DAM NUISANCE

 

 

I

 

            JAME RETIEF, Second Secretary of the Terrestrial Embassy to South Skweem, turned at a shrill hail from the low doorway of one of the squat grass huts lining the dusty main street of the capital village.

 

            "Good mornings, Terry," a knobby, brown-mottled, four-foot alien with a bewildering variety of appendages waved a couple of the latter at the diplomat. "How's trick? Say, I've been meaning to ask ones of you fellow a question: any chance of you Terry supplying a little economic aid in the forms of a new roofs for my pad here?" the Skweeman gesticulated with half a dozen limbs. "Every time it rain, all the squish goes out of my mud pack."

 

            "Sorry, Mr. Uptakapacheenobufers, but you know the ground-rules. Much as we Terries want to impress you people with a Public Works Project, it can't be anything useful. According to the Underground Deep-Think Teams back at Sector, that might be taken as an implied criticism of your culture."

 

            The Skweeman made a rubbery noise indicating mild disappointment. "Yous know I'd likes to throw my weights behind the Terry program, but without a few goody to show for it, what's the percentage?"

 

            "I see what you mean, Mr. Uptakapacheenobufers. I'd better start by installing a couple of new transistors in that language teacher I lent you. It seems to have imparted a faulty grasp of the plural."

 

            "Hecks, Retief, call me 'takapacheenobufers for shorts. I guess we're chum now, after those snort we had together last night. Wows, what a hangovers!"

 

            "Speaking of headaches, I have to hurry along to Staff Meeting. Too bad about the roof, but if you think of something spectacularly superfluous the town needs, hasten to let Ambassador Treadwater know. He's sweating out his next E.R."

 

            Retief went along to the large hut which served as the Terran Chancery; inside, he took a camp stool among the staff assembled before a low split-bamboo podium which sagged visibly under the bulk of the chief of Mission.

 

            "Now, then," the Ambassador opened the meeting briskly. "First this morning we'll take a look at the challenge which confronts us, gentlemen." He signalled and the lights dimmed. A projector hummed. On the rostrum, a life-sized, three-dimensional, vividly colored image of a stubby, boxy Skweeman appeared under a glowing legend reading KNOW YOUR ENEMY. Treadwater tapped the solidogram with his rubber-tipped pointer.

 

            "This, gentlemen," he stated, "might appear to some of you to bear a superficial resemblance to our great allies, those valiant freedom fighters, the South Skweemans. However, to a practiced eye it's at once apparent that it is, in fact, a NorthSkweeman. Note the sly expression, the general air of inscrutability, the fierce cast of eye ..." The pointer rapped each feature in turn.

 

            "Ah ... Mr. Ambassador." Colonel Pluckwyn, the Military Attache, raised an interrogatory finger from his seat in the front row. "I don't believe that last organ was precisely an eye. More of an ear, I think you'll find."

 

            "Whatever it is, it has a fierce cast!" Treadwater snapped. "Now let's move along to the coloration." He studied the simulacrum. "Hmm—an offensive greenish purple with clashing dun rosettes."

 

            "Golly, Mr. Ambassador," the Cultural Attaché's voice piped from the rear. "Maybe I'm mixed up, but aren't our Skweemans the same color?"

 

            "Certainly not! Quite the opposite! The South Skweeman is characterized by a soothing overall tan-nish tone, tastefully set off with purply-green rosettes. Not the same at all."

 

            "Yes, but—"

 

            "Now, about the warts." The Ambassador pursued his point. "Note that this fellow has large blue ones, with tufts of yellowish hair."

 

            "But, sir—isn't that what the South Skweemans have?"

 

            Treadwater smiled patronizingly. "A common mistake, Dimplick. Actually, the South Skweeman is adorned with somewhat smaller warts, bearing attractive tufts of goldenhair."

 

            "Oop, my mistakes, boss," a thin South Skweeman voice chirped from the direction of the projector.

 

            "Looks like I accidentally slipped in a shots of the South Skweeman Minister of Eats and Drinks. A nice likeness, too, made just before the mob got him." The image flicked out of existence and another, obscurely different, took its place.

 

            "Well, I'm sure we all get the general idea, anyway," the Cultural Attache offered breathlessly, as Treadwater's face took on a dangerous shade of purple.

 

            "Yeah—theseare a shot of the common foe," the projectionist announced. "Boy, will you look at those look of ferocity?"

 

            "Take it away!" Treadwater bellowed. "And I suggest you look to your labels, sir, before you create an international incident!" He yanked his pale violet lapels back in line. "Now, it's time to get on to the substantive portion of today's briefing." He beetled his brows at his audience.

 

            "You're all aware that the success of our mission here depends on establishing the legitimacy of the government to which I—that is; we—are accredited. Namely, that of Free Skweem, formerly known as South Skweem. We are similarly aware that next month's plebiscite will determine once and for all whether the mantle of planetary leadership falls on the shoulder of our sturdy allies, the South Skweemans, or on the bowed backs of the North Skweeman insurgents, the satellites of the unprincipled Groaci."

