The Return of Retief (9 page)

            "Mr.
Magnan, here I am indeed," Retief greeted the slightly-built senior
diplomat. "But according to Jerry, not for long."'

            "Ah,
yes, Retief," Magnan muttered, as he sat in the booth, "I might have
known the bartenders would get the news first. I'm afraid you're being sent as
Special Envoy to the Ree Legation at Goldblatt's world. Slive is Chief of
Mission there, you know. You're to convince him of our peaceful
intentions."

            "I'm
not the best man for the job," Retief said.

            "I
know. I mean, none of us deserves Slive. I'm really sorry. But after the
fashion in which you aroused the Undersecretarial ire by the indignities you
imposed on that nasty little worm, Captain Fump, or whatever, I can hardly say
I'm surprised. Still," he went on, "I wish you the best of luck. Do
keep in touch. And now I must be off to a mummy-viewing at the Hoogan Legation.
Ta."

            Magnan
got up abruptly and hurried away.

            Retief
savored his bumper to the last drop, rose, and carried the empty mug to the
bar.

            "Geeze,"
Jerry offered, discarding the mug, "you're taking it good, Mr. Retief.
Most of the boys would be crying into their beer at an assignment to
Goldblatt's. They're really trying to put it to you, Retief. Hang in there. If
you let them run you out of the Corps, I'll have to start learning
Wormspeak."

            It
had been a spartan three standard day trip out, aboard the rusting tramp
freighter which had been the only transport available for the final leg of the
long crossing from Aldo to Prute, where Retief was scheduled for initial
contact with Ree officialdom via Snith, the Groacian Consul.

            "Say,
Mr. Retief," the whiskery First Officer said to his lone passenger at
dinner on the last night out, "do you or any of them CDT big shots back at
Sector meet this Snith, before they go making plans?"

            "Only
via screen, Big," Retief replied as he sampled the baked Alaska.

            "Not
too bad, considering, hey, Mr. Retief?" Big suggested, eyeing the desert.
At Retief's querying glance, he elucidated:

            "Considerin
it's been froze, and then scorched," the old spacehand explained
apologetically. "Autochef must be on the blink."

            "That's
all right, Big; it's supposed to be frozen and then scorched," Retief
pointed out. "The trick is to brown the meringue without melting the
ice-cream inside; and I see the chef almost managed it," he added, as a
stream of murky fluid drained out through a hole in the stiff sponge-cake outer
layer. "But tell me about Mr. Snith. Do you know him well?"

            "About
as good as you can get to know a guy who keeps a couple Haterakan meat-hawks
chained to their perch beside the legation door, I hafta go up there every trip
to hand over the invoices atid pick up the bills of lading, and all I ever got
was a quick look at the little mother inside his limousine his chauffeur was
practically running me down with. But I heard plenty. The boys say he hates
Terries worser'n he does the Pruties, which he peppers with buckshot on
sight."

            "Is
he on good terms with the Ree?" Retief asked.

            "Better'n
with us Terries, I guess," Big offered. "Haven't heard of him
shooting at none of them yet, even when they came waltzing into his legation
compound, armed to the mandibular serrations."

            "Flexible
animosity is an old Groaci technique," Retief pointed out. "Thanks
for the briefing, Big. How soon do we hit atmosphere?"

            "About
an hour, I guess," Big supplied crisply. "Better get your stuff
aboard the drop-boat— if you're sure you want to go down there. Remember, aside
from your pal Snith, you got the Pruties to deal with. Ever met one?"

            Retief
nodded. "At a cocktail party back at Flamme. Enormously fat fellow,
Assistant Grimacer as I recall, bucking for promotion to field grade. Not too
different from us single-skulled, bipedal Terries, except for large teeth and a
number of muscular arms. Nearly beat me at Drift."

            "Bet
he cheated, Retief," Big suggested. "I happen to know you're Drift
champ for the whole Arm."

            "Yes,
maybe he cheated a little," Retief acknowledged. "He used three arms.
A point for the philosophers. But he was a sore winner; wanted a rematch to
prove he could do it with two."

            "And
you using only one," Big commiserated. "It don't pay to try and play
fair with all these here Eeties. They got no conscience. Oops," the mate
interrupted himself as a sudden impact shook the vessel.

            "That's
atmosphere, Retief," he explained unnecessarily as the vessel settled down
to a steady buffeting. "Drop boat away in four minutes," he added and
hurried off.

            The
Prute Customs and Immigration shed was a squat structure assembled from scraps
of corrugated styrene, dim-lit by a hanging jar of Slovian juice-bugs which
shed a wan, greenish glow on the deeply-creased olive-hued visage of the Excise
Officer who leaned on Retief's  locker, foot, junior officers, for the use of,
and said; "I don't care what the treaty says, Bub, it's what
I
say
that counts. And I say you pay up in cash or the luggage don't clear Customs
this year."

            "I
suggest you get several of your elbows off my box, Mister," Retief said,
and jerked the support from beneath the joints to which he had referred,
causing the functionary to collapse like the empty barracks-bag he resembled.

            "Hey!"
he yelled from the floor, "Grab that Terry! He assaulted me in the
performance of my duties!"

