Retief and the Rascals (18 page)
"Mister
Ambluster!" Magnan
blurted. "You
aren't
actually offering me a percentage of the
villainy in return for my silence!"
"Sorry, Ben, I spoke without dunking,"
His Excellency alibied. "Pooh! Five points is for leg-men, mere
accessories. A career diplomat of your reputation deserves at least ten! I'm
sure General Promo will go along; he has problems of his own. I know that
conniving, favor-currying Switchback;
hell
demand at
least
ten!
So what do you say, Ben? Is it to be cooperation all around, and everybody
happy, or selfish conscience-indulgence for one and bitter deprival for the
rest?"
"Why, sir, I wouldn't think of depriving
anyone," Magnan hazarded. "But—"
"But me no 'buts', Ben," Swinepearl
boomed, rising to extend a set of well-groomed fingernails. "Deal! he
stated. "I knew we could count on you! But what about that assistant of
yours, Jim Retief? Can you bring him into the fold? Of course you can," he
answered his own question contentedly, and resumed his chair. Magnan backed
from the Presence and made his way back to his office, muttering to himself.
"Oh, dear," he wailed. "What's a
career bureaucrat to do with his bureau collapsing around him?" He moaned
as Retief came in.
"Oh, Jim," he spoke up brightly.
"I fear I've bad news: I was just on to General Promo, of Sector, and he
seems to have gotten wind of the presence here on Bloor of a mislaid battle
group. Has some wild idea about adding it to his Strike Command forces and
taking some sort of preemptive action or other. I'm quite confused by it all.
He's already set wheels in motion, I fear! He could precipitate a general
collapse of the Truce! All because he misinterpreted some idle remark of mine!
Jim—what can we do?"
"The first thing is to reorient the
Indestructibles, I think," Retief suggested. "They have a tendency to
act on their own, you know. Right now, I imagine they're about ready to mutiny
and train their guns on the capital and start issuing demands."
"But I distinctly told General Hish,"
Magnan protested, "to disable the battle-board on each and every vessel,
so as to preclude just such an eventuality!"
"I know," Retief acknowledged,
"but judging from the salvo they just fired at the Port Authority
block-house, I suspect the general failed to follow orders. I was just coming
to get authorization to get Field-Marshal Sergeant Muldoon on the job."
"Of course! He'll soon deal with Hish! The
scamp! And after I
trusted
him, too!" Magnan mourned. "You get
Randy and his Marines in position, plus those local levies under Wim Dit and
that other fellow—Colonel Ack Jass, I think it was—commanding the household
troops. As you said, we have to reorient the Indestructibles before it becomes
generally known—"
"If you don't mind, Ben," Retief
suggested, "I'll handle that part."
"Jim!" Magnan gasped. "If only
you
could
make some sort of deal with them! But don't promise full
immunity! After the prisoners are pacified, Randy's Marines would take over and
all would be well!"
"Maybe the Marines have done better than
you think," Retief suggested. "Randy wouldn't take kindly to Sarge
Thrash interfering with his command."
"Poor Randy," Magnan mourned.
"Very well, Jim. See what can be done. If we should unseal the ships and
allow those caged killers to swarm forth, unchecked—" He left the rest to
the imagination of the readers of the yellow press, even as he called Hy Felix.
"Information Agency," the veteran
pressman's voice came back wearily. "That you, Ben? What's up? Another big
awards dinner coming up, so we can publicly praise another local hoodlum to the
skies—and not even get any points for it? These locals think we're nutty,
handing out ribbons and orders like free lottery tickets. What lousy little
jerk's hind-end do we need to kiss now, in full view of the cameras?"
"It's not that at all, Hy!" Magnan
protested. "You know I disapprove all this favor-currying with petty
dictators and mob-leaders! This is far more important! This can earn you that
bump in grade and that cozy desk back at Sector, Hy!
If
it's handled
discreetly, of course."
"Oh, some sneaky business of dubious
legality, eh?" Hy gloated. "Shoot."