 

            "I have a suggestion," the Political Officer broke in excitedly. "We could hire some of the rougher local patriots to patrol the polling places, weeding out undesirables, distributing special disappearing ballots among the opposition and making a few minor adjustments to the counting machines to insure a victory for democratic processes!"

 

            "This is no time for subtlety," Treadwater stated flatly. "We must impress the locals of both political persuasions with our superior capacity to bestow largesse. We need, gentlemen, a large and impressive symbol of Terran generosity and technical virtuosity. The floor is now open for your suggestions."

 

            The Ambassador waited. The silence was profound.

 

            "Gentlemen," Treadwater said ominously, "a full week has passed since I first requested suggestions from the staff—and as of today, the net response has been nil!"

 

            A shuffling of feet greeted the accusation.

 

            "A curious lethargy seems to have afflicted you, gentlemen." The Ambassador stared around belligerently. "This, while a certain foreign mission daily entrenches itself more securely, prestige-wise, by virtue of a certain probably illegal but nonetheless highly effective propaganda device. I refer, of course, to the dam the Groaci have bestowed on their North Skweeman toadies."

 

            "I propose we build a dam too," someone said quickly.

 

            "Wonderful notion," the Economic Officer rumbled. "About to suggest it myself—"

 

            "Say, Charlie, you're hitting right in there this morning," a First Secretary offered. There were clucks and chuckles of admiration from the rest of the staff. Treadwater waited for the approbation to die down.

 

            "The dam constructed by the Groaci engineers at the point where the river loops briefly into North Skweem," he purred, "has not only crippled South Skweeman commerce, but has effected a drought which is rapidly starving our brave allies into an advanced state of malnutrition, complicated by dust storms. Add to this the unfortunate flooding of that portion of the nation's farmland lying above the dam and we see, gentlemen, a striking example of creative public relations—unhappily, in the service of the opposition. Now—" he smiled thinly at the group— "will someone kindly tell me what possible detriment would accrue to our rivals if I were so ill-advised as to construct still another navigational hazard in what was once this nation's main artery of communication!" His voice rose to an apoplectic bellow on the last words. No one volunteered a reply.

 

            A junior Third Secretary raised a hand timidly. Treadwell blinked expectantly.

 

            "Ah ... sir. The dam is creating a sizable lake, I understand. What do the Groaci have in mind doing with all that water?"

 

            "Eh? Do? Nothing, of course!" the Ambassador snapped. "The entire project was designed merely to harass me! Or rather, us! The proud and independent populace of South Skweem, that is to say!"

 

            "Oh." The young man subsided.

 

            "Well, then," the Ambassador went on, icily calm now. "Let us try again, gentlemen, avoiding, if possible, the idiotic."

 

            "Well, Mr. Ambassador, Project Proposals are a tricky proposition," the quavering voice of the elderly Press Attache offered. "There was quite a row kicked up in certain journals concerning that hundred-man bird bath the CDT built for the Quornt before we discovered they were allergic to water. And it will be quite a while before we live down the shoe factory we gave the Jaq, since they seem to have no feet to speak of. And there was a certain amount of criticism of—"

 

            "I'm well aware of the history of the fiasco, as practiced by my colleagues," Treadwater cut him off glacially. "It is precisely for that reason that I am determined to present to Sector Headquarters a Proposal which will bear microscopic scrutiny, farce-wise. Now, thinking caps, men! I needn't remind you that we are caught between the mortar of Groaci expansionism and the pestle of Corps policy. If the government to which we are accredited is not starved out from under us, we still face an unfilled Project Quota."

 

            "Damned awkward, sir," Colonel Pluckwyn murmured. "Couldn't we just give the beggars a touch of the old quirt? A small fractional megatonner, say, just to teach 'em their manners."

 

            "Bomb Headquarters?" Treadwater looked astonished.

 

            "Actually I was thinking of the North Skweemans, sir, but your suggestion has merit—"

 

            "Colonel, I think you'd better report to the dispensary after Staff Meeting, for skull X-rays," Treadwater said bleakly. "I suspect the plates will come out blank. Now, let's move along to Mr. Magnan's report." The Ambassador glanced expectantly over the seated diplomats.

 

            "Magnan? Where is the fellow, drat it!" The Ambassadorial eye fixed on Retief. "You, there. What's-your-name. Magnan's your chief, I believe. Where the devil is he?"

 

            "Mr. Magnan failed to confide in me, Your Excellency," Retief said.

 

            "Didn't your Excellency send him over to call on the Groaci Ambassador?" Dimplick queried.

 

            "Of course," Treadwater agreed. "I instructed him to unobtrusively scout out the effects of the new dam under cover of the protocol visit. It is that on which I wish his report."

 

            "Mr. Magnan went across the line into North Skweem, alone?" Retief inquired casually.

 

            "I believe that is where his Groacian Excellency is usually to be found," Treadwater replied testily, glancing at his finger watch. "And he was distinctly directed to be back before tiffin time."

 

            "The present crisis may have thrown off the tiffin schedule," Retief conjectured.

 

            Treadwater frowned ominously. "Are you suggesting the scoundrels may have so far forgotten their protocol as to have detained an accredited diplomat in the performance of his duty?"

