Reward for Retief (3 page)

            "Looky, fellers, what
this here Terry done gone and went and did! Stop 'em, before they make a break
fer it!"

            "Fred!"
Shortfall's short, fat voice snapped. "I call upon you to take appropriate
action!"

            "I don't guess you
wanta tell me what the appropriate action
is,"
Fred predicted
gloomily. Then, "sure not, chief, that's
my
job and am
I
glad
the monkey's on
my
back! Lessee," he went on with less enthusiasm,
as reality caught up with point-making: "This local crum-bum assaults one
of our boys, which the local lodges a beef and yells for mob action. I guess
our best move is to get off a fast Note apologizing for the whole thing."

            He looked expectantly to His
Ex. "So the ball's in your court, Mr. Ambassador, sir," he concluded.
His gaze went to the gaggle of admin staff huddled in the lee of the Great Man.
"Where's Miss Furkle?" he demanded. "Get Furkie," he
ordered a chinless code-clerk. "Tell her to bring her field-kit, on the
double."

            "Whatever, Fred, do you
imagine Euphronia Furkle can do in this exigency?" the Ambassadorial voice
rumbled, in a tone only a hesitating suicide would find encouraging.

            "Well, sir, to take
down the Note and all," the colonel prompted his chief. "You know, I
said about getting off a fast apology and all."

            "Your fatuous proposal
was duly noted, Fred," Shortfall assured his military advisor. "But
may I enquire as to precisely what it is for which you propose I offer
expressions of regret and pleas for forgiveness?"

            "Sure, go ahead,"
Fred acceded cheerfully.

            "Oh, sir," Magnan
cut in diffidently. "I wonder, as the locals are about to attack us in
force, hadn't we better
do
something, instead of standing around
jawing?"

            " 'Jawing,'
Magnan?" Shortfall yelped. "As it happens, I am taking counsel of my
military expert as to precisely the appropriate steps to be taken to rectify
the unfortunate situation into which
your
isolationism has plunged us!
As for yourself, I assign you personal responsibility for ensuring that Mr.
Whatsis—Retief—is guilty of no further provocative acts!"

            "Gee, sir," Magnan
whined, "all he did was not get skulled with a locking-bar.
That
would
have been an Interplanetary Incident; and besides, it would probably have set
off this mob, which is at the point of exploding in a frenzy of
xenophobia!"

            " 'Xenophobia,'
Ben?" Shortfall echoed sadly. " 'Mob'? Really, you must do something
to curb or at least conceal your Isolationism, before I'm forced to take
official notice." He turned and spoke quietly to Euphronia Furkle, who had
belatedly taken her position to his left and slightly to the rear. She nodded
emphatically, shot Magnan a scathing glance, and muttered a note into her
recorder.

            "Sir," Magnan
spoke up desperately, "am I to understand that avoiding being brained is
Isolationism'? Excuse the expression."

            "No, Ben," the AE
and MP replied in a melancholy tone. "It's calling—and thinking of—this
carefree throng as a 'mob'. "

            "But, sir," Magnan
struggled on like a fly with five legs mired in flypaper, "this throng is
gathered awfully close around us, and they're shaking cargo-hooks and things at
us, and shooting us dirty looks and yelling unflattering epithets—so one can't
help feeling somewhat threatened."

            " 'Epithets',
Ben?" His Ex demanded. "I wasn't aware you'd audited the language, or
even that the language of this mystery world was known."

            "They're speaking a
rather old-fashioned dialect of Standard, sir," Magnan gasped out, shying
as a well-aimed dungtray whizzed past his head. "Didn't you notice, sir,
when you were meeting with the delegation who accepted your credentials?"

            "Never listen to the
admin chaps," Shortfall admitted. "Sign-language works better, and
there's less chance of committing myself to some unwise position by
inadvertance, like the time on Raunch 41 when Stan Hairshirt unwittingly
obligated the Corps to lift in two hundred shiploads of custom-made plastic
joss-houses under the impression he was accepting an invitation to tea."

            "A tragic end to a
great career," Magnan murmured.

            "And
I'm
not
interested in ending
my
career," Shortfall barked, "here in
this damned terminal, surrounded by a yelling, ah, throng, before I've even had
a chance to have my Exequatur framed!"

            "Sure not, sir,"
Magnan chirped. "Still, one has to do something, before it's too
late!"

            "Too late for what,
Magnan?" His Ex challenged, turning his back on the spectacle of his plump
Commercial attache, Herb Lunchwell, being pitched headfirst over the Health
counter. "Ben," he said sharply, "tell Herb he's not maintaining
the dignity expected of a senior staff officer of this Mission (horsing about with
the locals in that fashion)," he added as if explaining to himself and
thus to the Galactic press just why he had ignored his colleague's plight.

            "None of us are,
sir," Magnan pled desperately. "We're all being herded like cattle
toward the baggage delivery chutes."

            "Then
do
something,
Ben! That's an order!"

            "What am I to do, Mr.
Ambassador?"

            "Your demand for
instruction in detail in lieu of prompt response will be reflected in the
Initiative column of your next ER, Ben, I trust you realize," Shortfall
pointed out mournfully. "Very well, if you irresponsibly insist on
specific instruction before carrying out the simple task with which I have
charged you ..."

            "Yes, sir?" Magnan
prompted eagerly.

            "Magnan,"
Shortfall said sternly, his eye holding Magnan's, "take the necessary
action. At once!"

