GRIME AND PUNISHMENT

 

 

I

 

            THE VOICE of Consul General Magnan, Terran envoy to Slunch, crackled sharply through Vice-consul Retief's earphones as he steered the slab-sided mud-car up the slope through the dense smog issuing from the innumerable bubbling mud-pockets in the rocky ground.

 

            "Retief, this whole idea is insane! We're likely to bog down or be blown up; we'll have to turn back!"

 

            "It's just a few hundred yards now," Retief replied.

 

            "Look here! As chief of mission, I'm responsible for the safety of all Terran personnel on Slunch, which means, specifically, you and me. It's not that I'm timid, you understand, but—Look out!" he shouted suddenly, as Retief cut hard at the wheel to avoid the uprearing form of a twenty-foot tangleworm. Magnan chopped with his machete as the blind creature swung its capacious jaws toward him. Brown juices spattered as the severed, football head tumbled into the car, still biting the air.

 

            He kicked it away and wiped a mud-stained sleeve across his face, peering ahead through the smoky air.

 

            "There it is now," Retief pointed. Through the murky atmosphere, a dull glow swam into visibility. Half a minute later the mud-car came to a halt at the brink of a vast sinkhole, from which choking, sulphurous fumes rose in ochre billows, reflecting the fitful play of light from below.

 

            Retief swung over the side of the car, went forward to the precipitous edge. Magnan advanced cautiously behind him.

 

            "You see those openings down there?" Retief pointed through the swirling vapors. "I think we can work our way down along the ledge on this side, then—"

 

            "Great heavens, Retief!" Magnan broke in. "You seriously propose that we explore this—this subterranean furnace—on foot?" His voice rose to the breaking point.

 

            "We'll be all right inside our thermal suits," the junior diplomat said. "If we can discover which vents are the ones—"

 

            "Mark!" Magnan raised a hand. A new, deeper, rumble was rising to drown the fretful murmurings from underfoot.

 

            "Is that—could that be high tide coming?" he gasped.

 

            Retief shook his head. "Not due for six hours yet. You're not by any chance expecting a ship today?"

 

            "A ship? No, I wasn't—but yes—it could be ..." Far above, a faint bluish light flickered through the clouds, descending. "It is!" Magnan turned toward the car. "Come along, Retief! We'll have to go back at once!"

 

            Ten minutes later, the car emerged from the fumes of the field onto an expanse of waving foot-high stems which leaned to snatch at the car's oversized wheels with tiny claws. Retief shifted to low gear, to the accompaniment of ripping sounds as the strands of tough grabgrass parted. Beyond the town, the newly arrived vessel stood, a silvery dart against the black clouds rolling slowly upward from the tar pits in the distance.

 

            "Retief, that's a Corps vessel!" Magnan said excitedly. "Heavens! You don't suppose Sector has decided to cut the tour of duty on Slunch to three months, and sent our relief along a year and a half ahead of schedule?"

 

            "It's more likely they're shipping us a new ping-pong table .to soften the blow of the news the tour's being extended to five years."

 

            "Even ping-pong equipment would be a shade nearer the mark than the six gross of roller skates the Recreational Service sent out, Magnan sniffed.

 

            "They're running out the VIP pennant," Retief called.

 

            Magnan shaded his eyes. "Damn it! No doubt it's a party of junketing legislators, out to be wined and dined out of our consular luxury allowance."

 

            Five minutes later, the car pulled up in the lee of the gleaming vessel with the ornate crest of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne blazoned on its prow. Already, a few questing runners of creeper vine had found the ship and were making their way rapidly up the landing vanes and twining over the access lock. As Magnan descended, machete in hand, to clear the entry, the ship's exit lock swung open and extruded a landing ramp. Half a dozen Terrans, resplendent in pearl-gray pre-tiffin sub-informal coveralls and lime green seersucker dickeys emerged, drawing deep, healing lungfuls of air and immediately coughing violently.

 

            "No time to waste, gentlemen," Magnan called, his voice muffled by his breathing mask. "Everybody out and into the car!"

 

            A stout man with the look of a senior attache shied violently as Magnan confronted him. Those behind recoiled toward the lock.

 

            "Good Lord! Dacoits!" The fat man raised his hands, backing away. "Don't strike sir! We're merely harmless bureaucrats!"

 

            "Eh?" Magnan stared at the newcomers. "Look here, I don't wish to alarm you, but unless you come along at once, you're all going to be in serious danger. The air ..."

 

            "Ransom!" the fat man cried. "I have a doting auntie, sir, who'll pay handsomely! The old minniehas more money than she knows what to do with."

 

            "What's going on here!" A tall, broad-shouldered man had appeared at the lock, staring down at the tableau with a stern look.

 

            "Lookout, sir!" a small, wispy staffer chirped. "He has a dreadful-looking sword!"

 

            "I'll handle this!" The big man pushed forward, stared down at Magnan. "Now then, what was it you wanted, fellow?"

 

            "Why, ah," the consul general temporized, backing a step. "I just came out to welcome you to Slunch, sir, and to offer you transportation back to the consulate—"

 

            "You 're from the consulate?" the big man boomed. "Of course."

 

            "I'll have a word to say to the consul about sending a sweeper to welcome an arriving trade mission," the fat attache said, pushing forward. "I knew the moment I laid eyes on him."

 

            Magnan gobbled. "A full-scale trade mission? But I've only been here three months! There hasn't been time—"

 

            "Ha!" the big man cut him off. "I'm beginning to understand. You're a member of the diplomatic staff, are you?" He looked Magnan up and down, taking in the hip boots, the gauntlets, the battered poncho, the black smudges of soot under his eyes.

