Retief and the Rascals
and the Rascals
Retief 16
(1993)*
Keith Laumer
Contents
A noisy, jostling crowd of slightly mutated
Terran-descended inhabitants of the planet Bloor filled the broad avenue, lined
with the formerly imposing facades of Embassy Row. First Secretary Magnan, Econ
Officer of the Terran Mission, accompanied by Jame Retief, two grades his
junior, but six inches taller, were returning from a trip to the port to meet a
newly-assigned colleague.
The purplish sun of the frontier world was
casting ocher shadows across the noisy mob filling the Easiest Way, the primary
avenue of the capital. The lone Terran-built ground-car with the armorial
bearings of the CDT crept through the dense throng and pulled to the curb. In
the front seat beside Ralph, the gloomy driver, Herb Lunchwell, the
newly-arrived Econ Officer to the Terran Mission, dabbed at his forehead with a
large floral-patterned hanky.
"My goodness, Ben," he addressed the
senior officer present. "What's the cause of the riot? Won't they attack
us as soon as we step out of the car?"
"What riot was that, Herb?" Magnan
inquired interestedly. "If you're referring to the admittedly rather
high-spirited locals, actually this is rather a quiet afternoon. They're
uninhibited, you see, and perceiving their lots in life to be less desirable
than could be desired, they freely express their natural resentments, but it's
all quite harmless. They've no weapons, thanks to enlightened Terran policy,
and they'll soon disperse, all friends again, and retire to the nearby bistros
to get roaring drunk. You'll get used to their noisy ways, Herb, we all do.
Isn't mat right, Retief?" Magnan turned to his junior for confirmation.
Retief nodded.
"They're a little extra-excited today
because this is Distribution Day, Mr. Lunchwell," Magnan added.
"Oh, you're referring to the formal
alotments of rations and so on under the Goodies For Undesirables Program,
eh?" Herb responded. "By the way, Ben, congrats on your appointment
as Counselor of Embassy for GFU Affairs; a plum, indeed—but you'll have to be
careful," he went on. "Every recipient will want to be sure he's
getting his fair share."
"And clearly," Magnan amplified,
nodding, "each one is already convinced he's being cheated. Odd," he
mused on. "We owe them nothing, yet we distribute free gifts, and they
complain it's not enough."
Ralph twisted to look back at his VIP
passengers. "Say, Ben," he offered, "OK if I just ease into the
alley up ahead?" He winced as a large, well-rotted stench-cabbage impacted
on the windshield directly before him. See, these guys here are mostly of the
Objectionable Clan; in town fer the annual rumble with the Reprehensibles; they
don't—I mean, I ain't— well, you see, Ben, there's some guy from the
Reprehensibles expecting—I mean, a guy could get hurt if he din't do
what—"
"Ralphie!" Magnan chided, "you
haven't
been trafficking with the lawless element again! Not after last time!"
"Well, Ben, you see ..." Ralph nudged
the car another ten feet through the tight rank of yelling Bloorian males and
netted ugly looks, shaken fists, and a shower of small missiles. He was
scrooched down in the seat in instinctive response to the barrage of stones,
bottles, and dead animals raining down on the car, but he persevered, easing
the heavy vehicle through the loafers, too lazy to riot, who crowded the
sidewalk, past the plain gray stucco facade of the Groacian Embassy and the
narrow front of the bonded warehouse, inching toward the brightly-lit portico
of the Embassy of Terra. Then he braked to a halt as he encountered a solid
rank of locals standing with linked arms, facing the Embassy car.
"End o' the line, gents," Ralph
declared. "Them boys ain't moving."
"Where are the women and children?" Herb
wanted to know as he peered anxiously out at the all-male mob.
"Oh," Magnan explained, "they
have their own riots—no, a slip of the tongue, joyous expressions of high
spirits, as His Excellency insists we call them— on alternate days. Tomorrow is
Ladies' Day."
Retief opened the door against pressure and
stepped out, nudging a few locals aside to make room for Magnan and Herb, who
emerged cautiously, muttering precautionary apologies to the displaced locals.
As they were passing the warehouse side-entrance
between the two Chanceries, Magnan plucked at Retief's sleeve. "Really,
Jim," he confided in an anxious tone, "I think we should have had
Ralph force his way through and drop us on the doorstep. I fear the looks these
xenophobic fellows are casting our way aren't all that friendly, in spite of
our generosity toward their backward world. He shuffled forward, pushed by the
mob.
"What's that 'backward'?" demanded a
typically large, hawk-faced, horny-handed local dressed in the shabby bib
overalls favored by the Bloorians. The big fellow stepped out from the
warehouse doorway to deliberately block the walk, rolling his impressive
shoulders in a truculent way. His grin was less than reassuring. As Magnan was
forced against the unmoving bulk, the local doubled a right fist like a
ham-shaped paving stone and drew it back, shifting his weight in preparation
for putting all two hundred eighty pounds behind a low right jab.
"You tryna start sumpin wit Slum Dob, a
chief of one hunhert?" he demanded.
"Do
excuse me, sir," Magnan
twittered. "I regret my clumsiness, but could you just scroonch over a
teentsy bit, say to your left, and allow us to pass? You see we're late for the
ceremonies at our Embassy."
