Retief and the Rascals (22 page)

            "Yeah, and to remember the scandal when the
bladder showed up in the Thieves' Market on Drood, six months later! Foof
countered. "Seems like Hooth hocked it to feed his jazreel habit. Hadda
bust him back to tube-scraper-third, remember? Got to be a malcontent after
that."

            "Bah!" Hish dismissed the matter.
"To clap the scamp in irons at once!"

            "They won't let me outa the john,"
Foof mourned. "And I keep my irons lock up inna armory. Can't get in, even
if I get out!"

            "Um, pity and all that," Hish
commented perfunctorily. "Can't you buy off one of your sub-chiefs? Get
him to lay Hooth out with a spanner, perhaps?"

            "Tried that," Foof carped.
"Sumbich took my money and then played me false; tipped old Hooth, and got
him pissed, so he ordered the compost bin dumped into my can here. Phew! Them
decaying snarf-bugs is potent! Hold on sec! I got a idea!"

            "Foof," Hish yelled in vain. He gave
Magnan a five-eyed glare, his eye-stalks rigid in indignation. "The
incompetent fool!" he hissed "I suspect this talk of mutiny is but a
ruse to cover his betrayal of the Cause!"

            "What cause is that, General Hish?"
Magnan inquired as if naively.

            "The cause of Galactic Justice, of
course!" Hish dismissed the frivolous query. "As embodied in the
doctrine of Unquestioned Groacian Supremacy!" Hish did a complex double-m,
involving all five eyes plus both bope-nodes, which Magnan was unable to
interpret.

            Excuse me, General," he stammered. "I
fear I've not mastered the subtleties of Groacspeak above the single-m
series."

            "Naturally not, Ben!" Hish snapped.
"Few even of our own most seasoned diplomats can handle the double-m! Not
one in ten, I trow, would have correctly interpreted that as a 2091-a
(Astonishment at the Presumption of Inferiors)! Don't trouble yourself: I shall
endeavor to limit my eloquence to the simplistic, hereafter."

            "That's thoughtful of you, General,"
Magnan purred. "But how is it that you, a career military type, are
conversant with Total Security Groacspeak, access to which is, as you suggest,
denied to all but the top echelon of Groacian bureaucrats?"

            "It's amazing what a few truckfuls of guck
will do to smooth away obstacles to one's meteoric rise in the service,"
Hish pointed out blandly.

            "When I ran through a virtuoso series of
ritual grimaces in front of the Board of Examiners, the poor boobs didn't know
whether to faint or go blind, 'Here', they said, 'to be some mistake: this
fellow is clearly privy to great affairs; doubtless he's the protégé of the
Prince himself! We'd do well to bump him three grades over the heads of lesser
colonels who don't have his connections!' Ergo, my first star, at the tender
age of third carapace! That's about ninety years in your terminology,
Ben."

            "Yes, I know," Magnan gobbled.
"Amazing! I congratulate you, sir!"

            "To forget it, Ben," Hish dismissed
the tribute. "Ancient history. It's close to the time, actually, when I
should be preparing a coup of similar proportions for performance before the
Assembly, to get that third star. First, of course, I need to sweeten the pot a
trifle with something like, for example, a Patent of Annexation of the
habitable world Bloor."

            "Hish! You wouldn't!" Magnan gasped,
miming Horror at a Jape in Very Bad Taste (195—j). "Not after you were
invited here to participate in the Liberation festivities! That would be
unthinkable!"

            "Think about it anyway, Ben," Hish
suggested callously. "Unless, of course, you could see your way clear to
come to a reasonable accommodation in this matter—one which frankly
acknowledges Groac's legitimate vested interest in the development of Bloor
along lines conducive to the—"

            "Yes, I know!" Magnan burst out
impatiently: " '— to the orderly unfoldment of manifest Groacian destiny'!
Nonsense! Terra has clear priority here, as you well know! Now, what do you
propose to do to get your figurative chestnuts out of the allegorical fire,
eh?"

            "As to that," Hish snarled as if he
were stating the obvious, "it is to you, Ben Magnan, that I look for
constructive disengagement at this point in the collapse of civilization!"