 

            "Something seems to have detained him," Pluckwyn offered.

 

            "I hope he didn't go sniffing too closely around the dam," the Political Officer said soberly. "Those North Skweemans can be pretty nasty. I saw some atrocity photos our visual aid people mocked-up, based on reliable rumors—"

 

            "Oh, boy." The Press Attache doddered to his feet. "This'll make great copy, chief. 'TERRY ENVOY MURDERED ...' "

 

            "Who said anything about murder, you cretin!" Treadwater roared. "I merely noted that the man is late for Staff Meeting!"

 

            "Yes, I suppose you're right." The Press Attache sat down reluctantly. Then he brightened. "Still, if he hasn't shown up by sundown ..."He began jotting notes on his scratch pad.

 

            "Well, if there are no further follies with which to waste our time, that's all for this morning, gentlemen," the Ambassador growled. "But I shall be looking for results—prompt, dramatic results!" He swept the group with a final expectant glare, moved ponderously down from the shaky platform.

 

            "Say, Mr. Retief," the young Third Secretary came up beside him as they stepped out into the hot, dusty sunlight. "What really is the difference between North Skweemans and South Skweemans?"

 

            "Very simple, Teddy. South Skweemans are natural democrats."

 

            "Oh ..." The youth fell back as Treadwater beckoned Retief over.

 

            "About Magnan," the Ambassador said offhandedly. "It's occurred to me the situation might bear looking into. Never can tell what these unprincipled foreigners might take a fancy to perpetrate—not that I think Magnan is in any difficulty, of course. But I've been thinking possibly we might just dispatch someone to make sure."

 

            "Excellent idea, sir," Retief agreed.

 

            "Actually, I've been wondering whom I could spare long enough to attend to the chore." Treadwater put a thoughtful finger to his chins.

 

            "Indeed, sir?" Retief encouraged.

 

            "Frankly, your name popped into my mind."

 

            "Very flattering, Mr. Ambassador. A pity you assigned me to do the liquor inventory. Ottherwise I'd be delighted."

 

            "Never mind the inventory—if you're sure you really feel you should go ..."

 

            "Well ..."

 

            "Very well, then, if you insist. Though personally I think you young fellows spook too easily. Well, I must hurry along, Retief. Let me hear from you." He turned and strode away.

 

            "How'd it go, Retief?" Uptakapacheenobufers called from his doorway.

 

            "Predictably," Retief said.

 

 

II

 

            The once-purple and verdant countryside of Skweem was a wan, sun-baked expanse of water-starved fields criss-crossed with the dusty gulleys of empty irrigation ditches. Tinder-dry stalks of mudwheat stood in endless, arid rows across the cracked, concrete-like clay.

 

            Retief studied the view as he steered the official ground-car with the CDT pennant flapping from the prow along the rocky road that paralleled the dry river bed, where stranded boats rested high and dry, their formerly bright paint and rigging as bleached and sere as the land. A few listless South Skweeman peasants waved spiritless greetings from the shade of their huts as he passed. Others merely stared with drooping visual organs.

 

            It was an hour's drive to the heavy barbed-wire fence that marked the North Skweeman border. Retief pulled to a stop at the gate. A large, warty North Skweeman in official loops of braid decorated by dangling straps and medals undulated over, fingering a blast rifle of unmistakable Groaci manufacture.

 

            "What's your problem, Two-eyes?" he inquired in Skweemish.

 

            "Just a courtesy call," Retief replied in the same tongue. "Tell me, did you see another Terry pass here early this morning?"

 

            The Skweeman's eyes shifted. "Naw, nothing like that," he said flatly.

 

            "This fellow would be hard to miss," Retief persisted. "Twelve feet tall, flaming red hair all over, three eyes—"

 

            "Frinkle-fruit! The guy wasn't as big as you, and ..." His voice trailed off.

 

            "I see," Retief nodded. "Well, he was taking a birthday cake to the Groaci Ambassador, and it seems he lost the cherry off the top of it. We Terries are pitching in to help locate anyone who might have delayed him."

 

            "Not me, Terry! I waved him through and he headed straight for town—thataway." He pointed along the road.

 

            "Fine. I'll tell them you're clean, then."

 

            "Gee, thanks, fella." The guard set his gun aside and opened the gate.

 

            "Think nothing of it." Retief waved cheerily and drove through.

 

            A mile and a half past the gate he encountered a small village, identical with its South Skweeman equivalent. Rows of grass huts, of various sizes depending on the status of their occupants, were arranged around a small grassed plaza in the center of which the public structures were grouped. As Retief pulled up to the tall, conical buildings which presumably housed the town officials, half a dozen uniformed North Skweemans came to the alert. One, more elaborately decorated than his fellows, wobbled forward and looked the car over with the air of a Customs officer tipped off to a load of contraband.

 

            "What brings you here?" he demanded.

 

            "I'm looking for the Groaci Consulate General," Retief said.

 

            "Yeah? Where'd you lose it?" the Skweeman came back snappily.

 

            "The last I heard it was neck-deep in North Skweeman internal affairs," Retief replied breezily. "But that's for you fellows to worry about." He looked around the somnolent town square. "I don't suppose you know where I might find a fellow Terry who wandered over the line while chasing a promotion?"

