Prologue

 

            The landscape was one of endless ice under a vast, black sky. Great towering blue-green cliffs alternated with tumbled fields of immense, ragged-edged pristine white slabs heaved up and shattered by the inexorable advance of the glacial masses sliding relentlessly down from the naked heights exposed here and there as remorseless gravity stripped them of their compacted snow mantles. Harsh winds swept dust-sized ice-particles up into swirling clouds and abrasive streamers which scoured the exposed ice and deposited graceful drifts in the lee of every obstruction, a fluffy, floury layer which concealed crevasses and obscured the underlying ice forms.

 

            The faint, yellowish light of the minor main sequence star known as Icebox shed a wan, late-afternoon glow over the scene, casting deep blue shadows and striking golden highlights from ridges and peaks, evoking dull glints from flat surfaces, making the ice-clouds glow as if from fires raging within them, a brilliant display against the black sky, wherein less than a dozen stars were visible, though the Arm was a dusty glow arching from horizon to horizon; and near it, three of the eight inner worlds of the Icebox system hung like polished marbles, being, like Icebox, ice-worlds with high albedos.

 

            In the inadequate shelter of a long, meandering strike fault in the county-wide slab which had once been a minor sea until frozen solid and at last heaved from its basin by the encroaching glacier, there could be seen the single intrusive element in the otherwise pristine wilderness; a one-man environment-bubble, anchored in place by cables attached to bedrock deep below the ice-surface, and already, after only seventy-two hours, sunk a foot deep in the ice. Inside the polarized dome sat a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing the pale-blue-and-gold class three coverall prescribed by the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne for diplomatic personnel serving on pre-nuclear worlds, informal occasions, for wear on. His name was Retief, CDTO-5, Second Secretary and Consul, detached duty. He sat before a field-model surveillance screen, watching the unsteady approach of a small craft which the IFF circuity had identified as an assault boat of the Ree Expeditionary Force, hesitantly inbound on a contact course. So the reports pouring in from outpost worlds here in Tip Space were at least partly true: the Arm was being probed, as the Deep-Think teams back at Sector had determined, by an explosively breeding race known as the Ree, perhaps from the Western Arm.

 

            The alien craft approached swiftly, dropped from view half a mile distant into a hollow among the towering ice-peaks, an impact crater from an ancient meteorite, which Retief had explored on his first day at the isolated outpost. The small plain at its center was suitably level, well sheltered from surprise attack, unlike the bubble exposed on the ice-plain. Retief switched on the recorder and proceeded with his hourly formal report:

 

            "Monitor station twenty-three, Icebox Nine, hour severity-two, Retief: a hundred tonner ID'd as a Ree Class Two unit made a non-sked approach, perhaps in distress, and is now on surface. So far, no overt action. Hold for copy of incoming on Ree frequency."

 

            Retief tuned the all-bands receiver, its ACTIVE light blinking furiously, thinned out the star-static, and heard an irascible voice say in curiously-accented Terran:

 

            "Ho, we see bubble you hid in plain sight. This trick don't work on me. You come out now."

 

            "Hold!" Retief dictated into the recorder. "I'm picking up static on the attack band; looks like a leak-over from a build-up on an old-fashioned pulse cannon—"

 

            A deafening blast rocked the bubble, enveloped it in a blinding flash which faded to reveal a whirling cloud of ice particles churning beyond the tough, transparent membrane. The concussion had opened a long crack across the clear dome, and warm air was rushing out, to turn at once to a jet of white ice crystals. As the roar of churning ice subsided, Retief heard the Ree voice, speaking in the same impatient tone, as if nothing had happened.

 

            "I figgered out if I blow you up first, you can't carry but no fell designs against us. Only I found out the steering gadget on my command here don't work. This is a distress signal, and you gotta come over and give us a hand, or maybe I'll get mad and shoot you again. If you're still alive, that is. If not, disregard. Now hurry up, because I get tired holding down this HOLD button on our automatic attack gear."

 

            Retief checked the recorder; the idiot lights indicated all systems go ... He resumed his report, "Did you catch that amazing sample of Ree logic? Are there any more at home like him? We now suspend this broadcast, for investigative purposes. Stay tuned, folks!"

 

            He switched the recorder to SEND and transmitted the report in a .01 picosecond squirt to Sector, then donned the weather suit which had been fitted to him at the supply station where the bubble had been prepared. He checked to be sure the aftermarket energy gun was in place on his hip, its flow-rate indicator showing full gain. Unlike the otherwise similar detached model weapon limited to a self-contained .1 kilo-ton/second energy slug, this one drew on the suit's 3 k/s power pack.