"There can be no doubt regarding the legal
status of what I have discovered!" Magnan stated flatly. "It is
il
legal
in the highest degree! I m only filling you in on the current status, just to
ensure there's no confusion or misinterpretation of this affair."
"Par me while I fan myself, Ben," the
cynical former poultry editor for the
Caney
(Kansas)
Gazette
said
jeeringly. "Illegal, eh? What else is new?"
"War," Magnan intoned solemnly.
"Rapine. Insurrection. Mutiny. Piracy. Bloodshed on a vast scale. Do you
want to go for stretching of Regulations
beyond
the breaking
point?"
"Slow down," Hy mumbled. "I love
it, but I've got my tapes snarled here. Sounded like you said 'breaking Regs'!"
"Precisely!" Magnan confirmed.
"The Manual, and Basic Regs as well, are founded on the principle of
noninterference in local politics, of course. But in this case, if we don't
interfere, chaos will ensue! We
have
to appear to interfere! But subtly,
mind you! Nothing obvious; a matter of interpretation, you see. When is
dacoitry 'intervention' by a peace-keeping force?"
"An all-out raid?" Hy almost choked on
the words. "Ben, you call that subtle?"
"It's not what I call it that's
important!" Magnan corrected the impulsive newshawk. "Be calm, Hy! It
appears the impounded battle group we have at the port is lobbing shells into
the Customs and Excise shed. I shall be forced to take vigorous action. At the
same time, Ambassador Swinepearl is under the impression I'm about to use the
same fleet to launch a preemptive strike against certain potentially hostile
elements in the Arm. Magnan paused for breath.
"Wow!" Hy said, his usual monotone
almost modulated to express a trace of excitement.
"Don't go ape on me, Hy!" Magnan
shouted. "I'm counting on your cool cynicism to help defuse the
situation!"
"Easy, Ben," Felix responded flatly.
"I guess I can handle it. Who's His Ex planning to raid? Figures to hand
Sector a
fait accompli,
eh, and hold 'em up for looting rights, or
'collection of war reparations', I usually call it, under Section XXI? No
censorship, you understand, Ben, just a matter of optional diction. See? Nobody
muzzles Hy Felix when he's Revealing All to the Trusting Galactic Public!"
"Sure not, Hy," Magnan agreed
soothingly. "Just please, as a personal favor to me, don't breathe a word
to the TAP about a quick takeover of Goblinrock and maybe a quiet little police
action with reference to some outlying Glavian miners—and—"
"Oh, Sector is finally getting around to
confiscating those fat core-fragments, eh? Good move: it'll fund the planetary
debt. Glad those stuffed shirts back at the Department are doing something
constructive!"
As Hy finished, Magnan burst out: "Hy, No!
You mustn't spread any unfounded rumors! It could scuttle the whole operation.
Listen here, Hy, I called just as a professional gesture to let you in on which
way the wind is blowing! I assumed I could count on your discretion!"
" 'Rumors'?" Hy echoed sarcastically.
"Nope, Ben, I got this right from the Political Officer hisseff! How's
about some details: When does the strike launch? What will you do with those
two thousand or so captured Indestructibles you've got locked up aboard ship?
I'm assuming it's their ships you plan to use to hit Glave and Goblinrock and
all ..."
"Assume nothing, Hy!" Magnan directed
the irresponsible fellow. A strike in force is precisely the disaster I am
struggling to defuse!"
"Nuts and fruits," Hy scoffed.
"You're going to order the Indestructibles to stand down when they smell
blood? That Sarge Trash or whatever won't stand still for that, and neither
will his boys!"
"You may leave Supersergeant Thrash to me
to deal with," Magnan sniffed.
"You, Ben, up against Sarge Thrash?"
Hy laughed "I get it, Ben: nothing going on, so you're pulling my leg,
right?"
"Hardly,"
Magnan contradicted. "I only wish ..."
"It's OK, Ben, I get a little bored myself,
filing all these honors lists full of nothing but known thieves and swindlers.