 

            "You got that one right," the Skweeman nodded.

 

            "Well, in that case I'll just move along and take a look at the dam the Groaci suckered you into letting them build on your property." He glanced along the line of the arched river-bed to the looming wall of concrete half a mile distant. "I see it's still holding. Water's about halfway to the spillway now, eh?" He looked thoughtful.

 

            "Whattaya mean, suckered? That's the finest dam on Skweem!"

 

            "Um," Retief said. "What's it for?"

 

            "Huh? To hold back the water, whattaya think?"

 

            "Why?"

 

            "Onacountof ... so we can ... I mean, it's for ..." The Skweeman broke off. "Listen, you better talk to old Five-eyes personal; I mean, what's the big idea trying to pump me for military secrets?"

 

            "Military secrets, eh? Well, that's interesting. Just what sort of illegal military plans are you concocting over on this side of the line?"

 

            "We got no illegal plans!"

 

            "Any military plans are illegal," Retief said flatly.

 

            "Who says so?"

 

            "The CDT."

 

            "Oh, yeah?"

 

            "Uh-huh. And we have the military resources to back it up, if you'll goad us far enough. Starting a war ought to do it. And now, if you'll just sort of slither to one side, I'll get on with my business."

 

            "Hey, you can't—" The North Skweeman's words were drowned in a cloud of dust as Retief gunned the car off toward the massive pile of the dam.

 

            Retief parked the car on a stretch of bulldozed gravel on the shoulder of the hill against which the abutment was anchored. Carrying a pair of miniaturized 100x9 binoculars, he moved up in the shelter of a small shed housing the dam's power controls, looked over the scene below.

 

            To the right of the massive concrete barrier a parched valley wound away toward the North Skweeman border. Patches of mud gleaming here and there at the bottom of the gorge were all that remained of the former river. To the left stretched a broad lake of blue-black water, its breeze-riffled surface reflecting the greenish late-morning sun. Under it lay a hundred square miles of South Skweem's best farm land, now forty feet deep in backed-up river water.

 

            A narrow catwalk lined with pole-mounted polyarcs for night operations crossed the top of the dam. On the far side a crew of Skweeman construction workers in baggy ochre overalls toiled under the supervision of a spindle-legged Groaci engineer, putting the finishing touches on the job. Other Skweeman's, heavy-laden, struggled up a trail across the steep slope from below like a column of ants. A touch of color met Retief's eye. He fine-focused the glasses, picked out the sagging shape of a small hut half-concealed in the brush near the base of the dam. Through its open door he saw the edge of a coil of wire, shelves, the corners of packing cases.

 

            A Groaci supervisor stepped into the field of vision, closed the door, hung a lock on it, followed the workers up the trail. Retief lowered the glasses thoughtfully. Then, keeping low, he moved off in the concealment of deep brush.

 

            It was a stiff climb down to the floor of the ravine. Retief completed it without arousing unwelcome attention. He came up on the supply hut from the rear. Nothing moved near it now. The lock looked stout enough, but the warped boards of the door were riddled with dry rot. At a sharp kick it bounced rattlingly open.

 

            Inside, Retief looked over a stock of tools, reinforcing steel fittings, detonator caps, mechanical spares for the pumps—and a generous supply of compressed smashite: three-inch rods of a bilious yellow color, each capable of excavating a hundred cubic yards of hard rock in one blast. Quickly, Retief selected materials and set to work.

 

 

III

 

            He left the shed ten minutes later, unreeling a coil of two-conductor insulated wire behind him. The ascent to the cliff-top took half an hour, by which time the workmen had completed the task at hand and were busily packing up their tools. Retief made his way up-slope to the control shed.

 

            Its corrugated metal door stood half open. Inside, the floor was littered with snipped-off bits of wire, empty cartons that had contained switching gear and the butts of several dozen Groaci dope sticks. An inspection of the panels showed that the wiring was complete. Five more minutes' study indicated that the large white toggle switch beside the door controlled the polyarcs atop the dam.

 

            Retief brought the ends of his wires into the shed, linked them into the lighting circuit. Against the gray floor, the insulated lines were almost invisible.

 

            Back outside, he brushed loose sand over the wires leading up from below, then headed back to the car. He topped the rise, halted at sight of two bile-green cars bearing the crossed-oculars insignia of the North Skweeman Home Guard, parked across the bumpers of the CDT vehicle. There were eight armed Skweemans in sight, patrolling alertly around the blocked car, while a pair of Groaci stood by, dapper in Bermuda shorts and solar topis, deep in conversation.

 

            As Retief strolled down to meet the reception committee, the locals swiveled to cover him with their guns. The two Groaci stared, their eye-stalks twitching hypnotically. Retief recognized one as a member of the Groaci diplomatic staff.

 

            "Good morning, Lith," Retief greeted the Groaci Councillor as he came up. "Keeping busy, I see."

 

            "To depart instantly," the Groaci diplomat hissed in his faint voice. "To explain at once this illegal intrusion on North Skweeman soil!"

