rat," Magnan blurted. "What could have killed it?"

 "I
imagine the vigorous application of pest-killer I ordered had something to do
with it," the inspector snapped. "I suggest we defer grieving over
the beggar until after we've taken steps to extricate ourselves from this
situation!"

 "You
... you ordered
what?"
Magnan quavered.

 "Ten
tons of rodenticide, from your own consulate stores," Rainsinger said
firmly. "I don't wonder you're astonished at the speed with which I went
into action—"

 "You
... you didn't!"

 "Indeed
I did, sir! Now stop goggling at a purely routine display of efficiency, and
let's determine what we're to do about this mud."

 "But—"
Magnan wailed. "If you killed off the vine-rats—that means the
creeper-vine was allowed to grow all afternoon, uncontrolled—"

 "Uncontrolled?"

 "By
the rats," Magnan groaned. "So the vines got the upper hand over the
grab-grass—and it's the grass, of course, which suppresses the
tangleworms—"

 "Tangleworms?"

 "And
the young worms eat the egg-nit grubs," Magnan yelped. "The egg-nits
being the only thing that keeps the firebugs under control—though of course the
vine-rats need them for protein in the diet; while their droppings nourish the
sneak weed which provides a haven for the nit-mites which prey on the
mud-crabs—"

 "Here,
what's all this nonsense!" Rainsinger roared over the roar of the rising
mud-flood. "You'd chatter on about the local wildlife, with disaster
lapping at our ankles?"

 "That's
what I've been trying tell you!" Magnan's voice broke. "With the
ecological cycle broken, there's nothing to control the mud! That's why it's
rising! And in another hour it will be up over roof level and that—" he
shuddered—"will be a very sticky ending for all of us!"

 "Why,
I don't believe it," Rainsinger said hoarsely, as he stared over the roofs
edge at the steadily rising mud, its surface hazed with sulphurous fumes.
"You mean to tell me that these worms were all that kept the mud in
check?"

 "That's
an oversimplification—but yes." Magnan dabbed at the mud on his chin.
"I'm afraid you've upset the balance of nature."

 "All
right, men!" Rainsinger turned to face his staff, huddled in the most
protected comer of the roof. "It seems we've painted ourselves into a bit
of a corner, ha-ha." He paused to square his shoulders and clear his
throat. "However, there's no point in crying over spilled mud. Now, who
has a suggestion for a dynamic course of action from this point onward? Horace,
Poindexter?"

 "I
suggest we write out our wills and place them in mud and heatproof
jackets," a lean accountant type proposed in a reedy voice.

 "Now,
men! No defeatism! Surely there's some simple way to elude our apparent fate!
Mr. Premier." He faced the Slunchan contingent, muttering together at a
short distance from the Terrans. "What do your people have in mind?"

 "Opinion
of difference a there's," Blabghug said. "Mud the into you pitching
for out holding are extremists the but. Limb from limb you tear to want fellow
the of few a."

 "It's
hopeless!" a trembling Terran blurted, staring down at the heaving surface
of the tarry mud. "We'll all be drowned, scalded and eaten alive by
acid!"

 "Magnan!"
Rainsinger whirled on the former chief of mission. "You chaps must have
had some sort of plan of action for such an eventuality!"

 "Nothing."
Magnan shook his head.
"We
never interfered with Nature's
Plan." His eyes strayed across the steaming bog now washing about the
fourth story windows of the model town. On high ground half a mile distant, the
slim form of the vacated Corps Vessel stood. Beyond it rose the rugged peaks
from which the mud-flow issued.

 "Retief
did
have some sort of mad notion of diverting the gusher at its
source," he said, "but of course that's hopeless—especially now. I
daresay it's all under mud."

 "Retief!"
Rainsinger hurried across to where the young man was prying a board from a
ventilator housing. "What's this about a scheme to dam off the mud?"