            "Well, now just let me see ..." Magnan
mused. "I have in mind that Rex Promo needs a trifle of discipline, and as
for Admiral Foof—well, perhaps we have the basis of a trade-off after
all."

            "I kind of lost my place, Mister,"
Sergeant/Captain Thrash interjected. "But if you're thinking about selling
out, I ..."

            "More of a rent-out, actually," Magnan
corrected coolly. "You see, Jim"—Magnan turned to Retief— "after
the honeymoon is over (it will take the foolish Groaci a couple of years to
discover they've been had) they'll commit some trifling technical breach of the
small print, and well kick 'em out and have the entire haul for the Forces of
Good!"

            "Ha!" Hish butted in triumphantly.
"I heard that, Ben! I'm surprised at you, after all your mealy-mouthed
utterances over the years, your repeated declarations of impractical principles;
now you openly propose tricky dealing and overt malfeasance! Congratulations,
Ben!" His tone changed from caustic to saccharine. "I thought you'd
never wise up, and that Groaci wiliness would forever lay your plans at naught!
Now I need to revise my thinking a trifle to take into consideration this
unexpected new factor!" Hish subsided, muttering.

            "Pity and all that," Magnan
commiserated perfunctorily. "But don't imagine that my devotion to exalted
principle extends so far as to permit your sneak force to have its way here on
Bloor!"

            "Does it not, Ben?" Hish agreed
"In point of fact, even now ..." His voice trailed off as he gave his
attention to the voice emanating from the talker set in his lapel.

            "Impossible!" he cried in reply.
"You must be mistaken, Foof! I myself—"

            " '—screwed up', " Retief supplied.
"I don't suppose you paid much attention when Shinth reported that a
derelict scow had been sighted adrift off the squadron's port quarter."

            "Hardly!" Hish confirmed "I don't
clutter my intellect with trifles! I've matters of moment with which to
deal!"

            "Sure do," Retief agreed. "At
this moment it's the failure of Admiral Foof to execute his orders in a
military manner."

            "Sir, your jest is in poor taste!"
Hish chided. "Would you imply that a flag officer of the Groacian Navy
would be in flagrant dereliction of duty in the face of the enemy?"

            "What enemy?" Magnan put in worriedly.
"There's no one here but the native Bloorians, you, and us Terrans, all
united in the effort to bring enlightenment to this poor, bleeding,
backward—"

            "Skip the alliterations, Ben," Hish
snapped. "I suppose you were about to further characterize Bloor as
'benighted'. Bah! The place is a hotbed of every form of criminal activity yet
discovered or invented! Anyway, that 'allies' jazz is all very well for press
handouts, but the inherent divergence of interest between Groac and Terra will
continue to govern their relations for so long as honest Groacian bureaucrats
draw breath!"

            "You're avoiding the issue, General,"
Retief pointed out. "Check your CR scanner and you'll find that Foof's
command is still firmly in skew orbit, in direct defiance of your orders."

            "Why, that's ridiculous!" Hish
whispered uncasing his continuous readout terminal for a quick glance.
"But—that's impossible!" he gobbled, then, to his talker:

            "Admiral Foof!
What
are you doing?
By now you should have eased into position for the preemptive strike, at the
very least! In fact, the strike itself is three minutes overdue!"

            "General!" came the frantic reply,
"I can't—my command panel! Even the idiot lights—my gunnery chief reports
no charge to his plates! It's—"

            "It's mutiny, Foof!  Hish hissed. "I
order you: get into battle array at once. At
once,
do you hear?" He
glanced at the CR, which showed no indication of any change in the formation of
Foof's powerful battle group. Hish threw the unit on the pavement and jumped on
it, netting a painful pad-bruise.

            "It's not Foof's fault," Retief told
the frustrated commander. "His equipment is knocked out. That 'garbage
scow' was
Irresolute,
the flagship of the PDF, Capt. Pete commanding. It
made a pass by your entire force and beamed a saturation EMS surge at every
unit. They're dead in space."