 

            "Of course. And—"

 

            "Yes, you'd be that fellow Whatshisname. They told me about you back at Sector. Well, there are a number of matters I intend to set you straight on at the outset." The big man's steely eye transfixed the astounded Magnan. "I'm putting you on notice that I have no sympathy with undisciplined upstarts!"

 

            "I ... I think your excellency has the wrong upstart," Magnan stammered. "That's Retief over there, in the old horse blanket. I'm Magnan, the principal officer."

 

            "Wha ...?"

 

            "It's not really a horse blanket," Magnan amended hastily. "Actually it's an urze-beast blanket. It's for the mud, you understand; and the rain, and the soot, and the nitmites—"

 

            "Well, anyone could have made the mistake," the fat staff member said. "This chap certainly looks ferocious enough."

 

            "That's enough!" The new arrival thrust out his lower lip. "I'm Rainsinger. Just pass along what I said to the proper party."

 

            He smoothed his features with an effort. "Mr. Magnan, you'll be delighted to know I've brought along a number of items for you."

 

            "How grand!" Magnan beamed. "Gourmet foods for the consulate larder, I suppose? A nice selection of wines, of course—and possibly—" he winked playfully—"a library of racy sense-tapes?"

 

            Rainsinger blinked. "Nothing so frivolous," he said flatly. "Actually, it's an automatic tombstone factory, complete, adequate to serve a community of one hundred thousand souls." He rubbed his hands together briskly. "After we've gotten the natives started on proper interment, we can expand into the casket and embalming end. The possibilities are staggering." His eye fell on the mud car. "What's that?"

 

            "You gentlemen will have to excuse the' limousine," Magnan said. "Freddy didn't have time to dust it up after the little shower we had this morning. Mind your trousers, now."

 

            "This is a Marx DC diplomatic issue limousine?" The fat man gaped at the conveyance. "Why, it's made of baling wire and clapboards!"

 

            "The mud crabs ate the other body," Magnan explained. "They found the plastic highly palatable. I saved the cigar lighters, though."

 

            "By golly, speaking of eating, I could do with a bite of lunch," the fat man said to no one in particular.

 

            Rainsinger gave Magnan a hard stare. "Well, under the circumstances, I suppose a case could be made for a Report of Survey. By the way, how is the berp-nut crop?" He looked around the mud-coated port. "How many bottoms will you require for the first shipment?"

 

            "Ah ... none, to be precise," Magnan said faintly. "There isn't any shipment."

 

            "No berp-nuts?" Rainsinger's left eyebrow went up as the right came down in a ferocious scowl. "As I understand your instructions, Magnan, your sole mission here is to flog up a little enthusiasm among the Slunchans for Terry goods. Since berp-nuts are the sole Slunchan source of foreign exchange, I fail to see how we can succeed without them!"

 

            "Unfortunately, the mud seems to have a corrosive effect on most everything we manufacture," Magnan said. "Like shoes, for example." He eyed Rain-singer's feet. The visitor followed his gaze.

 

            "My shoes!" he yelped. "Magnan, you idiot, get me out of this mud at once!"

 

            Coughing, the newcomers sloshed across to the vehicle, mounted the rude ladder, stared with dismay at the mud-coated benches.

 

            "Hold tight," Magnan called with an attempt at gaiety. "Weil have to hurry to get you in out of the weather. Don't be alarmed. We should get through with no more than a few mud burns, and maybe the old firebug bite."

 

            At the wheel, he gunned the car in a wide circle, inadvertently sending a sheet of mud sluicing over the polished stern of the vessel and the crisp whites of the crewmen peering from the lock. There were shrill cries as the passengers went reeling to form an untidy heap at the rear of the car. Of the visitors, only Inspector Rainsinger remained on his feet, gripping the upright that supported the sheet-metal awning.

 

            "You'll soon catch on," Magnan called over his shoulder. "Gracious, you already look like old veterans, and you've only been here ten minutes!"

 

 

II

 

            Magnan steered the car across the soft, black half-inch mud of the plaza, pulled up before an entry where a paunchy, splay-footed little humanoid with a flattened skull and a loose, liver-colored hide leaned on a combination broom-rake, humming to himself.

 

            "Drive on, Mr. Magnan," Rainsinger barked." We can tour the slum areas later, after my staff and I have had an opportunity to freshen up a bit."

 

            "But—but this is the consulate," Magnan explained with a glassy smile.

 

            Rainsinger stared with a darkening expression at the scorched, chipped and discolored facade, banked with drifted muck from which tufts of greenery sprouted.

 

            "This is the new building, completed only ninety standard days ago at a cost of one hundred thousand credits of Corps funds?"

 

            "Ah, that's right, sir." Magnan climbed down from his seat.

 

            Rainsinger looked down at the sea of oleaginous black mud in which the car rested hub-deep. "I'm supposed to walk through that?" he demanded.

 

            "Retief could carry you," Magnan proposed brightly.

 

            Rainsinger shot him a sharp look. "If there's any carrying to be done, I'll do it." He stepped down, followed by his staff, squelched through the ankle-deep mud that coated the ornamental tile steps. As they passed, Magnan beckoned to the native sweeper.

 

            "See here, Freddy, let's see a little more spit and polish," he whispered. "Don't just knock those mud-puppy nests down; sweep the extra mud into neat little piles or something. We don't want our visitors to imagine we've grown slovenly, you know. And you'd better dig out the entrance to the snack bar and squirt a little more deodorant around; the stench-fungus is getting the upper hand again."