 

            "Which would you like first, the explanation or the departure?" Retief inquired interestedly.

 

            "To make no jest of this red-handed crime, Terran interloper!" Lith whispered urgently. His multiple eyes fell on the miniature binoculars in Retief's hand.

 

            "As I thought." He motioned to his Skweeman aides. "Your presence explains itself." He stepped back to allow the gun-handlers to close in. "Cover him," he ordered. "At the first false move, fire."

 

            "You're in a devil-may-care mood this morning," Retief noted. "Given up all hope of advancement, I suppose, and want to go out in a blaze of notoriety by making an even bigger mistake than usual."

 

            "What did you observe up there?" The second Groaci indicated the top of the rise.

 

            "Just what's there," Retief replied easily.

 

            The two Groaci exchanged glances, a feat they accomplished with one pair of eyes while keeping two on Retief and another on the Skweemans. Retief whistled in admiration.

 

            "No signalling," one of them warned.

 

            "To poke your long Terry nose in once too often," Lith said. He made a curt gesture with a pair of arms. "Take him," he commanded the Skweemans.

 

            "Before you do that—" Retief held up an admonitory hand—"maybe it would be a good idea to ask Lith what the future plan for North Skweem might be—if North Skweem has a future."

 

            "Silence!" Lith keened. "To take care, Terry, not to tempt me too far!"

 

            . "Hey, talk Skweemish," one of the guards objected. "What are you two foreigners cooking up, anyway?"

 

            "We're merely nattering of trivialities," Lith explained. "Now do your duty, fellows."

 

            "Yeah ... but I been thinking: this sapsucker is a Terry diplomat."

 

            "Enough," Lith cut him off. "I assure you no complaints will be lodged by his associates."

 

            The Skweemans closed in on Retief. "All right, big boy, let's go," the lieutenant said, poking his gun at the prisoner.

 

            Retief glanced at the weapon. It was a heavy-duty power pistol, a Groacian copy of an early Terran type.

 

            "Have you ever fired that thing?" he inquired interestedly.

 

            "Who, me?" the Skweeman rotated a number of sense organs in a gesture expressing astonishment. "Heck, no. We got orders to only shoot at live targets." He looked meaningfully at Retief.

 

            "A wise precaution. I understand that model blows up rather easily. That's why the Groaci sold them to you at bargain prices."

 

            "To make no attempt to subvert my minions!" Lith hissed.

 

            "I wouldn't dream of it," Retief assured the ruffled diplomat. "I prefer minions who change sides on their own."

 

            "You will have long to wait for that eventuality," Lith snapped. "In a cell which, alas, lacks most of the amenities."

 

            "That's all right," Retief said. "Perhaps I won't be in it long enough to need them."

 

            Lith vibrated his throat-sac, expressing amusement.

 

            "You may be right, my dear Terran," he commented blandly. "Now, into your vehicle, and drive as directed, remembering that guns are upon you!"

 

            Escorted by the two police cars, Retief drove the CUT Monojag at a sedate pace along the indicated route to the village, pulled it.in before a low mud brick building with one small window set with metal bars. Lith and the Skweeman police surrounded him as he stepped out into the street. One of the cops stared into the interior oHhe Monojag.

 

            "Hey, this is a fancy job," he commented. "What's that?" He pointed at a short red-handled lever labeled EMERGENCY LIFT. At his side, Lith goggled, then whirled on Retief.

 

            "To explain at once!" he hissed. "Our intelligence reports have indicated that vehicles so equipped are capable of VTO and supersonic speeds! Why, then, did you permit yourself to be so docilely convoyed?"

 

            "Well, Lith, maybe those reports you read were exaggerated," Retief smiled deprecatingly. "After all, your gumshoe brigades have to report something."

 

            Lith snorted. "So much for the vaunted Terry technology." He turned to his troops.

 

            "Lock him up."

 

            The Skweemans closed in to box Retief, like alert, waist-high goblins modelled in blotchy clay; their guns prodded him along an alley to a small metal door set in the side of the brick building. The lieutenant opened it with a clumsy electrokey, waved him inside. The door clanked shut and a shadowy figure rose up, its face pale in the dim light.

 

            "Retief!" First Secretary Magnan gasped. "You mean they captured you, too?"

 

            "It seemed the simplest way to solve the problem of finding you," Retief said. "Now all we have is the problem of getting out."

 

 

IV

 

            The Skweeman sun was low in the sky now. A brisk, hot wind had sprung up from the north, whirling streamers of dust into the cell through the barred window from which Retief watched the activity in the street. Behind him, Magnan turned away, coughing.

 

            "They're as busy as Verpp in moulting season," he sniffed. "No one is paying us the slightest attention. I suppose we may rot here for hours more before Ambassador Treadwell secures our release."

 

            "There's just one cop patrolling the jail now," Retief said. "The rest of them have trooped off, arm in arm with their friends the Groaci. I think we picked a bad time for our calls; they're up to something.

 

            "I can't think what's keeping him!" Magnan eyed his watch fretfully. "I'm missing my afternoon coffee break, to say nothing of dinner." He sighed heavily, settled himself on the floor.