            "You call that
specific, sir?" Magnan whimpered. "I was hoping maybe you'd give me a
secret call-sign for summoning a squadron of Peace Enforcers or
something."

            "Am I to understand,
Ben," the AE and MP purred, "that you decline to carry out your
precisely stated instructions, and instead propose openly provocative
overreaction?"

            "Good lord, no, Mr.
Ambluster," Magnan gobbled. "I mean 'Mr. Ambassador'," he
amended lamely. "I better get on with it, sir, now that I have your
official OK."

            "Just what you imply by
the barbaric expression 'OK,' I am unsure, Mr. Magnan," the Great Man
intoned as cordially as Rameses II agreeing to be relocated above the dam.

            Magnan was craning his neck,
searching the surrounding crowd of scared-looking Terries and loot-smelling
locals for Retief, whom he found standing beside him.

            "You heard His
Excellency's guidance!" Magnan blurted. "We're to, uh, how did he put
it ...? 'Take the necessary action'?"

            "I hope Miss Furkle
caught that on her recorder," Hy Felix, the sour-faced Press Attache
muttered. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be surprised if old Shorty tried to
disclaim responsibility."

            So saying, he caught a
close-pressing porter by his badge-strap and jerked him away from the Felix
luggage, lying open on the Customs Inspection counter.

            "No looting, you,"
he barked. "The idea is, you're suppose to be checking to see if I'm
smuggling any snarf-weed or boo-boo caps into this hellhole. Keep the fingers
off my comix, which they're valuable classics for personal use. Look at that,
Ben," he addressed his colleague, " 'Famous Funnies, Volume one,
Number One,' in mint condition, lucky it's in a glassine bag and all, otherwise
it'd prolly be finger-marked and on the way to being a Category B item."

            "Easy, Hy," Ben
counselled. "He's probably just a lover of literature."

            "That
caterpillar?" Hy scoffed. "All he knows is it looks like somebody
might pay a guck or two fert."

            "Hy," Magnan
remonstrated. "That came close to being a prejudicial remark."

            "Whattaya talking,
'pre-judgement'? I waited and judged the bum
after
he done it."

            "And I doubt,"
Magnan persisted, "the epithet 'pillar' would be found acceptable to the
adjudication board of the Interplanetary Tribunal for the Correction of
History."

            "You threatening to
report me to ITCH?" Hy scoffed. "You're a wimp, Ben, but you were
never nasty about it before."

            Magnan's retort was obscured
as he was knocked flat by a bigger-than-average local whose abrupt arrival also
threw Hy Felix back against the Immunization desk. The feisty Press man helped
Magnan to his feet, then stepped up onto the adjacent counter and uttered a
yell.

            "Mr. Ambassador?"
he bawled. "I protest! This here autochthone or whatever you wanna call it
assaulted me and Ben. That's OK with the Department, maybe, but the Agency
don't have to put up with the rough stuff. So what I say is, let's take the
necessary action pronto!"

            "And precisely what
action, pray," His Ex demanded loudly, "would the Agency consider
necessary in this situation?"

            "First," Hy
responded gamely, "I got to get this mug's name, rank, and cereal
number."

            "That's 'serial'
number, Hy," Magnan corrected.

            "Never knew my diction
was sharp enough you could tell the difference," Hy shrugged off the
comment.

            "It's the difference
between 'serry' and 'seery'," Magnan pointed out. "As representatives
of Terran culture, we must always be on our toes, class-wise, Hy."

            "You tryna impress
those doo-dahs with yer class?" Hy scoffed. "Which they got none at
all. Look at that fellow tryna feel up Furkie."

            "Just the old personal
search, bud," the offending security pillar corrected, releasing the
indignant secretary.

            "Anyways," he went
on, "any interesting topography that dame ever had is buried under six
inches of adipose. She wintered well, I'll say that for her, even if I had the
glands for it," he added out-of-context.

            "Well," Miss
Furkle snarled, aiming a dagger-like glare at Magnan. "Are you going to
let that outrage pass, without appropriate response?"

            "But," Magnan
temporized, "what ...?"

            "I'll show you, Ben
Magnan, you spineless worm!" Without hesitation Miss Furkle hoisted her
considerable bulk onto the
health
counter,
grabbed up someone's metal-framed briefcase, spurned with her foot the excited
official which approached her as if to interfere, then, with a full one-hundred
and eighty-degree wind-up, slammed the heavy case against the pushy fellow's
blunt cranium, bouncing him backward, giving two of his associates room to
advance on the irate lady Terry. She accorded each a hearty blow on the top of
his head, and they too fell back.

            "Next!" Miss
Furkle yelled. "Come on, Ben," she added, "get up here and give
a girl a hand." She yelped as an Immigration clerical type eased in from
behind and grabbed her ankle. She executed a less-than-nimble soft-shoe and
fell backward, squarely on top of the cheeky fellow. An avalanche of locals
closed over the struggling antagonist, through which Miss Furkle rose, still
swinging. Retief caught one by his straps and tossed him into the path of the
most aggressive looking of those still crowding forward, then stepped up on the
counter and cleared away those who obscured his view of Miss Furkle, now back
on her feet and laying about her effectively with her improvised bludgeon.
Dodging the murderous swipes, Retief offered a hand and helped her up beside
him. The nearest locals, all of whom had felt the weight of Miss Furkle's
wrath, were moving back out of range now. The uproar subsided gradually, though
purposeful activity was now seen at the fringes of the mob, as the group of the
new arrivals began noisily shaping up the throng.