Reward for Retief
Retief 15
(1989)*
Keith Laumer
Contents
Second Secretary Jame Retief
of the Terran Embassy to Sardon was just finishing his after-dinner brandy in
the transport's Junior Officers' Mess when his chief, First Secretary Ben
Magnan, hurried up and took a seat opposite him.
"Retief," he began
excitedly, "there's something they're not telling us!" He glanced
around as if to ferret out spies, then resumed: "It's widely known that
Goldblatt's Other World, more formally known as Sardon, and listed in the
handbook as U-784-a, called Spookworld by the vulgar, has not been visited by
Terrans since its discovery, two centuries ago. Yet on the occasion of the Bicentennial
of discovery a full diplomatic mission is dispatched here to normalize
relations. Who, may one inquire, has laid the groundwork for our establishment
of an Embassy of Terra? How is it we've been alerted to keep an eye open for
distressed Terran spacemen said to be marooned here? And who,
who
is the
author of the rumors which have given rise to the place's unsavory reputation?
What are we to do? Simply to leap into troubled waters unprepared is hardly a
strategy worthy of the
Corps Diplomatique!
And, we'll be there—or
here—very soon now, I believe." He consulted a well-worn schedule, and
frowned. "You'd best finish your drink—or better, dump it in the potted
jelly-flowers just there."
Retief nodded, and took
another sip.
"Still," Magnan
went on in a more confident tone, "rumors
do
arise spontaneously.
And as for these rumors in particular—dragons, plagues of stinging nits, magic
spells, trolls, enchantments—only a small child—or a Spaceman—could take such
nonsense seriously." He nodded, as if satisfied with his argument.
"Rumors usually have
some slight basis in fact," Retief pointed out. "Sardon is probably a
little strange—but so are most places."
Magnan gave him a stricken
look. "That's hardly comforting, Jim," he carped.
have no fear, ben,
a silent Voice spoke suddenly inside each
man's skull. I
assure you things here on
zanny-du are quite peaceful for the moment, though I confess there are
troublemakers about. it was I who agreed to receive a mission from terra. just
relax, and leave great affairs to the great.
Magnan, confused
by the Voice, stared, open-mouthed, at Retief. "Jim!" he gasped,
"it's all very well to jape with
me; I
understand your curiously
warped sense of the facetious—but for Heaven's sake don't let Ambassador
Shortfall overhear any such vainglorious remarks! But—" he paused
uncertainly. "I was looking right at you and your lips didn't so much as
twitch. How—?" He seemed to collect himself with an effort.
"Atmosphere in ten minutes," he announced briskly after a glance at
his thumb-chron.
"Make that maybe twenty
seconds," Gus, the table-attendant corrected tonelessly. "I been
feeling the vibes for a couple seconds now. We're already into maybe point six
microbars gas. Feel that?" he queried as the aging vessel jolted abruptly,
rattling the tableware. "Old Cap never could hit a ETA," he added.
"See? What'd I tell ya?" he went on complacently as the first
near-supersonic whisper of atmospheric friction started up. "I wouldn't
bet two demi-guck this tub'll hang together for another class one pilot error,
neither," he commented with apparent indifference, watching Magnan closely
for his reaction. "Flunked her mid-cruise, you know," he went on.
"If they didn't owe me six months back wages, I'd of jumped her at
Furthuron."
"That will do, my
man," Magnan said testily. "Surely you have duties elsewhere."
"I can take a
hint," Gus acknowledged. "I been reading up on this here Spookworld,
too," he ploughed on relentlessly. He absentmindedly pulled out a chair
and nearly sat in it, but Magnan's sudden attack of black-lung caused him to shift
in mid-squat and mime correcting the placement of the chair.
"Course," he remarked, "if you don't wanna hear about how they
got a lot of dead guys down there, zombies-like, maybe, and some kinda
monsters,—bugs is bad, too, I hear. I guess I better get back to work ..."
"By all means,"
Magnan said coldly. "And I remind you, sir, that the planet about which we
are about to enter landing orbit is listed in the Handbook as U-784-a, and
correctly referred to as Sardon, or less formally, Goldblatt's Other World,
after its intrepid discoverer."
"Which he ain't been
heard from since," Gus commented gloomily. "Maybe we'd be better off
if she did break up; get it over with fast, you know." He grabbed for
support as the old ship bucked again and began a slow rotation.
"Do you mean to
suggest," Magnan demanded, "that this vessel is unspaceworthy?"
