The Return of Retief (8 page)

            "I
must protest, Mr, ah, just what
is
your civil title?"

            "I'm
a Maker of Ritual Grimaces, First Class, in the reserves," the alien
replied. " 'Captain' is my regular honorific. Retief calls me 'Fumpy': I
like it. Short and snappy, even if it does sound like some kinda Terry handle;
no offense. Or maybe a little offense at that." Fump's sense-organ cluster
hardened. "I overheard you boys talking about reparations and all. You can
hand over the blank surrender forms now, and the fifty million Guck, too."

            "Why,
the audacity of the fellow fairly takes my breath away," the
Undersecretary said in admiring tones to Ben Magnan, who was now standing
behind Retief's chair. "And before I could lodge my protest at his
implication, too."

            "You
don't deny the Efficiency Rating of our agents, do you? It was them as made up
the Questionnaire and slid it into the system. According to the Form X-13
questionnaire you filled in—
and
signed—you're ready to pay up and shut
up, if anybody jumps out and says boo! to you."

            "I
thought the X-13 was a personnel form I was completing," Crodfoller
protested. "I felt I handled some of the trick questions rather cleverly.
I assumed it was a new technique for weeding out, if you'll pardon the
expression, isolationists. Like the sneaky one in the 'Ability to Empathize
With Our Friends We Haven't Met Yet' column: "If you should discover local
employees in collusion with black marketeers (individualist entrepreneurs, that
is) to loot the Embassy commissary, would you (select one):

            Clobber
them and ask questions later

            Request
a cut

            Demand
a cut

            Call
for help

            File
a confidential report

            Lodge
an official protest

            Fire
them en masse (local employees only)

            Volunteer
to serve as lookout

            Congratulate
them on their enterprise

            None
of the above?"

            "I
spotted that one easy," Crodfoller continued. "Transparently bait to
tempt one to an intemperate response. But if it was actually a fake, slipped
into channels by Ree espionage agents— heavens! I shudder to contemplate the
impression—"

            "Sure;
you can skip all that jazz, Herky," the cylindrical alien dismissed
Crodfoller's complaint. "Us Rees are practical. So let's get down to
cases: are you boys going to turn your backs and let us deserving
underprivileged fellows from the Western Arm take over East Arm, or what?"

            "Such
presumption!" Magnan ventured cautiously, one eye on the Undersecretary's
reaction. Seeing none, he went on: "As if we'd sit back and allow our
brave Terry pioneers in Tip Space to perish for want of the support they were
promised when we were pushing the
Take a Trip to the Tip
program."

            "Now.
Ben, I wouldn't precisely say 'promised'." Crodfoller demurred.
"Actually, we said 'maybe, depending on the exigencies of Corps policy'
and like that. Check the wording; I'm sure you'll find nothing to which we
could actually be rigorously held."

            "Anyway,
it's a darn shame, just like Ben says," Hy Felix spoke up from his spot
downtable. "Our folks have just about had time to start getting a little
return on all the time and effort they've put into this Settlement venture—and
all of a sudden they got these worms coming in and throwing them off the farm,
or worse."

            "The
Corps," the Undersecretary said loftily, "can hardly assume
responsibility for the success of private ventures embarked upon by rootless
adventurers."

            "Ten
years ago we were blanketing the media with our Settlement promo. I know.
Remember I've been in journalism a while. Back in Caney, even, we run ads for
new breeds of amphibious Plymouth Rocks and fancy hummingbird-ostrich hybrids
'suitable for Frontier conditions'."

            "That's
neither here nor there, Hy," Crodfoller dismissed the protest. "As
for you, Ben, I'm surprised at such intemperate utterances from a proven
bureaucrat of your experience."

            "Maybe
Hy's bitch ain't here nor there," the alien put in, in his squeaky voice.
"But
I'm
here, and I wanna be there, so what are you boys going to
do about a little repatriation with apologies, for openers?"

            "Why,
Captain," Crodfoller replied soothingly (19-r), "I shall of course
set wheels in motion at awakened until the situation is resolved. Oh, by the
way," he added, "his minion Goop is estivating in the scout-boat.
Farewell, gentlemen. Keep the old CDT flag flying."

            It
was hardly a CDT socio-economic audit period later that Undersecretary
Crodfoller summoned Magnan to the Presence. After curtly ordering his underling
to be seated, the Undersecretary fixed the mild-mannered Consul and First
Secretary with a steely look.

            "See
here, Ben," he barked. "What's gone wrong at General Services?
There's a foul-up in our Goodies for Undesirables program. I have a stack of
complaints an inch thick, from Missions in Tip Space mostly, regarding
non-receipt of vital emergency supplies. Space Arm swears convoys have been
getting through on schedule. The foul-up is clearly here at Sector! What are
you doing about it?"

            "Me,
sir?" Magnan cried in a voice with a tendency to slip into a falsetto.
"Gracious, Mr. Dep—er, Assis—er, Acting Undersecretary, why ask
me?
Why,
I'm on the Groaci Desk, as your Excellency is aware."

            "Urn,"
Crodfoller grunted, a monosyllable well known to his subordinates in the Corps,
and commonly translated: "I'm not interested in excuses: better come up
with something useful if you expect to salvage your career, such as it is.

            "I
seem to recall," the Undersecretary went on with the ponderous insistence
of a glacial advance, "that you once mentioned that you and this fellow
Retief are cronies."