 

            "Mud smooth nice my up messing are fellows these, Magnan Mister, hey!" the local protested in his scratchy voice.

 

            "It's all right, Freddy," Magnan soothed. "Ah ... headquarters from shots big, they're," he added in an undertone.

 

            Inside, Rainsinger stared about incredulously at the runners of vine poking in through shattered windows, the dried and caked mud through which footpaths led to the grand staircase, itself well nigh buried under a luxuriant growth of coiling green weed. He started as a sharp-nosed rat scurried into view, scuttled away into the shelter of a pile of brush heaped carelessly beside the balustrade.

 

            "Shall we have a look at the chancery wing?" he inquired in ominous tones.

 

            "Say, where do we eat lunch?" the portly attache looked around curiously.

 

            "Maybe we'd better not go up just yet ..." Magnan broke off as a cascade of brown water came surging down from the landing above, bearing with it a flotsam of papers, twigs, vigorously swimming small animals and other odds and ends. The stream struck the floor, sluiced its way across to the exit and poured out into the street, eliciting a loud cry from Freddy.

 

            "Conception esthetic whole my up loused they've!" his voice was hoarse with indignation. "On going what's?"

 

            "Unplugged drains those got I, Magnan Mister Oh!" a cheery Slunthan voice called from above.

 

            "Hmmm. Unfortunate timing," Magnan said. "But at least it scoured a path for us." He led the way up the stairs and along a corridor, the walls of which were obscured by a ragged growth of vines, through which discolored wallpaper was visible. He ducked under a festoon of creepers undulating in a doorway, waved the team members into his spacious office. Rainsinger stopped dead as his eye fell on the mud-clotted weeds layering the floor, the slab of rough ironwood spanning two upended oil drums serving as a desk, the clustered stems crowding the glassless windows.

 

            There was a moment of profound silence. Then:

 

            "Gentlemen!" The trade mission chief's voice had something of the quality of a volcano preparing to erupt. "During my career I've encountered slackness, inefficiency and disorder at many a station. A little dust on the filing cabinets, a few dope-stick burns in the upholstery, gum wrappers in the John—even some minor discrepancies in the voucher files—all these are normal concomitants of life at a remote post. But this!" His voice rose. "This model town, built with CDT funds as a gift to the Slunchan people less than six months ago—a perfect example of civic design produced by the most skillful Deep Think teams on the departmental payroll! Look at it! A blighted area! A pest hole! And the consulate general itself! Two inches of mud in the main lounge! Broken drains flooding the halls! Rats, mice and vermin swarming in every nook and cranny! Weeds sprouting in the corridors! Broken glass! Vanished furnishings! Vandalism! Dereliction of duty! Destruction of Corps property! And withal— no berp-nuts!"

 

            With an effort he pulled his voice back into the lower registers and directed a chilling gaze at Magnan.

 

            "Sir, as of this moment you may consider yourself suspended, relieved of duty and under close house arrest! Under emergency powers vested in me under Article Nine, Section Four, Title Two of Corps Regulations, I'm taking personal command!"

 

            "But—but, sir!" Magnan protested. "I haven't yet had time to settle in, as it were. The mud crabs ate the furniture; and the conditions here—the mud tides and the cinder storms, and the shortage of local labor and ... and ..."

 

            "Say, I was wondering—how about a sandwich," the fat attache put in.

 

            "No excuses!" Rainsinger bellowed. "We built the town to point these benighted natives the way to higher living standards and an increased consumption of Terry-manufactured goods! A fine example you've set, sir! But I'll do what I can in the eleventh hour to retrieve the situation!"

 

            He whirled on his staff.

 

            "Blockchip, you'll take a detail and attend to the broken plumbing. Horace—" he addressed the stout attache— "you'll see to shovelling out the mud from the ground floor. Poindexter will seal off the upper floors and fumigate. As for you, Mr. Magnan—I'm suspending your arrest long enough for you to round up an adequate labor force to unload the cargo I brought in." He looked at his old-fashioned strap watch.

 

            "I'll expect to see this building spotless by sundown, in time for a reception to be held this evening at eight o'clock sharp. Full formal attire, including clean fingernails! I'll show these natives how civilized Terrans live—and inspire the wish to emulate us!"

 

            "Ah—there might be a little trouble about the local labor," Magnan spoke up. "The Slunchans have rigid taboos against working on weekdays."

 

            "This is Sunday!"

 

            "How true, sir. Unfortunately, they don't work on Sundays, either."

 

            "Offer them double wages!"

 

            "They don't use money."

 

            "Then offer them what they want!"

 

            "All they want is for us to go away."

 

            "Mr. Magnan." Rainsinger cut him off with an ominous tone. "I suggest you discontinue your obstructionism at once, or the word 'insubordination' will be cropping up in my report, along with a number of other terms non-conducive to rapid advancement in the service!" He broke off to grab up a bound volume of Corps regulations from the improvised desk and hurl it at an inquisitive vine rat which poked its snout above the window sill.

 

            "Oh, I wouldn't do that, sir," Magnan blurted. "In about five hours—"

 

            "Save your advice!" Rainsinger roared. "I'm in charge here now! You may make yourself useful by ringing up the Slunchan Foreign Minister and making me an appointment. I'll show you how to handle these locals! In an hour I'll have him begging for Terran imports!"

 

            "Ah, about lunch," the stout attache began.

 

            "I'll have him here in a jiffy," Magnan said. He stepped to the door. "Oh, Freddy," he called. A moment later a Slunchan appeared in the doorway.