           
"Mister
Retief!" Hish spat out
the name, turning on its possessor. "Am I to understand that even as you
Terrans babbled so eagerly of 'peace' and 'spheres of influence', you were
treacherously preparing this dastardly blow directed at poor, trusting Groac?
Ben—" he shifted targets.
"You
must have authorized this! It's
not to be borne!"

            "Well, actually," Magnan started, but
Retief cautioned him: "You wouldn't want the general to get the idea
you're not in control of your own subordinates, would you, sir?"

            "Now, how silly," Magnan rejected the
idea. "I'm sure we must have conferred about the scheme, but it had
slipped my mind, it seems. It's just a silly misunderstanding, Hish," he
told the Groaci. "I'm sure— that is, I hope—anyway I'll try to arrange for
a Class V apology, alluding favorably to your own restraint under apparent
provocation, General!"

            "I trust the Class V carries an adequate
honorarium!" Hish snapped.

            Magnan made no reply but turned to Retief.
"Now that Powerful Pete's neutralized Foof's battle-wagons," he
whispered, "What next?"

            "I guess I got a word to say about
that," Sarge Thrash spoke up, having recovered a good measure of his
unfounded arrogance. "I and my boys are still full of spit-and-vinegar!
We're raring to go! I got to get back aboard my command and tell my captains to
rig for deep space!"

            "Not so fast, Sluggy," Magnan put in
quietly. "The reorientation is not yet complete.

            Retief had just turned his talker to the CDF band.
He caught Pete's voice in mid-report: "—little problem area here, Retief.
Just before we finished the EMS sweep, one of the tricky devils lobbed a
torpedo into my aft lazaret. Blowed my reserve chow and funny books all to
hell! Got a good mind to—"

            "Don't do it, Pete!" Retief countered.
"There's more at stake here than
Ultraguy and the Red Menace.
Stand
fast and keep an eye on the Groaci. I'll get back to you. Over and out."

            Gracious!" Magnan contributed. "Jim!
Does this mean you're in collusion with that dreadful Pete person in some sort
of scheme to frustrate Groaci strategy?"

        "I sincerely hope
so," Retief replied.

            "Mr. Retief!" Hish groaned. "Did
you pause to give due consideration to the damage such an outrage would do to
the career prospects of a number of high-paced Groacian dignitaries, not least
myself?"

            "I sure did," Retief answered
unequivocally. "It added to my satisfaction considerably."

            "Jim!" Magnan gasped in a shocked tone
(not quite a 72-w [Aghast at a Social Blunder of Unprecedented Proportions]).

            "Ben!" Hish snarled. "This is no
occasion for that rather unsophisticated Seventy-two of yours. It demands the
rigor of a full Seventy-nine-a!"

            " 'A Person Whom It's Not Possible For One
to Know'?" Magnan gasped. "But, General, under the circumstances that
would mean that I'd be forced to order Retief's eviction from the scene!"

            "Precisely!" Hish gloated. "We'll
soon set things to right then!" He turned to Sarge Thrash. "You,
fellow!" he grated. "Will report yourself under arrest in quarters,
at once!"

            Sluggy scratched his lumpy skull with a rutching
sound like a banjo pick plied on concrete. "I heard about that, General,
sir, he offered. "But I never doped out how a feller would do it."

            "Don't whine and grovel!" Hish
snorted. "Execute! Now!"

            " 'Execute'? you said," Thrash echoed
in a Tone of Puzzlement (4-g), and unholstered his sidearm. "Whom I s'pose
to shoot?" he inquired, looking to Magnan for guidance. "Who do
you
think I'm s'pose to shoot, sir?" he pled.

            "A round between the feet of that rascal,
Skunky, wouldn't be amiss (excuse the pun)," Magnan offered. "He's
right behind you, getting set to try a Hai-itchy-guy on you."

            "Why the sneaky little sneak!" Thrash
bellowed, turning to face the object of his indignation. He put a wild round
into his own left boot, fortunately into the space between his opposable big
toe and the next digit. He dropped the weapon and hopped on his right foot, howling.