 

            "I simply can't grasp it," he muttered. "The Groaci are famed for their chicaneries, but open diplomat-napping broaches an entirely new field of rascality. Why, an honest diplomat won't even be able to run around to trouble areas, picking up eye-witness impressions, without the risk of being treated as a mere spy."

 

            "On the other hand, if we join in the spirit of the thing—" Retief turned from the window—"we might find that it opens up new avenues to us, too." He went across to the narrow door, leaned over the barred, waist-high opening, and shouted for the guard.

 

            "Good idea." Magnan got to his feet. "I think it's time we spoke sharply to these brigands. Just step aside, Retief, and I'll drop a few broad hints." His voice faded as the fierce visage of the police lieutenant appeared beyond the aperture. Retief spoke first:

 

            "Do you have any idea what a blaster would do to you if I fired from this range?" he inquired. "Don't give any alarm," he went on as the speechless cop goggled into the dark cell. "Just quietly unlock the door—and be sure no one notices anything unusual going on."

 

            "B ... b ... b ..."the Skweeman said.

 

            "You can express your astonishment later," Retief said briskly. "Open up now, before I have to demonstrate how well armed I am."

 

            "I ...1 didn't see any weapon on you when we brought you in," the jailer expostulated.

 

            "Naturally; it's the sort of thing a fellow likes to keep secret. Hop to it, now. My trigger finger is twitching."

 

            "I had to be a wise guy and volunteer to be a big shot," the Skweeman muttered to himself. Retief heard the scrape of the key in the lock. Tumblers clicked over. The door swung in with a dry squeak.

 

            "Shhh!" Magnan put a finger to his lips, looked severely at the native as he sidled out past him. He looked both ways.

 

            "The coast seems to be clear," he whispered as Retief lifted the cop's pistol from its holster. "Maybe you'd better let me have one of the guns."

 

            "Hey!" The Skweeman waved several sensory organs in an agitated way. "I don't see any blaster— except mine!"

 

            "Nothing wrong with your vision, anyway," Retief congratulated him. Now we have to be running along." He looked thoughtfully at the local. "I really should shoot you ..."he said judiciously.

 

            "Sh ... shoot me?" the Skweeman gulped. "But I' ve got a couple of dozen chicks ready to break through the shell any day now! Those little devils will have the hide off the old lady in five minutes flat if I'm not there to protect her when they hatch out!"

 

            "On the other hand," Retief went on, "I could give you a break."

 

            "Yeah!" the Skweeman breathed. "Now you're talking, Terry!"

 

            "You just carry on as though nothing had happened. We'll go about our business and trouble you no more. I don't think you'll want to bother Uncle Lith by mentioning our departure; he might take the unreasonable attitude that you're in some way to blame. Just play them close to your medals and act innocent when they notice the cell's empty."

 

            "You bet, boss. I always knew you Terries were gents. Between us, I never went much for that two-legged slicker—"

 

            "Mind your derogatory references to the number of a being's limbs, sir," Magnan said stiffly. "Two legs appears to me to be an admirable endowment of such members."

 

            "Sure, no offense, gents. Now, how's about beating it quick, before somebody comes along? And you better give me back my gun. Somebody might get nosy if I don't have it."

 

            Retief ejected the power cylinder from the butt of the gun, dropped it into his pocket, handed the empty weapon over.

 

            "We can't reach the car," he said to Magnan. "They towed it away to tinker with at leisure. Weil have to ease out the back way and see how far we get."

 

            Keeping to the narrow alley, Retief and Magnan safely traversed a block of ragged grass dwellings, emerged at the end of a long avenue that meandered down a slope toward the mile-distant fence marking the South Skweeman border, barely visible now in the late twilight.

 

            "If there were just some way to cover that ghastly open stretch," Magnan muttered, "we could be safe in a matter of minutes ..."He broke off, pointed at a flickering glow, a smudge of smoke rising lazily from a point near the gate where the road crossed the international line. "What's that? Dust, perhaps? Or smoke?"

 

            "The wind's from the north," Retief said. "And there's nothing but twenty miles of dry mud-wheat between here and those haystacks housing our friends, the South Skweeman leaders. Something tells me that's a fire, Mr. Magnan—and not an accidental one."

 

            "Fire?" Magnan gasped. "Great heavens, Retief— the capital is directly down-wind! They'll be roasted alive—the Ambassador, the staff, the South Skweemans—and no water anywhere to fight the blaze!"

 

            "That's one way of influencing an election," Retief pointed out.

 

            "Why, there's nothing to keep it from burning off the prairie all the way to the sea," Magnan blurted. "The entire country will be incinerated! There'll be nothing left of our allies but a pall of smoke!"

 

            There was a scratchy Skweeman shout from behind the Terrans. They turned to see a policeman approaching up the alley on the run—a spectacle not unlike a cubic yard of olive-drab noodles rolling up-hill.

 

            "Let's go," Retief snapped. He turned and ran for it, with Magnan pelting at his heels and a gathering force of pursuers baying on the trail.