 

            "It is what; boss, yeah?" the local looked around the office. "Mat floor a for sneakweed the using, effect snazzy a that's, say!" he exclaimed.

 

            "Mr. Rainsinger, may I present—" Magnan started.

 

            "Here, isn't this the fellow who was raking mud at the front door as we came in?" Rainsinger demanded.

 

            "Yes, indeed. Of course Freddy is just filling in for the regular man. As I was saying, may I present Sir Frederik Gumbubu, K.G.E., L. deC., N.G.S., Slunchan Minister of Foreign Affairs."

 

            "A Foreign Minister? A part-time janitor?" Rainsinger took the proffered hand gingerly.

 

            "Know you, do to ministering foreign my got I've," the Slunchan said defensively. "Janitor time full a be to me expect couldn't you, all after, well." He rolled a ball of dried mud between his fingers, lined up on a framed photo of the sector undersecretary and scored a bull's-eye.

 

            "Mr. Magnan, I stand astounded at your ingenuity," Rainsinger said in a voice like broken crockery. "Not content with failing in your mission while violating every regulation in the book, you invent a unique offense by demeaning an official of a friendly foreign power to the performance of menial tasks in your own Consulate!"

 

            "But, sir! Freddy's one of the few locals with a taste for Pepsi. And the only way he can get it," he added behind his hand, "is to work here. I pay him off with a case a week."

 

            "Get somebody else!"

 

            "Job my me lose to trying you are—hey?" Freddy broke in.

 

            "I can't!" Magnan wailed. "Scout's honor, sir— they won't work!"

 

            "Union labor the with beef a for looking you're maybe," Freddy said. "Action fast you promise can I, member sole and president the be to happen I as and!"

 

            "Look here, ah, Sir Frederik." Rainsinger faced the foreign minister. "I'm sure we can work out a mutually agreeable arrangement. You round up and send along about a hundred good workers, and I'll see to it that Slunch is given full Most Favored Nation status in the new Trade Agreement I'm about to propose."

 

            "It do can't, nope," the Slunchan said shortly.

 

            "Now, don't be hasty, Mr. Minister," Rainsinger persisted. "I'm prepared to promise you prompt shipment of any items you care to' name. What about a nice line of genuine machine-loomed antimacassars, inscribed with patriotic and inspirational mottos? I can make you an attractive price on lots of a hundred thousand."

 

            Sir Frederik shook his flat head sadly. "Items luxury afford can't we, bringing nuts-berps prices the at— nix!"

 

            Rainsinger took the minister's elbow in a fatherly grip. "Now, Freddy ..."

 

            "It's no use, sir," Magnan interposed glumly. "Lord knows I've tried. But they're incurably content. They already have everything they want."

 

            "That's enough of your defeatism," Rainsinger snapped. "You'd best be on your way, and take Mr. Retief with you. I'll pitch in myself, as soon as I've given a few more instructions. We have a great deal of ground to cover if we're to be ready to receive our guests in four and a half hours!"

 

 

III

 

            "Well, Magnan," Rainsinger complacently surveyed the chattering conversational groups of Slunchans and Terrans dotted across the gleaming ballroom floor, newly ornamented along one wall by a tasteful display of engraved headstones and funerary urns. "I must say we've acquitted ourselves creditably. And I've taken measures to insure conditions don't deteriorate again." He lifted a glass from a passing tray borne by a Slunchan who limped heavily.

 

            "Hmmm. Chap seems to have a cast on his foot," the Inspector remarked. "Couldn't you have secured able-bodied personnel to staff the catering function, Magnan?"

 

            "He's not actually injured, sir," Magnan said. "He just happened to step in some, er, material."

 

            "Say, isn't that a lump of powdered tombstone adhering to his foot?" Rainsinger demanded suspiciously. "I hope you haven't handled my cargo carelessly!"

 

            "Say, when are the sandwiches coming?" the stout attache inquired testily.

 

            "Ah, here comes the premier," Magnan cut in as a loose-hided local approached, rotating a hula-hoop with his torso. "Hi, there, your Excellency. May I present Mr. Rainsinger our new, er, ah. Sir, Mr. Blabghug, the leader of the Slunchan people in their fight against, ah, whatever it is they're fighting against."

 

            Rainsinger nodded curtly, eyeing the muddy tracks across the floor left by the chief executive. "See here, Blabghug," he said in a no-nonsense tone. "I'd like to request that you have your people step up the street-cleaning program. Those pavements are a gift of the Terrestrial taxpayer."

 

            "Too, was it gesture nice a and," Blabghug acknowledged cheerfully. "Them see to get never we bad too."

 

            "Yes. My point exactly. Now, Mr. Prime Minister; I've been here for only five hours, but I've already gotten a firm grasp of the situation and I see what the source of our problem is. Once we've cleared up the more active vermin—"

 

            "Vermin what?"

 

            "That little monster, for one!" Rainsinger nodded sharply toward an inquisitive rodentoid nose poking around the nearest door.

 

            "Kidding be must you," Blabghug said. "Rats-vine the for wasn't it if—"

 

            "As soon as we've completed dusting with fast-acting pesticides, we'll see no more of the creatures," Rainsinger bored on. "Meanwhile, a few zillion tons of weed killer will control these man-eating vines you've been tolerating so complacently."

 

            "About talking you're what know don't you," Blabghug protested.