 

            Retief cycled the airlock and jumped down into the relentless buffeting of the full gale which was a Spring day on Icebox Nine. On foot, he made his way toward the pass, like a knife-cut through the rim of ice which concealed the alien vessel. His head was still ringing from the concussion so close to his shelter, which now lay canted at a steep angle in the crater formed by the near-miss, but aside from the crack apparently undamaged.

 

            His suit's power assist system made it barely possible to walk on the slippery and uneven surface against the gusty wind, upslope. He reached the crest of the trail cut long ago by a final outflow of liquid nitrogen, paused in the deep blue shadow, and saw below the squat, stepped-on looking vessel, its polished hull bright with colored inlays against the black ice. Around it, stubby figures in day-glo suits moved apparently aimlessly, then abruptly formed up in ragged ranks, right-faced, and set off purposefully directly toward the pass. Retief watched them for a moment, then, setting the dispersion adjustment on his heat-gun at its narrowest aperture, he carefully melted a deep incision in the ice-wall beside him, studied the resultant pattern of stress-cracks and fracture planes, then climbed atop a fallen ice-block to make another deep, flat cut, which converged toward, but did not quite meet the first.

 

            The aliens were still marching directly toward him, but showed no signs of noticing him, or the modest steam-clouds his work had produced. He laid low until the Ree column had passed, then, at the top of the pass, he paused, swung, and at tight beam burned through one of the now exposed anchor cables restraining the bubble; it turned lazily and slid down into the blast crater, entry-port down.

 

            The Ree soldiery, having filed through the pass and deployed before the bubble, dithered in confusion, then fell into ranks again and stood unmoving, their face plates staring skyward.

 

            Retief made his way down the rough path to the crater floor; there he paused, turned, studied the iceberg for a moment, then took careful aim with his energy gun at narrow beam, and cut away the last bridge of ice supporting the immense mass he had earlier cut almost free. At last, a sharp crack! rang out, followed by a deep-noted rumble. The entire face of the towering ice sheet began to descend, shattered suddenly into myriad pieces, some no larger than dice, others as big as pianos. With a deafening roar, the ice cascaded down, closing the pass under a drift of frozen methane, wreathed in a slowly settling cloud of ice crystals.

 

            He went on toward the alien vessel; when he was within a hundred yards of it, the amplified voice boomed out:

 

            "We see you! Thought for a minute the ice fall got you. Now approach, more slow but hurry up!"

 

            As the amplified command came to an end, Retief noticed that the turret-mounted gun which had been aimed toward the pass was now rotating and depressing steeply so as to bear directly on him. He advanced slowly, passed into the shelter of the alien hull, while the guns reached maximum deflection and came to rest with a whine of frustrated gearing.

 

            At the stern of the vessel, Retief examined the adjacent ice-wall, studied angles and distances, and again made two converging cuts in the clean blue ice.

 

            Behind him, the same irritable voice spoke up again: "I notice the pass fell in, just missed my fellows. Looks like maybe you tried to put one over on me."

 

            "What do you mean, 'tried'?" Retief asked, using an inductance contact unit which he held against the space-burned hull plate beside him.

 

            "You better come out where I can see you, stranger," the alien cut, "or otherwise I can't shoot you if we feel like it. Maybe you say no fair ask for help, then shoot you when you come over. Well, that's a little trick we played on you, crafty stranger."

 

            "Worked fine," Retief said. "And here I am. Now you'd better open up so I can come in and have a nice chat with you. Otherwise I'll have to bury your command under an estimated five hundred tons of ice. That's a little trick I played on you!"

 

            "Now you better come inside my vehicle and give me your explanation and apologies," the Ree said as if by sudden inspiration. The entry hatch cycled open.

 

            "When the inside door opens, come up the hall to my office," the voice commanded curtly. "See, I don't want to leave my captain-chair here, cause I might get lost. Never did read the Owner's Manual on this thing."

 

            Retief left the airlock and proceeded forward to the command deck. As he went he snapped open his face plate. An alien odor of smoked fish assailed his nostrils.

 

            In the Command Center he saw what he assumed was the Ree captain, closely fitted into a gimbal-mounted container the size of a garbage can, which exposed only a face like a burnt waffle, surrounded by muscular tentacles, which twitched suddenly, and then hung limp.

 

            "Ho, you startled me, creeping up like that," the alien voice said, unmagnified now, and sounding like a ten-year-old Boy Scout, flunking his Eagle badge. "When I get startled," the captain went on, "I'm no good for anything for half an hour. Takes the starch out of the old tentacles. Sit down, stranger, and wait'll I feel like it."

 

            "Would you really have shot me, if I'd let you?" Retief inquired mildly.