 

-

 

            "It's ... no ... use," Magnan gasped as they toiled up the last hundred yards toward the mighty flank of the dam. "They're ... gaining." He cast a look back at the mob of half a hundred North Skweeman patriots strung out in a torch-waving line-halfway to the village.

 

            "Just a little farther," Retief caught Magnan's arm and hauled him along. "You're doing fine."

 

            They reached the top of the dam, massive and ominous in the darkness. A blaster bolt crackled blue nearby, from extreme range.

 

            "Retief, we're not going to cross that!" Magnan stared in horror at the narrow unrailed catwalk that led out to disappear in darkness, the great black void on one side, the lapping waters slapping at the concrete on the other.

 

            "Unless we want to be shot, we are." Retief started out at a trot. Magnan bleated, then followed, edging along flat-footed. Another shot chipped concrete behind him. He yelped and broke into a nervous canter.

 

            They reached the far side, scrambled up the dry slope, lit only by the blaster that peppered them with flying gravel as the shots struck around them.

 

            "Where are they?" a Skweeman voice sounded. "I can't see a thing; those Terries must have eyes like a weenie-bug!"

 

            "Lights," someone else called. "Don't let 'em get away, boys!"

 

            Retief stood, cupped his hands beside his mouth.

 

            "Lith," he called. "A word of advice: don't light up!"

 

            "We can't ... hide here," Magnan gasped out. "No cover ... and those shots ... getting close!" He dived flat as a shot kicked up dirt almost at his feet.

 

            "They won't find us in the dark," Retief said.

 

            "But—they'll switch on the lights."

 

            "There is that chance—but they were warned."

 

            There was a shock through the mound that bounced both men three inches into the air. Then a deep-throated tooom! rolled from the abyss like chained thunder, as brilliant light flooded the entire length of the dam.

 

            Retief raised his head, saw great chunks of masonry rising with languid grace high in the air. Atop the stricken dam, the few bold Skweemans who had started across dithered momentarily, then pelted for safety as the walkway subsided with dream-like majesty under them. Most of them reached the far side as the immense bulk of the dam cracked with a boom like a cannon; the rest dived for the glistening surface of the pent-up water, splashed desperately for shore as dust boiled up from the gorge, obscuring the scene of destruction.

 

            Polyarcs still blazing bravely, the great dam crumbled, sinking from sight. Wave after wave of sound rolled across the slope. Rocks and pebbles thudded down near the diplomats. They gained their feet, sprinted for the top of the hill, then turned, watched as the surface of the artificial lake heaved, recoiling ponderously from the blast, then bulged toward the broached dam, formed a vast spout like translucent black syrup that arched out, out, over, and spilled down, foaming white now, plunging into the boiling dust. The ground shook as the incalculable tonnage of water struck far below. A roaring like caged dinosaurs bellowed upward from the gorge as the river poured back into its bed in a torrent that shredded concrete and steel from the broken rim of the dam like water dissolving dry mud. In a scant five minutes, nothing remained of the great Groaci Dam but the denuded abutments, studded with the stripped ends of clustered reinforcing rods.

 

            "Retief!" Magnan piped over the roar of the waters. "The ... the dam broke!"

 

            Retief nodded judiciously. "Yes, Mr. Magnan," he said. "I think you could say that."

 

 

V

 

            Retief and Magnan waded past the tattered remains of the soggy huts thrusting up from the swirling, mud-brown waters that covered the site of the South Skweeman capital, inundated by the flood that had swept down so abruptly an hour earlier. Ambassador Treadwater stood with his staff before the remains of the Chancery hut, waist deep in the flow. "Ah, there you are, Magnan." He turned to look disapprovingly at the new arrivals. "Remind me to speak to you about punctuality. I'd almost begun to wonder if you'd met with foul play. Even considered sending someone after you."

 

            "Mr. Ambassador—about all this water—"

 

            "Hark!" Someone raised a hand torch, shot its blue-white beam out across the water, picked up the low silhouette of an inflated dinghy on which a number of bedraggled, knobby-kneed Groaci crouched. Several Skweemans splashed forward to intercept the craft.

 

            "Well, nice of you to drop in, my dear Shish," Treadwater called. "Most unfortunate that your engineers have apparently proved unequal to their task. Possibly their slide-rules were out of adjustment. Still their timing was good, conflagration wise."

 

            He smiled sourly as the staff chuckled dutifully.

 

            "Bah, the design was flawless," Shish whispered as the raft bobbed on the ripples. "We were sabotaged!"

 

            "Sabotage?" Treadwater surveyed the Groaci Ambassador as haughtily as his sodden puce cutaway would allow. "I think you are as aware as I that import of explosives to an emergent planet like Skweem is quite impossible, but for certain industrial types allocated to massive engineering projects."

 

            "You suggest that Groaci detonants were employed in this dastardly fashion? Why, the very idea ..." Shish fell sulkily silent.

 

            "Confidentially, Retief," Magnan whispered behind his hand, "Just what do you supposed'd happen to the dam?"

 

            "Possibly someone got their wires crossed," Retief murmured.

 

            "Now, Mr. Ambassador," Treadwater said. "I fear I shall have to expropriate your conveyance for official CDT use. I find it necessary to remove to my hill station at once to prepare my dispatches." He broke off as a muddy scarecrow faintly recognizable as the Agricultural Attache splashed up to join the group.