 

            "I know how to conduct a clean-up campaign!" Rainsinger came back hotly. "This state of affairs is an insult to the Slunchan people and a reflection on the Terran Consulate! I've already set wheels in motion—"

 

            He broke off as a low rumble tinkled the newly polished glass of the chandelier. A deep-throated ba-rooom! sounded, like a distant cannonade, followed by a vast, glutinous smooosh!

 

            Magnan glanced at his watch. "Right on time," he said.

 

            The Slunchan premier cocked his head thoughtfully. "Usual than fluid more little a sounds that," he commented. "High early an for ready get better we'd."

 

            "What the devil's he saying, Magnan?" Rainsinger muttered in an aside. "I can't make out one word in three."

 

            "High mud in a few minutes," Magnan translated, as a second shock rocked the ballroom. A heavy splattering sounded, as of moist material raining against the building.

 

            "Up button to time, oh-oh," Blabghug warned. He stepped to the nearest window and slammed shut a set of improvised shutters.

 

            "What's this, Mr. Retief?" Rainsinger inquired. "Some sort of religious observation? Tribal taboo sort of thing?"

 

            "No, it's just to keep the worst of the soot and mud out of the building during the eruption."

 

            "What's this about an eruption?"

 

            "It's a sort of mud geyser. Shoots a few million tons of glop into the air every twenty-seven hours."

 

            Rainsinger blinked. "A million tons of glop?"

 

            A third, even more vigorous tremor caused the ballroom to sway drunkenly. Rainsinger braced his feet, thrust out his chin, glared at Magnan, who was staring anxiously toward the door.

 

            "Glop or no glop, this is an official diplomatic function, gentlemen! We'll carry on, and ignore the disturbance!"

 

            "Frankly, I don't like the sound of that mud, sir." Magnan turned to the window, peered through a crack in the shutter.

 

            "No doubt the consulate has weathered such conditions before," Rainsinger said uncertainly. "No reason why ..."

 

            His voice was drowned by an ominously rising bubbling sound swelling outside. At the window, Magnan emitted a sharp yelp, leaped back as something struck the side of the building with an impact like a tidal wave. Jets of ink-black mud squirted into the room like fire hoses through every cranny around the shutters. One stream caught Rainsinger full in the flowered weskit, almost knocked him down.

 

            "One bad a is this!" Blabghug called over the hissing and splattering. "Look a have and roof the for head better we'd think I!"

 

            "He's right, sir!" Magnan raised his voice. "This way!" He led the excited party along a hall, up a stair splattered with steaming mud from a shattered window on the landing. Emerging on the roof, Rainsinger ducked as a head-sized cinder slammed down beside him, bounded high and disappeared over the side. A rain of mud splattered down around them. The air was thick with tarry soot. Coughing, Rainsinger hastily donned the breathing mask offered by Magnan.

 

            "This must be the worst disaster ever recorded here," he shouted over the groaning and squishing of the mud welling along the street below them.

 

            "No, actually, by the sound of it, it's a rather mild one, as eruptions go," Retief leaned close to shout. "But the mud seems to be running wild."

 

            "There look!" Blabghug shouted, pointing. "Seven-sixty in back made mark mud-high record the over it's!"

 

            "There's something wrong," Retief called over the still-rising roar of the flowing mud. "The tide's not acting normally. Too fluid—and too much of it."

 

            "Why on Slunch, with an entire planet to choose from, was the town situated in a disaster area?" Rainsinger frowned ferociously as sounds of massive gurglings and sloshing sounded from below.

 

            "It appears this was one of the rush jobs," Magnan called. "The entire city was erected in four days which happened to be during a seasonal lull in the underground coolery."

 

            "See here, Magnan, why didn't you report the situation?"

 

            "I did. As I recall, my dispatch ran to three hundred and four pages!"

 

            "A three hundred page dispatch? And nothing was done?"

 

            "We received a consignment of twelve brooms, six dust-pans and a gross of mops. They must have been overstocked on mops back at Sector."

 

            "And that's all?" Rainsinger's voice almost cracked.

 

            "I think that's about as far as Headquarters could go without admitting a mistake had been made." Across the street, the swelling, bubbling surface of the mud flow was rising past the first row of windows. Shutters creaked and burst inward. Refugees were crowding onto roofs all along the streets now. Retief stepped to the edge of the roof, looked down at the heaving bosom of the sea of mud, dotted with small, sodden forms, floating inertly. A great mass of dead creeper vine came sweeping along on the flood. A tongue of mud sluicing in from a side street struck a wall, sent a great gout thundering upward to descend on the crowded consulate roof. Diplomats and locals alike yelped and slapped at the hot, corrosive muck.

 

            "Look there!" Magnan pointed to the feebly struggling body of a large vine-rat, which gave a final twitch and expired.

 

            "Trouble in we're, oh-oh!" Premier Blabghug exclaimed, as other Slunchans gathered about, talking rapidly.

 

            "Why all the excitement about a dead animal?" Rainsinger barked.

 

            "It's a vine-rat," Magnan blurted. "What could have killed it?"

 

            "I imagine the vigorous application of pest-killer I ordered had something to do with it," the inspector snapped. "I suggest we defer grieving over the beggar until after we've taken steps to extricate ourselves from this situation!"

 

            "You ... you ordered what?" Magnan quavered.

 

            "Ten tons of rodenticide, from your own consulate stores," Rainsinger said firmly. "I don't wonder you're astonished at the speed with which I went into action—"

 

            "You ... you didn't!"

 

            "Indeed I did, sir! Now stop goggling at a purely routine display of efficiency, and let's determine what we're to do about this mud."