 

            "Sure, yes! See, I got these here automatic defense circuits; they're set up to blast anything comes close to the hull."

 

            "Why didn't you shut the system down?" Retief asked. "We couldn't very well talk if you'd blasted me first."

 

            "I don't know nothing about all that fancy electric stuff," the garbage canned Ree explained. "I hardly even got to find out how to work the autochef, otherwise I and my boys woulda starved. This is my first command."

 

            "Why did you shoot at my station?" Retief inquired. "What are you doing on this iceberg?"

 

            "Well, I got my orders," the Ree said, in a tone which implied he expected an argument. "Anyway, I'm asking the questions. Now, who and what are you, and why?"

 

            "I am Retief, Terry diplomat on detached duty to monitor the automatic equipment monitoring the ice flow for Cartographic Section," Retief replied. "As for why, I'll have to pass that one. It's one of those jobs they give people they're not quite ready to shoot. I still want to know what you're doing here, and why you attacked me."

 

            "Well, I was having a little trouble with my vehicle, Retief. By the way, I'm Captain Fump, Imperial Naval Arm of Great Ree. So, like I was telling you, my vehicle here was giving me a hard time. See, I wanted to head for some place they called Lonesome George, but it seems like my vehicle here has got this pre-programmed course set in it, and I hadda shoot a hole into the control box, before it'd leave off trying to steer itself. Then I found out it wasn't so easy to steer it good by hand, and I hadda make what you call a force landing. OK?"

 

            "OK up to that point," Retief conceded, "but why did you fire at my bubble?"

 

            "Ah, them automatics took over again, what you call a back-up system. Nothing I could do. Lucky you ducked in close where they can't see you, Retief, or they'da blasted you sure."

 

            "I see," Retief replied. "That being the case, it's a good thing I didn't deploy my defensive batteries, eh? What an emplacement of infinite repeaters would do to this tub is nobody's business."

 

            "Yeah, lucky your automatics don't work no bettern' mine," Fump said complacently. His tentacles were beginning to twitch now. "OK, I'm warming up, Retief," he said. "Be in shape in a minute. Now, the way I see it, you better go lock yourself in the aft lazaret, that means back storeroom, and I'll see if I can get my command together here, and we'll take a little ride. Now it's time for my nap." The burnt waffle went slack, and a buzzing sound started up.

 

-

 

            He made a leisurely tour of the Groaci manufactured vessel, found a dormitory consisting of stacked garbage cans, smaller than Fump's, all empty ... A lone crewman, apparently the only crewman left aboard after Fump had sent the squad outside, was manning the aft fire-control compartment. The chamber was clearly in need of maintenance. Retief stripped away spider-webs and entered the cramped space.

 

            "Hey!" the Ree gunnery officer exclaimed as Retief appeared abruptly before him. "You're a Groaci, ain't you? Love them Groaci; good pals, if only they wouldn't steal so much, no offense."

 

            "You may talk about the sticky fingers of the Groaci all you like," Retief reassured the fellow. "Personally, I'm more of a Terry."

 

            "Oh, I heard about them: got big antlers, hey, and green spots, and all, right? Sure, I seen plenty Terries even if they do eat Groaci grubs and got a terrible prejudice against all life-forms fortunate enough to have five eyes, like the Groaci. That's how come the Terries are always picking on the peace-loving Groaci, which they only wanta live peaceful."

 

            "On someone else's real estate," Retief pointed out. "Which brings us to you boys: what are you doing so far out of your own backyard?"

 

            "Well, we got this big invasion planned, only don't tell anybody because it's what you call Top Secret dope."

 

            "Oh? Are there many of you Top Secret dopes?" Retief inquired.

 

            "Sure, a big armada of us, but old Fumpy got lost—and here we are. But where in the Cold Place are we, anyway?"

 

            "You're on a minor planet known as Icebox Nine, in the North Tip of the Eastern Arm. I take it you boys are from the Western Arm."

 

            "Right, and if you ask me, which nobody will, we should of stayed home and reworked the tailings. I took a look outside, and I didn't see nothing but ice. Course a nice cool climate is swell, with just the odd glacier creeping down the mountain for excitement, but this place is ridiculous."

 

            "So you don't intend to lay claim to Icebox Nine?" Retief inquired casually.

 

            "Not unless old Fumpy is even dumber'n what I think he is. You know the rule: everybody stakes out a new breeding surface gets to live there, permanent, as King, or Mayor, or Emperor, or Dictator, or Count, whatever title he likes. Now, on a planet like this, what fun could a fellow have dictating, or counting, or whatever? We oughta head for home pronto, and report the invasion didn't work out. But old Fumpy's got a idear he can be a big shot, except he forgot to find out how to run this tub, which he took delivery personal from some local turncoat name of Lith, or Whish, or like that."