"Naw, it ain't
that," Gus corrected. "She's OK in space, it's getting her down
that's tricky. How's about a shot of the good stuff fer you, Mr. Magnan? You
don't look so good."
"I'm very well, thank
you, Gus," Magnan replied faintly. "Heavens, Retief," he
addressed the younger man. "Do you suppose ... that is—"
"Never suppose,"
Retief suggested. "I doubt very much that we'll encounter any zombies down
below."
"Well!" Magnan
came back tartly. "Of course not! What do you take me for? I was concerned
about the condition of this infernal vessel to which we've entrusted our lives!
It's disgraceful! 'Flunked his semiannual', I've been informed by a Usually
Reliable Source."
"Yes, I heard
him," Retief concurred. "It was something about the logs being in
arrears, I understand."
"Well, what a
relief!" Magnan exclaimed. He shot Gus a pained look. "Very bad
form," he stated, "starting rumors about unspaceworthiness, to say
nothing of zombies inhabiting the wilderness below us."
"Never started no
rumors," Gus objected. "Figgered you gents wouldn't blab none."
With that reproof he abruptly resumed his duties in response to a
"Hsst!
garcon!"
from the next table. Magnan leaned toward Retief and said
earnestly:
"One hardly knows
what
to think. The Post Report said nothing of Caribbean superstition on GOW.
Pardon my use of the acronym, Jim; I'm upset, is all."
"No sweat, sir,"
Retief reassured his chief. "After all, our Confidential Terran Source
didn't mention Papa Dumballa."
"Oh, you mean George,
the janitor back at Sector HQ. Well, George is all very well, but he's hardly
as prestigious as, say, 'a Highly-Placed Official,' for example, meaning the
janitor in the local Foreign Office."
"Still," Retief
reminded the nervous Magnan. "The Press flacks, for all their prestige,
get their dope the same way
we
do, in the Press kits the Information
Agency cooks up."
"Based on reliable
rumors," Magnan nodded. "I still feel there are some aspects of the
situation which will remain obscure even to TIA until the Mission has actually
arrived and presented credentials."
"And perhaps taken a
walk around the block," Retief added. "If there really is a monster
called Worm down there, maybe seeing it will confirm its existence."
" 'Monster', pah!"
Magnan scoffed. "Really, Retief, if you're nervous, perhaps we could
arrange to get the nod as ship's complement, and remain aboard for the
nonce."
"I'll pass, Ben,"
Retief dismissed the suggestion. "If there really
are
zombies down
there, I'd hate to miss meeting them."
Magnan stared from Retief to
the cloud-streaked disc of Goldblatt's Other World slowly swelling on the
wall-screen beside him.
"It looks pleasant
enough," he remarked hopefully, "but do you really think there might
be something to this zombie talk?"
"If so," Retief
told him, "Captain Goldblatt didn't mention it in his Report of Discovery.
He reported 'no intelligent life' but plenty of gnats."
"Then," Magnan
demanded earnestly, his eyes on Retief's, "to whom is this Mission
accredited? Surely Sector hasn't established diplomatic relations with an
uninhabited jungleworld?" He dropped his eyes and began fiddling with his
teaspoon. "I had it in confidence from Bob Trenchfoot, who was in the
Advance Party, that the climate is salubrious in the extreme. They were able to
procure adequate quarters for both the chancery and the Residence in the city
Zanny-du. So, you see, there
must
be autochthonous inhabitants!"
"Flawless reasoning,
sir," Retief agreed. "That could explain the disappearances,
too."
"What
disappearances?" Magnan yelped.
"Just reliable rumors,
Ben," Retief soothed. "From time to time, it seems, the Monitor
Service has detected a tramp freighter making an unauthorized call at Zanny-du;
such vessels have apparently never reappeared to be chastised."
"No matter,"
Magnan dismissed the subject, "an accredited Terran Diplomatic Mission is
hardly to be compared to some illicit merchantman."
"I almost forgot!"
Gus interrupted, arriving at a trot, "they say they got like mind-readers
and all down there—a guy's got no secrets! I'm staying aboard, personal! Good
luck, fellows, if yer still going down there." He fixed his gaze on
Magnan. "You got guts, Ben, for a bureaucrat," he said. "I'll
say that fer ya."
"By the way,"
Magnan said to Retief, ignoring the cheeky fellow, "I was about to mention
that I'm Duty Officer today, and my duties require that I remain at my station,
monitoring the B & F read-out. Just in case of last-minute budget changes,
you know," he added comfortably.