 

            "But—" Magnan wailed. "If you killed off the vine-rats—that means the creeper-vine was allowed to grow all afternoon, uncontrolled—"

 

            "Uncontrolled?"

 

            "By the rats," Magnan groaned. "So the vines got the upper hand over the grab-grass—and it's the grass, of course, which suppresses the tangleworms—"

 

            "Tangleworms?"

 

            "And the young worms eat the egg-nit grubs," Magnan yelped. "The egg-nits being the only thing that keeps the firebugs under control—though of course the vine-rats need them for protein in the diet; while their droppings nourish the sneak weed which provides a haven for the nit-mites which prey on the mud-crabs—"

 

            "Here, what's all this nonsense!" Rainsinger roared over the roar of the rising mud-flood. "You'd chatter on about the local wildlife, with disaster lapping at our ankles?"

 

            "That's what I've been trying tell you!" Magnan's voice broke. "With the ecological cycle broken, there's nothing to control the mud! That's why it's rising! And in another hour it will be up over roof level and that—" he shuddered—"will be a very sticky ending for all of us!"

 

 

IV

 

            "Why, I don't believe it," Rainsinger said hoarsely, as he stared over the roofs edge at the steadily rising mud, its surface hazed with sulphurous fumes. "You mean to tell me that these worms were all that kept the mud in check?"

 

            "That's an oversimplification—but yes." Magnan dabbed at the mud on his chin. "I'm afraid you've upset the balance of nature."

 

            "All right, men!" Rainsinger turned to face his staff, huddled in the most protected comer of the roof. "It seems we've painted ourselves into a bit of a corner, ha-ha." He paused to square his shoulders and clear his throat. "However, there's no point in crying over spilled mud. Now, who has a suggestion for a dynamic course of action from this point onward? Horace, Poindexter?"

 

            "I suggest we write out our wills and place them in mud and heatproof jackets," a lean accountant type proposed in a reedy voice.

 

            "Now, men! No defeatism! Surely there's some simple way to elude our apparent fate! Mr. Premier." He faced the Slunchan contingent, muttering together at a short distance from the Terrans. "What do your people have in mind?"

 

            "Opinion of difference a there's," Blabghug said. "Mud the into you pitching for out holding are extremists the but. Limb from limb you tear to want fellow the of few a."

 

            "It's hopeless!" a trembling Terran blurted, staring down at the heaving surface of the tarry mud. "We'll all be drowned, scalded and eaten alive by acid!"

 

            "Magnan!" Rainsinger whirled on the former chief of mission. "You chaps must have had some sort of plan of action for such an eventuality!"

 

            "Nothing." Magnan shook his head. "We never interfered with Nature's Plan." His eyes strayed across the steaming bog now washing about the fourth story windows of the model town. On high ground half a mile distant, the slim form of the vacated Corps Vessel stood. Beyond it rose the rugged peaks from which the mud-flow issued.

 

            "Retief did have some sort of mad notion of diverting the gusher at its source," he said, "but of course that's hopeless—especially now. I daresay it's all under mud."

 

            "Retief!" Rainsinger hurried across to where the young man was prying a board from a ventilator housing. "What's this about a scheme to dam off the mud?"

 

            Retief pointed to a rickety construction of boards, afloat in the mud below. "It's the body off the car. It won't make the best boat in the world, I'm afraid, but as soon as it gets within reach I'll give it a try."

 

            "You'll sink," Magnan predicted, standing at the fifth floor window through which Retief had climbed to secure the makeshift skiff. "You can't possibly row that contrivance with a board "across half a mile of mud!"

 

            "Maybe not," Retief said. He dropped down into the boat. "But if it sinks, I won't have to row it."

 

            "Maybe the mud won't come this high," someone offered. "Maybe if we just wait here—"

 

            "If we don't go now, it will be too late," Rainsinger cut off the discussion.

 

            "We?" Magnan said.

 

            "Certainly." Rainsinger threw a leg over the sill, lowered himself down beside Retief. "It will take two men to row this thing. Cast off, Mr. Retief, whenever you're ready."

 

 

V

 

            For ten minutes the two men paddled in silence. Looking back, Retief saw the consulate tower rising from the bubbling mud, almost obscured by the wafting vapors. In a bundle at his feet were the two thermal suits and a number of small packets previously prepared but unused.

 

            "Better get your suit on, Mr. Rainsinger," he said.

 

            "I give them another half hour," Rainsinger called, his voice muffled by his breathing mask. "How much farther?"

 

            "Ten minutes," Retief said, "until we ground on the hill. Then five minutes walk." He paddled as Rainsinger pulled on the bulky thermal suit.

 

            Beside him, a loose board creaked; mud slopped over the low gunwale. A sudden bulging of the mud almost swamped the boat; a bursting gas bubble threw a stinging spray across both men.

 

            "When we get there—what?"

 

            "We hope it's not already flooded out."

 

            Five minutes later, just as Retief had pulled on his heat-suit, the overloaded boat emitted a sudden massive creaking and disintegrated.

 

            "Jump!" Retief called; he grabbed the bundles and went over the side, landing in knee-deep muck, turned to lend a hand to Rainsinger, who floundered after him. They fought their way up-slope, emerged on a rocky shore at which the surging mud lapped like a sea of chocolate pudding.

 

            "It's pretty deep," Retief said. "Let's hope it's not into the main bore yet."

 

            Rainsinger followed Retief up the steep slope. Ahead, a ruddy glare lightened the murky scene. They reached the edge of the great circular vent from which smoke and cinders boiled furiously, whirling glowing embers high in the air. Rainsinger stared down into the white-hot pit.