            "Not
cronies, sir," Magnan objected. "Chums, possibly, or associates,
perhaps. That is, we've shared assignments to a number of the most dismal
hardship posts in the sector. Not my doing, of course: doubtless Personnel can
explain it."

            "I'm
not conferring with Personnel at the moment, Ben," Crodfoller pointed out
coldly. "I'm interviewing you. Ergo, it is you I shall have to depend upon
for any answers that are to be forthcoming."

            "But—but,
sir, what sort of snafu am I supposed to answer for?" Magnan queried in
bewilderment.

            "In
place of sorely needed rubber stamps, red tape, and blank forms, our
beleaguered frontier posts are receiving personal armament kits! How are our
hard-working bureaucrats to keep their paperwork flowing smoothly in the face
of alien invasion without the most basic of supplies?"

            "Well,
sir," Magnan mused. "Maybe they could sort of spring a little April
Fool surprise on the worms when they come swaggering in—"

            "Worms,
Mr. Magnan, or, ah, Ree troops, that is, do not swagger. I remember that Fump
fellow; it was all the beggar could do to stand erect! And as for April Fool's
Day, Ben: your file is up for review by the Promo Board soon, is it not?"

            "Sure,
sir, but it wasn't I who shipped guns in place of gummed labels, PAPA gear
instead of paper; it was Retief."

            "Do
you realize, Ben," Crodfoller thundered, a shade more kindly, Magnan
estimated hopefully, "that while passing classified comm gear into a
hostile world under duty-free entry as 'office supplies' is a time-honored
custom, to smuggle in small arms instead could not only jeopardize this
convenient polite fiction, at which all sides wink, but could suggest to the
Ree that our expressed desire for peace at a reasonable discount is a mere
ruse!"

            "I
guess so, sir," Magnan conceded. "But I'm sure Retief didn't mean any
harm—"

            "Since
the fellow was undoubtedly instrumental in the fiasco," Crodfoller
intoned. "It is only meet that he should be given the opportunity to undo
the mischief. Accordingly, I am assigning him as Special Envoy to the Ree
Legation at Goldblatt's World, one of those which were the victim not only of
Ree aggression, but of Retief's mismanagement of requisitions! I am informed
that no less a Ree dignitary than Chief Intimidator of Insolent Upstarts Slive
himself is Chief of Mission there; our man will treat directly with Slive, to
convince His Excellency that the CDT is indeed a pacific service, dedicated to
cementing cordial relations with all our friends we haven't met yet."

            "That
seems a rather dirty detail, Mr. Undersecretary," Magnan protested mildly.

            "Indeed,
Ben? Rather, it is an instance of unsurpassed magnanimity. Let me tell you a
story, Ben, concerning an ancestor of mine, General Lord Crodfoller, in command
of the Twenty-third Foot at Gheewallah; in Inja, don't you know. According to
family tradition, it was during a hot exchange with a well-organized besieging
force of hill tribesmen that a young subaltern broke under fire and fled the
field. Disgraced, he skulked in his tent, shunned by the Officer's Mess, and
thus doomed to slow starvation. Magnanimously, General Lord Crodfoller summoned
the unfortunate fellow, and handed him a dispatch for his subordinate across
the valley. All the young fellow had to do to redeem himself was mount and ride
across the battlefield in the face of the enemy. Instead, he went to his tent
and shot himself. Sad ending, that. I don't suppose Retief is the suicidal
type?"

            "Oh,
no, sir. At least, I don't think—" Magnan stammered.

            "You'll
find out when you inform him," Crodfoller said shortly.

            "M-me,
sir?" Magnan said, appalled.

            "Yes,
better the news comes from a colleague. Of course, the assignment has gone
through channels and all that. You, Magnan, are the last to know. Or rather,
the next to last. Go and enlighten Retief."

            Magnan
sighed and tottered away.

-

            Jerry,
the barman at the VIP snack bar, paused after placing a bumper of bacchus black
before Retief, and plied his bar-rag vigorously on a nonexistent ring on the
polished vermilion heowood.

            "Say,
Mr. Retief," he blurted at last, "I want to give you my sympathy on
your new assignment; hope I'm not getting out of line."

            "There's
no line waiting to congratulate me, Jerry," Retief reassured the
mixologist. "By the way, what new assignment is that?"

            "Oh,
didn't you hear?" Jerry responded. "All the scuttlebutt has it the
Secretary picked you to go out to try and calm down old CIIU Slive, the Ree big
shot. I wouldn't want to put my neck into a noose like that, even for a
three-grade bump, which I don't guess you'll get."

            "If
the boys in the latrine know all this, the news ought to be filtering down to
First Secretary level pretty soon," Retief commented.

            He
took his Bacchus black and sauntered toward the kidney-shaped keowood booths.
VIP's  of all shapes and sexes were cozying up in strategic huddles on the
soft, bisque-colored cushions. Pale lanterns hung from the dark, sculptured,
sound-absorbent ceiling, diplomatically refraining from throwing too much
light.

            He
found an empty booth, sank onto the cushions, and swirled the Bacchus potion.

            "Oh,
Retief, there you are," the voice of Mr. Magnan cut across the murmur of well-bred
conversation in the lounge. Retief looked up and saluted his immediate
supervisor with raised glass.