            "I
wouldn't," Retief suggested as a second tax-collector moved in
confidently. The Prutian paused and arranged his puckered features in a
passable version of the classic What's This, Impertinence? (17-g).

            "Precisely,"
Retief confirmed the query inherent in the alien's features, which resembled
the mouth of a sack secured by a drawstring.

            "You
can't get away with the rough stuff," the newcomer pointed out mildly as
he leaned to assist his colleague to his large, flat feet.

            "See,
we not only got the regs on our side, we also got you outnumbered, wise
guy," the latter pointed out as he resumed his position behind the Customs
table, this time keeping his elbows out of play.

            "Wrong,"
Retief said. "According to treaty, the personal effects of diplomatic
personnel are to be accorded duty-free entry. As for having me outnumbered, how
many more boys have you got on call? I only see ten." He picked up the locker
and proceeded past the Customs sign to Health and Immigration, where he was
confronted by a larger and plumper-than-average Prutian in a heavily braided
uniform.

            "I'm
Chief Inspector Thise," the official stated firmly as Retief paused before
him. "Health OK? No fallen arches or ruptures? Got to watch these
infectious maladies. An alien microbe could sweep through Prute like wildfire.
Caught a Groaci last year with crossed eyes, and considering the little devils
have got five eyes, on stalks at that, you can see what the plague could of
done to us single vision folks."

            "Sounds
bad," Retief agreed. "I don't suppose a touch of boredom would
constitute much of a threat, would it?"

            "Boredom!"
the inspector echoed in tones of horror. "We're highly susceptible! Keep
back! Don't breath on anything, while I go fetch the medical inspector!"

            "Sorry,"
Retief returned. "I'll have to bend the regs slightly. Breathing is a habit
I don't intend to kick."

            "We've
got a regimen where we can put you on carbon monoxide and taper you off in a
couple days," the Prutian countered. "Think of it! Free at last from
the simian on your back! You'll thank Prute for the cure once it's done. Don't
worry, the withdrawal symptoms only last a short while."

            "You
don't understand," Retief said. "My mission requires that I stay
alive long enough to put a bug in, the ear of CIIU Slive. But first I have to
see the Groaci Consul here on Prute. So why not simplify matters by calling me
a cab and accepting this modest token of my esteem?" He handed over a
ten-Guck note which was whisked out of sight at once.

            "Say,
you wouldn't try to bribe a Prutian official, would you, Terry?" the
official mumbled.

            "How
much do you go for?" Retief inquired interestedly.

            "You
trying to
buy
me?" the Prutian gasped.

            "No;
just renting," Retief explained.

            "Oh.
OK. Don't ever try to buy a official of the great Prutian nation," the
local warned. "We run high: sweepers get ten thou, and as fer a Chief
Inspector, like me—" the Chief paused to indicate the rank badge on his
sleeve. "We start at half a mil."

            "Then
ten Guck would hardly be considered a genuine bribe," Retief suggested.

            "Heck,
no!" the alien confirmed. "More like a token of a fella's
esteem."

            "Fine.
Now about that cab," Retief said. "I'd prefer one with a seat and a
roof."

            "No
sweat," the inspector replied. "By the way, you weren't planning on
immigrating, I suppose?"

            "Not
just yet," Retief confirmed.

            "So
that takes care of that," the inspector said as he deposited an
impressive, folded newspaper-sized document in the refuse container. "Say,
Terry—er, Mr. Retief, I mean—if you're interested in a little companionship, I
got a couple hot numbers."

            Retief
declined the offer, and was halfway to the exit when a third inspector, this
one a bulky chap in civvies, strolled into his path and held up a peremptory
hand.

            "It's
OK that you rolled over Clarence and Rocky," he intoned, "but I'm
civilian chief Gluck. So let's see what you got in the lock-box."

            "Better
move over," Retief replied. "I'm running behind schedule, and I see
my cab's here."

            "Don't
get in too big a hurry, Terry!" Gluck snapped, signalling for a pair of
armed guards who moved into position flanking the Terran. "I've got to
satisfy myself you ain't carrying contraband." He turned to address the
cop, "Open it up."

            One
of the two policemen took a step toward the object of official interest. Retief
put out an arm: the cop rebounded from it and rubbed his neck, which had
sustained the brunt of the impact. The second cop lunged and ricoshayed off
Retief's other arm.

            "What's
the matter, you boys forgot how to open up a suitcase?" their leader
inquired, producing a stout crowbar from a recess under the counter. "I'll
show you," he added an instant before Retief plucked the iron bar from his
grasp and carefully bent it into a rude circle, which he sent rolling across
the cavernous shed floor. Both cops took a single step after it, and halted
abruptly.

            "You
see what that Terry did?" one inquired of the circumambient air.
"Took and twisted old Gluck's bar into a regler cookie," he
amplified.

            "He
never," Gluck contradicted.
"Couldn't
of, Horace."

            "I
saw what I saw," Horace stated sullenly. "Leroy saw it too."

            "I
have a feeling you fellows been on this cushy indoor job too long," Gluck
mused. "Thinking about transferring you out to foot-patrol on Big
Rock." He glanced at Retief. "Big Rock's our near moon," he
explained. "No air, no water, no snick berries. No much of anything. Keeps
a fellow on his toes just trying to keep alive. Got a small Customs station out
there.