 

            "Ye gods, man," he shouted over the din. "That's an active volcano! What in the world do you plan to do here?"

 

            "Climb down inside and pull the plug," Retief said.

 

            "I forbid it!" Rainsinger yelled. "It's suicide!"

 

            "If I don't, the consulate will go under with all hands—to say nothing of a few thousand Slunchans."

 

            "That's no reason to throw your life away! Weil head for higher ground and try to work our way around to the ship. We might be able to summon help—"

 

            "Not a chance," Retief said. He started forward. Rainsinger stepped in his way, a bulky figure in the mud-coated heat-suit. They faced each other, two big men, toe to toe.

 

            "That's an order!" Rainsinger grated.

 

            "Better stand aside, Mr. Rainsinger," Retief said.

 

            "I've warned you," Rainsinger said, and drove a short, sledge-hammer right to Retief's mid-section. Retief grunted and took a step back.

 

            "You throw a good right, Mr. Rainsinger," he said through his teeth. "How are you at catching?"—and he slammed a straight left that spun the other around, sent him to his knees. Retief started past him, and Rainsinger dived, tackled him from the side. Retief twisted, drove a knee to Rainsinger's chin. He went down on his face.

 

            "Sorry," Retief said. He went forward, picked his spot and lowered his feet over the edge. Behind him, Rainsinger called out. Retief looked back. The trade mission chief struggled to his feet, stood swaying back and forth.

 

            "You'll probably need a little help down there," he said blurrily as he started forward. "Wait for me ...

 

            Roped together, the two men worked their way from one precarious foothold to the next, descending toward the smoky surface bubbling beneath them. A hundred feet below the crater's rim, Retief gripped Rainsinger's arm, pointed through the swirling clouds of soot.

 

            "The level's risen about a hundred feet," he said. "If it reaches that series of vents along the north side before we can block them, the volume of the flow will double, and fill the valley in no time. We have to reach them and plug them before the mud covers them."

 

            "What good will that do?" Rainsinger's voice came thinly through Retief's earset. "It will just keep rising until it goes all the way over the top!"

 

            "That brings us to part two," Retief said. "You see that dark patch there, on the south wall, a little higher up? That's an old vent, silted up a long time ago. If we can blast it clear in time, the flow will go down the other side, away from the town."

 

            Rainsinger studied the aspect below.

 

            "Weil never make it," he said grimly. "Let's get started."

 

            Another ten minutes' climb brought Retief and Rainsinger to the set of side-channels leading to the valley and the town. Working rapidly, Retief placed the charges of smashite so as to collapse the four six-foot-wide openings.

 

            "All set," he called. "Weil take shelter from the blast in the other cave."

 

            "It will be close," Rainsinger said. "The mud's risen ten feet in the last five minutes. Another ten feet and we're out of luck!"

 

            "Come on!" Retief followed a ledge that led halfway around the seventy-foot throat of the volcano, then used a series of cracks and knobs to cover the remaining distance. The boiling muck was a bare six inches from his feet when he reached the dark conduit. Twenty feet inside its mouth, their progress was halted by an obstructing mass of hardened mud and volcanic ash.

 

            "Weil fire our other charges first," Retief said. "As soon as they blow, we'll set another one here and head for the surface."

 

            "I don't like the looks of this, Retief! All this rock is full of fractures!"

 

            " I'm not too fond of it myself," Retief said. "Better turn off your earset. Here goes!"

 

            He pressed the button on the detonator in his hand. White light winked; the crash that followed was deafening even over the shrieking of the volcano. Rock fragments rained down past the cave opening, sending geysers of steaming lava fountaining high. There was a deeper rumble, and the floor shook under them. A giant slab of stone dropped into view, lodged across the throat of the volcano. Others slammed down, packing themselves into place with impacts like mountains falling. Trapped smoke and dust recoiled, thickening into opacity.

 

            "That does it!" Rainsinger shouted. "We've blocked the main passage! We can't get out!"

 

            "It looks that way—" Retief started. His voice was cut off by a thunderous boom as the cave's roof fell in.

 

-

 

            "Retief!" Rainsinger's voice was a hoarse croak in the relative silence after the last rattle of falling rock had died away. "Are you still alive?"

 

            "For the moment," Retief reassured his companion.

 

            "Well—if there was any doubt about whether we'd get out, this finishes it," Rainsinger said grimly.

 

            "Let's take a look," Retief suggested. Using hand-lamps, they scanned their surroundings. The original cave was now a rubble-choked pocket, blocked at one end by the lava plug, at the other by multi-ton fragments of fallen rock, through which small trickles of mud were already finding their way.

 

            "The only remaining question is whether we broil in hot mud, drown in lava or die of asphyxiation," Rainsinger said grimly.

 

            "It would be interesting to know whether our blast did any good," Retief said. "Will the lava go over the top, or will the dam hold?"

 

            "Let's tell ourselves it wasn't all in vain," Rainsinger grunted. "Don't misinterpret my remarks," he added. "I'm not complaining. I have only myself to blame. I started the whole thing with my misplaced zeal." He laughed hollowly. "And I was going to make a name for myself by putting Slunch on the map, businesswise."

 

            "Let's just blame it on local conditions and let it go at that," Retief suggested. He looked at the gauge on his wrist. "The temperature in here is ninety-one and a half degrees Centigrade. It looks as if drowning is out."

 

            "Look, the mud's hardening as it comes through the barrier," Rainsinger said. "The trickle's choking off." He looked thoughtful. "By now the level outside our door is up to the blockage. If the lava that squeezes through that hardens as fast as this did ..."