"Hey, all youse Objectionables," the
lout called over Magnan's head. "Youse hear that? This here nance is tryna
order me outa duh way! Are we gonna take dat?" He set himself and drove
the cocked fist toward Magnan's semiformal early mid-evening dickey, but the
blow impacted the palm of Retief's hand instead of Magnan's short ribs.
"Get behind me, Mr. Magnan," Retief
suggested. Slum Dob looked puzzled, then yelped as Retief's fingers closed
around his hamlike fist and began to squeeze; he uttered a louder yell and his
left arm came around in a roundhouse swipe aimed at Retief's head. Magnan
uttered a bleat and seized the arm with both hands as it jerked him from his
feet. He hung on and was slammed against the wall of the shabby warehouse
sandwiched between the elegant Embassies of Groac and Terra.
"Fellers," the Bloorian again appealed
to the crowd, "I'm Slum Dob, working outa local Three-oh-one o' duh United
Miscreants, an' I'm pretty big in duh Reprehensible Tribe and clan
Objectionable, as well. An' dis mug, or I meana say dese
two
mugs, is
tryna strip me o my civil rights an all! All you Reps and Regs and Micks and
Obbies oughta rally to my pertekshin onna double!" As Slum Dob concluded
his appeal, he lunged suddenly in an attempt to free his hand, but Retief
braced his feet and yanked him back to a face-to-face stance.
"Come on, pal" Slum appealed, twisting
his gargoyle-like features into what Retief decided was an attempt at an
ingratiating smirk. "Lemme go before duh boys catch wise and get duh idea
I'm losing my stuff, OK?" He tried a snap-kick to the shin, but instead
his own shin impacted the edge of Retief's boot. He howled and recoiled,
slamming Magnan against the wall.
"Jim," Magnan bleated. "Force
this ruffian to release me at once!"
"Just let go, Ben," Retief suggested.
"It's you that's holding on to him. Thanks for the assist."
Magnan released his frantic clutch and fell
underfoot. Slum tried a left to Retief's jaw and found that fist imprisoned
like the other. As his knuckles were ground together, he screwed up his face
and snarled.
"Yuh better lemme be, Terry, if yuh know
what's good fer yuh!"
"Tell me, Dob, what's good for me?"
Retief inquired interestedly.
"Yuh know," Dob pled, "a smart
guy wudda went wid duh flow, like us: stuff happens, so why get caught in duh
wheels?"
"You mean if I were smart I'd be like
you?" Retief prompted.
"Now yer getting duh sketch, Pal," Dob
approved. "Say, yuh wanna kinda leggo my fistes?"
"I heard you appeal tome Objectionables to
lend assistance," Retief commented. "I've heard of the
Objectionables, but who are they and how did they get their name?" Retief
gave Slum's hands a final twist and let them go.
"Well," Slum started, in a relieved
tone, "inna olden time our poor ignernt ancestors and all useta work alla
time: dey liked it, see? Hundin' and diggin' and hoein' spuds and puttin' in
crops and all dat. But fin'ly
my
high-class tribe, dey useta call us
'duh Busies,' we were duh foist group to figger if we could let duh udder mug
do dun hard labor and den strong-arm duh like produck of his labors, dat'd be a
lot easier dan doing our own woik. See? So dat's why dey dubbed us duh
Objectionables, get it? Dey objected, see, when we harvested dere crops fer em,
duh Spoilsports, which we're hereditary enemies now. Smart! Right? But did duh
udder clans appreciate dem kine o' smarts? Naw!" Slum made a throwing-away
gesture with his newly released hand. Dey was envious an all at foist. Den dey
trieda pull duh same stuff on us! Duh lousy bums! Now get dis part, Terry:
while our ancestors was sleeping off a hard day hunding rock-goats in duh
foothills—it was a habit, see? Anyway dese sneaky Unspeakables—dat's what duh
tribal council called 'em, an duh moniker stuck—snuck in an' taken all duh goat
meat after
we
done alla woik! Can you top dat for unspeakable? Dey were
the nex' bunch to try duh scam, and pretty soon nobody was hunding no
rock-goats no more, when dey could get duh eats free, and pretty soon alla
tribes tipped wise to duh technique, and dat's duh basis o' duh Bloorian
economy to dis day."
"No wonder they all call each other
'Scoundrels' and 'Hatefuls' and 'Unimaginables' and so on," Magnan mused.
"I see," Retief encouraged. "You
boys were contentedly taking in each other's washing until we Terries came
along and started handing out the equivalent of goat meat, and spoiled all the
fun."
"Dat's it, chum," Slum confided.
"Say, you got a good head on youse, fer a foreigner, I mean, and dat left
hook ain't too bad, neither. Roont duh whole basis o' our culture, is what
youse boys done! It ain't hardly to be borne!" Slum knuckled an eye in
demonstration of his emotional distress. "O' course," he added,
"we still got duh poor dumb peasants-like, duh B-9's, dat keep duh
chickens and made duh bread and all—fer fun, see? Dey
like
woik! Some
kinda throwbacks, I guess; it's lucky at dat: hamboigers don't grow onna trees,
you know."