 

            "You shouldn't leave your intercom open if you're gonna knock your captain," Fump's voice spoke grumpily from the wall-mounted talker. "By the way, Goop, if you see a creature with only four limbs snooping around in your department, throw a quick Kablitski on him and leave him lay in the aft lazaret. I trusted the bum to lock himself up, but he outsmarted me. Got it?"

 

            "Eye, eye, sir," Goop replied snappily. "Hey, hold still a minute, pal," he added, addressing Retief. "I got to look up 'Kablitski' in my martial arts manual, where I can throw one on you like the cap'n said."

 

            "Never mind," Retief suggested. "I'll just go forward and explain to the captain why that would be a bad idea."

 

            "Well," Goop said, laying aside his manual.

 

            "Sure. If you promise you won't pull a fast one and not report to Cap like you said."

 

            "I promise!' Retief assured the yeoman.

 

            Back in the cramped command center, Retief found Fump out of his seat and poring over a chart-table. The alien was of simple physique, being a foot-thick, four-foot-tall column of bluish-white muscle with a ring of small tentacles just below the horny face, and a rippling fringe at the lower end, by which he ambulated with surprising agility. Now he stood as if shocked when Retief confronted him.

 

            "It's you again!" the captain charged.

 

            "Right," Retief replied in a congratulatory tone. "I see you're too sharp to fool about that, Captain."

 

            "Ho," Fump agreed. "What you doing back here in my office, after you said you was going back to the lock-up?"

 

            "You missed that one," Retief said. "I didn't say I was planning on locking myself up: that was your idea."

 

            "Yeah, but you lemme think—" the stubby officer started, then abruptly doubled over and spun, its upper quarters whipping toward Retief in a blow that would have broken ribs. Retief braced himself against a wall-locker and raised a knee, placed to intercept Fump's rugged face, which it did, with a meaty smack! The captain tottered, straightened, with thin yellow juice dribbling from his features, and staggered back.

 

            "Hoo, that really smarted!" he wailed. "I done that zinger just like it says in the handbook, and it didn't work! No fair! Course, you ain't built like a Ree—if you would've been a Ree that woulda smacked you right square in the nerve plexus." He fingered a pinkish patch on his pale, muscular torso. "Woulda took the starch outa you," he added. Fump paused to massage his face gently, wiping the exudate on his desk blotter.

 

            "Never mind," Retief said comfortingly. "After all, it's not as if you planned to try it again."

 

            "Another zinger?" Fump echoed in a shocked tone. "The handbook says one will do it every time. See, us Ree got this reasonable sorta approach: if it looks like we're losing, we lay off and estivate until the coast is clear. If we're winning, of course we take charge. Like now: I figgered with you alone and on foot, and me here with my vehicle, which has got plenty firepower, I was in charge; anybody'd of done the same. But now, while I got this here furb-ache, it seems like maybe I shoulda played it a little different." Fump's tentacles caressed his furb gently.

 

            "That's all right," Retief reassured the captain. "No harm done. The strategy now is to make friends, right?"

 

            "What for?" Fump asked wonderingly. "That ain't in the handbook."

 

            "Never mind," Retief told Fump. "The first friendly item is for you to relinquish this vehicle without the need for me to do anything violent; that wouldn't be friendly, you know."

 

            "Figgers," Fump acknowledged. "Well, it's the breaks of the game, I guess. What you want with my vehicle, anyway?"

 

            "Thought I might use it to go home in," Retief explained. "Since you carelessly cracked my bubble, I've got no place to stay."

 

            "What am I s'pose to tell Sneak Command?" the captain demanded.

 

            "Just tell them the truth," Retief suggested. "That you lent it to a friend."

 

            "And what if I don't?" Fump demanded. "Hand it over, I mean," he amplified.

 

            "Why worry about that?" Retief queried. "Since it isn't going to happen."

 

            "Sure, no use borrowing trouble," the Ree agreed. "See how friendly I can be?" He was edging toward a wall locker, Retief noted.

 

            "You don't want anything from the arms locker, do you, Captain?" Retief asked casually.

 

            Fump halted abruptly. "Funny you should ask that," he said. "I was just going to show you where I keep my hand-guns."

 

            "Later," Retief said, and spun the combination dial on the locker, causing the tumblers inside the vault-like door to seat with a complicated click! Behind him, Fump spoke into his PA talker:

 

            "Assault squad, to the bridge on the double."