 

            A tremor went through the cave's floor. "Oh-oh!" Rainsinger rocked on his feet. "Looks like this is it, Retief ..."

 

            "Set your suit air on maximum pressure!" Retief said quickly. "Then lie down and wrap your arms around your knees and hold on!" His voice was drowned in an end-of-the-universe boom as the side of the mountain blew out.

 

 

VI

 

            Retief's first impression, as he came back to consciousness, was of a gentle rocking motion, which ended rudely as something hard gouged him in the back. He rolled over and got to his feet. He was standing in shallow mud at the shore of a placid expanse of brown, already stiffening into hardness. A few yards distant, a lumpy mansized object stirred feebly. He went to it, assisted Rainsinger to his feet.

 

            "Quite a view, eh?" He indicated the cone rising from the mists wreathing the expanse of mud. The entire wall of the volcano was gone, and from the vast rent a glistening river of gumbo poured.

 

            "We're alive," Rainsinger said groggily. "Remarkable! And it looks as though we succeeded in diverting the mud." He pulled off his suit helmet, revealing a face puffed and bruised. "My apologies to you, Mr. Retief—for a number of things."

 

            "And mine to you, Mr. Rainsinger, for an equal number of things. And I suggest we get these suits off before we harden into statues."

 

            The two men stripped off the suits, thickly coated with rapidly hardening mud.

 

            "Well, we may as well be getting back, I suppose," the trade mission chief said glumly. "I'll transmit my resignation to Sector, then gather up my chaps and be on my way."

 

            They tramped along the lake shore in silence for half an hour. Rounding the curve of the mountain, the valley came into view. Where the town had been, a pattern of building tops reared up above a glossy expanse of eggplant brown.

 

            "I came here to make commercial history," Rainsinger muttered. "Instead I destroyed a city, including enough Corps property to keep me in debt for six lifetimes ..."

 

            "I wonder what's going on down there?" Retief said, pointing. On the level mud surrounding the buried buildings of the town, small figures darted and swooped.

 

            "They look like giant water-bugs," Rainsinger said wonderingly. "What do you suppose it means?"

 

            "Let's go down and see," Retief said.

 

            "It's remarkable!" Magnan rubbed his hands together and beamed at the lively group of Slunchans disporting themselves on the mirror-flat surface of the hardened [ mud flow that occupied the former town plaza, brightly illuminated by the light from the surrounding windows. "It was Blabghug who discovered the crates stores in the consulate attic. He opened them, imagining they might contain something to eat—and discovered roller skates!"

 

            "Rainsinger Mr., Hey!" One of the gracefully cavorting locals came whizzing across the newly formed rink, executed a flashy one-toe reverse spin and braked to a halt before the trade mission chief. "Foot-wheels these of shipment a get we can soon how?"

 

            "They've had to set up a rotation system," Magnan said. "Every Slunchan who sees them simply goes mad for them!"

 

            "With start to, sets thousand hundred a about take we'll," Blabghug cried. "More take we'll, ready rinks more get we as soon as!"

 

            "I ... I don't understand," Rainsinger said. "The mud—what's happened to it? It feels like top-quality asphalt, worth fifty credits a ton!"

 

            Magnan nodded happily. "Just after the mud began to recede, Freddy was doing a little foraging—for salvage, of course—and accidentally got into the powdered tombstones. When the mud contacted the plastic, it started hardening up. It must have had some sort of catalytic action, because the whole plaza froze over."

 

            "So that's why the volcano plugged up so quickly," Rainsinger said in wondering tones. "And it's still hardening, just as fast as it's exposed to the air and the, er, catalyst!"

 

            "You've brought off a real coup, sir!" Magnan caroled. "The Slunchans have never had anything but squishy mud underfoot before. Now that they see the possibilities, we'll be able to sell them on all the court games: tennis, volleyball, badminton—then on to the whole gamut of wheeled vehicles! I can see it now: Round-the-planet motorcycle races! The Grand Prix to end all Grand Prixes!"

 

            "Grands Prix," Rainsinger corrected absently. "But not only that, Magnan, my boy! This new material—I'll wager we can corner the paving market for the entire Galactic Arm! And it's virtually free!"

 

            "Ah, am I to understand then, sir, that your report won't place as much emphasis on certain apparent custodial deficiencies as your earlier remarks might have indicated?" Magnan inquired smoothly.

 

            Rainsinger cleared his throat. "My first impressions were a bit wide of the mark," he said. "I was just wondering if you'd find it necessary in your report of my visit to detail the precise circumstances surrounding the discovery—or should I say invention?—of this new product."

 

            "No point in burdening Sector with excess detail," Magnan said crisply.

 

            "Now, about transport," Rainsinger mused aloud. "I'd estimate I could place ten million tons at once on Schweinhund's World—and another ten or twenty million tons on Flamme ..."

 

            "I think it would be wise to place immediate orders for pogo sticks, croquet sets and bicycles," Magnan thought aloud. "We'll want to work through the small items before bringing on the heavy equipment ..."

 

            The two strolled away, deep in conversation.

 

            "Say, all this excitement has given me an appetite," the fat attache said. "I believe I'll go get myself a sandwich. Possibly two sandwiches." As he hurried off, Sir Frederik Gumbubu scooted up to Retief, executing a speed-braking stop.

 

            "Terry, us join and pair a grab!" he shouted.

 

            "Good idea," Retief said, and swung off across the plaza, arm in arm with the foreign minister.

 

-