 

            "Did you notice the current change, Mr. Ambassador?" he cried gaily. "The water's draining off into the river bed now—and the new channel cut by the flood is just this side of the border. I fancy we'll have no more interference from these meddlesome Groaci—oh, Ambassador Shish," he nodded to the sodden dignitary. "Nice night Your Excellency."

 

            "Bah," Shish replied.

 

            The attache was rubbing his hands together. "My preliminary study seems to indicate that the inundation has deposited a good six inches of new topsoil over a large portion of South Skweem. All scoured off Northern Skweem, of course, but then, they will allow defective dams to be built on their land ..." His voice trailed off. He pointed across the rapidly receding waters. Amid much splashing, a large party of Skweemans was approaching at a rapid clip.

 

            "Gad!" Colonel Pluckwyn boomed. "We're being invaded!"

 

            "Here, do something!" Treadwater turned to Shish. "They're your allies! Tell them to go along quietly and we'll see about a handsome CDT reparation for any inconvenience—"

 

-

 

            "I claim sanctuary!" Shish whistled in agitation. "Treadwater, it's your duty to protect me and my chaps from these soreheads!"

 

            "They do appear somewhat irate." Magnan began backing away. "Don't lose your heads, gentlemen!" Treadwater croaked. "We'll demand the privileges of honorable prisoners of war—"

 

            "We haven't lost, yet," Retief pointed out.

 

            "An excellent point, Mr. Retief." The Ambassador reached for the Groaci raft. "I hereby appoint you as a special committee to meet with these fellows and study their grievances. If you can drag the talks out for an hour, the rest of us will go for help."

 

            "Quite an honor, my boy," Colonel Pluckwyn said, as he tumbled a faintly protesting Groaci over the side. "And you merely a Second Secretary."

 

            "I don't think we should do anything hasty," Retief said. "Now that the North Skweemans have had a taste of Groaci sponsorship, they may be ready for our program."

 

            Councillor Lith, showing signs of wear and tear, surfaced beside Retief, having been replaced by a Terran aboard the raft. "Some day, Terry, the truth of this affair will out," he hissed in faint Groaci ferocity.

 

            "Why be pessimistic?" Retief responded. "If you play your cards right, the North Skweemans may never learn that the dam was placed so that when the basin was full you could open the flood gates and wipe out their capital along with anything that might have been left of South Skweem, leaving an open field for a Groaci take-over."

 

            "What? Are you suggesting—"

 

            "I'd suggest dawn as a reasonable deadline," Retief went on. "If you wade along with Ambassador Treadwater, you can get off a 'gram and have a ship in here to pick you up by then. I can't guarantee that I can keep it quiet much longer than that."

 

            "Hey!" Dimplick shouted suddenly. "Look at the placard they're waving!" Retief glanced toward the approaching North Skweemans, coming up rapidly now.

 

            "Why, those appear to be hastily lettered pro-Terry slogans," the Political Officer burst out.

 

            "Have you lost your wits?" Treadwater rumbled. He peered through the gloom. "Hmmm. It appears you're right." He straightened his back. "Just as I expected, of course. I knew that my policies toward these fellows would bear fruit, given time." He shot Magnan a reproving look. "A pity you chose to go junketing just at the climactic point of the finesse. You missed a valuable lesson in diplomatic subtlety."

 

            Magnan opened his mouth, caught a look from Retief, closed it again.

 

            "I'm sure we were all fooled by Your Excellency's apparent total inactivity, sir," he gulped.

 

            "Exactly." Treadwater beamed around at the others as the front-runners of the North Skweeman delegation arrived, uttering cries of delight and pledging eternal friendship. "It appears we'll have a solid electorate behind us, gentlemen! My job—that is to say, the future of Terran-Skweeman relations seems secure. Now, if we just had an adequate Project Proposal to offer Sector Headquarters, our cup would be brimming." He stepped forward, began shaking members left to right. "Sir!" Secretary Dimplick bounded forward. "I've a dandy notion! Why not build a new capital for United Skweem to replace the former city swept away by the flood?"

 

            "Of course!" Colonel Pluckwyn chimed in. "My idea exactly; just waiting for an appropriate moment to mention it. I'd also suggest a massive aid program to rectify the other ravages of the disaster."

 

            "Food!" the Agricultural Attache shouted. "I think I can justify a schedule of deliveries under the Chrunchies for Lunchies program that will keep two dozen Corps bottoms in use for the next fiscal quarter!"

 

            "Superb, gentlemen!" Treadwater warbled. "I can see promotions all around—to say nothing of extra staff, monuments to Skweeman independence and democratic solidarity, larger operational budgets, and a magnificent new Terran Chancery rising from the ruins!"

 

            "Say, Mr. Retief." The junior Third Secretary plucked at his sleeve. "I thought these North Skweemans were little better than dacoits and brigands; suddenly they're welcomed as bosom friends.

 

            "True, they're a shifty lot," Retief confided as he accepted a moist Skweeman handshake. "But who are we to be choosy?"

 

-