 

            "They won't be coming," Retief told Fump. "They seem to be trapped on the far side of the pass."

 

            "I saw it fall in," Fump acknowledged. "But I was hoping maybe they hadn't got that far yet."

 

            "It's all right," Retief said soothingly. "I can handle this thing well enough, single-handed. But I wouldn't want you to be tempted to get into mischief behind my back, while I'm busy at the controls. So maybe I'd better just shoot you."

 

            "Who, me?" Fump wailed. "You wouldn't do that, Retief, after we been pals and all!"

 

            "There might be an alternative," Retief mused. "Do you happen to have an old potato bag aboard? Or a grenade sack, anything big enough for you to fit in it."

 

            "Me fit in it?" Fump asked. "What for?"

 

            "Because if you object, you might get another furb-ache," Retief explained patiently. "After which the question of shooting you would arise again."

 

            "Durn," Fump said. "What good is a command with commandees that're someplace else?"

 

            "You don't seem to feel much sympathy for your boys," Retief observed. "They must be frozen solid by now."

 

            "Sure, but freezing don't hurt us Rees. We evolved from bottom-feeders, you know, hadda get through the winter when the ponds froze solid, so no sweat. I can send a warm-up squad in for them in a few years and thaw 'em out and they'll be as happy as clams."

 

            "That's handy for extended campaigns in cold country," Retief commented. "But it also makes them rather vulnerable to being dozed up and captured."

 

            "No fair telling," Fump reminded his captor. "It's a kind of what you call a military secret and all."

 

            "I wouldn't dream of betraying military secrets," Retief said. He stepped around Fump and tapped the intercom button. "Ho there, Goop," he said. "Your captain wants you to bring a large sack."

 

            "What for?"

 

            "Yours not to reason why. Just bring it." "Eye, eye, I guess."

 

            A few moments later the gunnery officer appeared, carrying a folded sack of tough, greenish polyon, clearly of Groaci manufacture.

 

            Retief took the sack. "Thank you, Goop," he said politely. "You may go back to your sweeping and dusting."

 

            Goop ruffled a tentacle. "What's that?"

 

            "Study the Crew Manual. About face! March!"

 

            Goop, looking dazed, withdrew.

 

            Fump eyed the capacious bag and sighed. "You ain't never gonna get me in that," he said with finality.

 

            "How's your furb-ache feeling?" Retief asked kindly.

 

            "It's holding up good," Fump replied. "You don't need to freshen it up none."

 

            "That won't be necessary," Retief reassured the discouraged fellow. "Now, I could just order you outside, or shoot you here, if you prefer."

 

            "Probably go off and leave me here to freeze up solid," Fump predicted. "That ain't fatal, but it smarts some; I shoulda filled up on Prestone like the troops. SOP for surface ops on these here ice-hells," he explained.

 

            "It's just as well," Retief said. "You won't need it."

 

            "You mean—you're really gonna kill me—in cold blood?" Fump inquired in a faltering tone. "Looky, fella, I never figgered on this, as I'd of never let you inside my vehicle."

 

            "I don't intend to plug unless I see you outside that bag four seconds from now," Retief reassured the Ree. "OK?"

 

            "That's not hardly OK," Fump came back. "But I got no choice, I guess. You gonna keep me inside this here poke now?"

 

            "Soon, Cap," Retief informed his captive. "It's a lot of work, but it's the only alternative to shooting you, and I need you alive, up to a point."

 

            "Oh," Fump replied glumly. "I was kind of hoping you'd accept my parole or something, and leave me have a chance to use my firepower. But you outsmarted me. OK, let's get to it." He submitted meekly as Retief pulled the sack over him and secured the top.

 

            "They can't say I abandoned my command," Fump boasted muffledly. "Even if I am kinda cramped up in this here specimen sack. How's about you let me out now, and I'll put in a good word for you when the relief expedition arrives. The one I'm gonna send out a call for as soon as I get a chance, I mean."

 

            "Actually, Captain," Retief replied. "I think for the present you'd best remain where you are; later I'll put you in the aft lazaret. But no distress signals. Anyway, we won't be here long."

 

            "Whattya mean we won't be here long?"

 

            "I have to be back at Sector for some sort of a tribal pow-wow," Retief told the Ree. "So just get busy estivating, and I'll see how good your lift gear is."

 

            "You don't mean yer gonna try and lift my vehicle without my say-so?" Fump demanded indignantly.

 

            "I thought I might," Retief conceded.

 

            "Don't try it, Terry," Fump warned. "You activate all that machinery wrong and she'll blow sky-high."

 

            "Don't worry," Retief soothed the excited Ree. "I'll read the Owner's Manual."

 

-