 Retief
pointed to a rickety construction of boards, afloat in the mud below.
"It's the body off the car. It won't make the best boat in the world, I'm
afraid, but as soon as it gets within reach I'll give it a try."

 "You'll
sink," Magnan predicted, standing at the fifth floor window through which
Retief had climbed to secure the makeshift skiff. "You can't possibly row
that contrivance with a board "across half a mile of mud!"

 "Maybe
not," Retief said. He dropped down into the boat. "But if it sinks, I
won't have to row it."

 "Maybe
the mud won't come this high," someone offered. "Maybe if we just
wait here—"

 "If
we don't go now, it will be too late," Rainsinger cut off the discussion.

 "We?"
Magnan said.

 "Certainly."
Rainsinger threw a leg over the sill, lowered himself down beside Retief.
"It will take two men to row this thing. Cast off, Mr. Retief, whenever
you're ready."

 For
ten minutes the two men paddled in silence. Looking back, Retief saw the
consulate tower rising from the bubbling mud, almost obscured by the wafting
vapors. In a bundle at his feet were the two thermal suits and a number of
small packets previously prepared but unused.

 "Better
get your suit on, Mr. Rainsinger," he said.

 "I
give them another half hour," Rainsinger called, his voice muffled by his
breathing mask. "How much farther?"

 "Ten
minutes," Retief said, "until we ground on the hill. Then five
minutes walk." He paddled as Rainsinger pulled on the bulky thermal suit.

 Beside
him, a loose board creaked; mud slopped over the low gunwale. A sudden bulging
of the mud almost swamped the boat; a bursting gas bubble threw a stinging
spray across both men.

 "When
we get there—what?"

 "We
hope it's not already flooded out."

 Five
minutes later, just as Retief had pulled on his heat-suit, the overloaded boat
emitted a sudden massive creaking and disintegrated.

 "Jump!"
Retief called; he grabbed the bundles and went over the side, landing in
knee-deep muck, turned to lend a hand to Rainsinger, who floundered after him.
They fought their way up-slope, emerged on a rocky shore at which the surging
mud lapped like a sea of chocolate pudding.

 "It's
pretty deep," Retief said. "Let's hope it's not into the main bore
yet."

 Rainsinger
followed Retief up the steep slope. Ahead, a ruddy glare lightened the murky
scene. They reached the edge of the great circular vent from which smoke and
cinders boiled furiously, whirling glowing embers high in the air. Rainsinger
stared down into the white-hot pit.

 "Ye
gods, man," he shouted over the din. "That's an active volcano! What
in the world do you plan to do here?"

 "Climb
down inside and pull the plug," Retief said.

 "I
forbid it!" Rainsinger yelled. "It's suicide!"

 "If
I don't, the consulate will go under with all hands—to say nothing of a few
thousand Slunchans."

 "That's
no reason to throw your life away! Weil head for higher ground and try to work
our way around to the ship. We might be able to summon help—"

 "Not
a chance," Retief said. He started forward. Rainsinger stepped in his way,
a bulky figure in the mud-coated heat-suit. They faced each other, two big men,
toe to toe.

 "That's
an order!" Rainsinger grated.

 "Better
stand aside, Mr. Rainsinger," Retief said.

 "I've
warned you," Rainsinger said, and drove a short, sledge-hammer right to
Retief's mid-section. Retief grunted and took a step back.

 "You
throw a good right, Mr. Rainsinger," he said through his teeth. "How
are you at catching?"—and he slammed a straight left that spun the other
around, sent him to his knees. Retief started past him, and Rainsinger dived,
tackled him from the side. Retief twisted, drove a knee to Rainsinger's chin.
He went down on his face.

 "Sorry,"
Retief said. He went forward, picked his spot and lowered his feet over the
edge. Behind him, Rainsinger called out. Retief looked back. The trade mission
chief struggled to his feet, stood swaying back and forth.

 "You'll
probably need a little help down there," he said blurrily as he started
forward. "Wait for me ...