I'll go along. Thanks for lightening up my day, Ben: I'll see to it you get
full press coverage, weasel-worded, of course, so if anything goes wrong, it'll
come back on Sam Swinepearl, not you. Hej Så länge!"
"Oh, dear," Marian sighed. "I
fear I've muddled the waters further," he told himself aloud. "I
merely wanted Hy to align Enlightened Galactic Opinion in a way that would
forestall cries of 'Battleship Diplomacy!' Instead, the scamp intends to
announce—and thereby launch—all-out war on a grand scale!"
"Take it easy, Ben," Retief soothed
his distraught supervisor. "I'll go have that chat with Thrash and get the
reorientation under way."
"Splendid notion, Retief," Magnan
commended.
At the port, Retief drove across the dusty
tarmac, deserted now, like the empty streets of the city. Wim Dit's impromptu
army of mutually hostile malcontents glowered from behind the hastily erected
barbed-wire enclosure of the newly designated detention area. Retief parked
beside Herb's Stutz, slightly battered by its wild drive, but still ready for
service. He sat for a few minutes studying the roughly aligned row of
battle-scarred warhulls standing like desert rock-spires across the ancient,
blast-burned concrete. All seemed quiet, with the exception of a lone space'n
rappelling down from the fore service-hatch of
Malodorous,
the flagship
of the battle group. Retief reported to Major Raunch, the cop chief, that he
was about to talk to a smaller but highly potent vessel, a destroyer still in
Borundian colors,
Expedient,
and went over to the thousand-tonner,
skirting the still hot stern tubes, checked for a cool spot in the residual
radiation aura, and approached the service ladder. He attached his induction-talker
to a metal rung and spoke:
"Use your X channel; put your captain on.
This is Retief of the Terran Embassy. Would you boys like some fresh air?"
After a noisy interval when at least ten coarse
voices yelled at once, mostly curses, some of which Retief hadn't heard before,
the racket subsided and a deep growl cut through intelligibly:
"Super Sarnt Thrash
talking,
Mister
Retief."
"Was that name 'Trash'?" Retief
inquired as if guilelessly. " 'Sarnt Trash,' eh? Are you empowered to
guarantee there'll be no disorderly conduct if I allow you and your crew to
emerge in groups of ten, for exercise, pending resolution of the problems that
stand in the way of your regular incarceration in a permanent facility?"
"I lost you, Nance, after
'empowered'," Thrash came back indifferently. "You gonna undog the
hatches or what?"
"First, Mr. Thrash," Retief replied in
as prissy a voice as he could manage, "I want your personal assurances
you'll behave yourselves. I can't abide boisterousness."
" 'Boysters will be boysters'," Thrash
replied. "You know my name now, huh? That 'Trash' business was a mistake,
Nance. You fancy-britches fellers don't know much, do you?" he inquired
lispingly.
"Oh, I imagine I'm conversant with a few
facts," Retief/Nance responded. "For example: what is the
'Mororovicik Discontinuity'?"
"That's where Steve—we call him
'Chick'—ducked a little slow and got this gap where his front tooth useta
be," the Sergeant/Captain replied smartly.
"Excellent, Sarnt," Retief
congratulated his pupil. "Now, what's the 'Schwarzschild
Singularity'?"
"Everybody knows old Swartzy only got
one—you know—insteada two," Sarge told him bluntly. "Borned that way.
Never got kicked in the crouch nor nothing." Thrash's voice cut off and a
moment later his head, undipped, -washed, and -combed, popped out from a
clean-cut scuttle near the keel stern-tube. He tossed down a cable, then got
his shoulders through the tight opening, and swarmed down the line. On the
ground he spat on his rope-burned palms, rubbed them on his pants leg, and
swaggered over to Retief.
"You're doing splendidly!" Nance
crowed. "Let's move right on to the more difficult portion of the quiz; to
wit: is clam-digging to be considered as fishing, or, alternatively, as
agriculture?"