Chapter Seven

 

1

 

            When the shuffling of feet and clearing of throats had subsided, Team Leader Ambassador Sitzfleisch adjusted his hip-o-matic chair and harrumph!ed portentously, keeping his small, red-rimmed eyes averted from those of his Select Team.

 

            "Gentlemen," he began, "it appears we have acted hastily. It's all very well to counsel appeasement by colonists when one is comfortably situated at Sector HQ. However, now that we, ourselves, and you chaps as well, have been offered as a sacrifice to these blood-thirsty dacoits, and are indeed here in Tip Space surrounded by hordes of the blighters poised to attack with indescribable ferocity at any moment—" he paused for the shudder "—it becomes crystal-clear that some effective move on our part is imperative if we are to survive. Mr. Retief," Sitzfleisch turned to fix his gaze on the latter. "You will at once prepare my vessel for return to Sector with all deliberate haste."

 

            "That won't be practical, Mr. Ambassador," Retief informed his chief. "I've already agreed to transport the sergeant-major to McGillicudy's World for a conference, after which we'll probably go on to Jawbone and a few other places. It appears the Ree are jamming what little inter-world communications capability these frontier planets possess."

 

            "Your agreement was cheeky, I'd say, Mr. Retief," Siztfleisch snapped. "After all, the scheduling of my personal VIP transport is my own prerogative."

 

            "Aside from the fact that Phoenix was requisitioned by the CDT for official use only," Retief said, "she was requisitioned from me, presumably on the basis of the idea that a vessel which had once paid a call on Slive would be best qualified to do it again, and I'm still the owner of record. In any case, I've committed the ship to this job, for which the sergeant-major extends his heartfelt gratitude to Your Excellency."

 

            "Umm, well, if you've promised, I suppose ..."

 

            "Fine, that's settled, then," Retief dismissed the matter. "In the meanwhile," he went on, "you and your troops can keep busy attending to some detail work pending my return." He handed over a list.

 

            "All of you Team members held headquarters jobs of vast importance prior to your selection for the Team," Retief pointed out, "and by some curious oversight possibly connected with an unauthorized visit to Comm Section at Sector, you still retain full powers. My suggestion is well-worn Naval blue polyon was introduced as Cap Josh from Shivaree; his neighbor was a thick-set fellow of remote African extraction, who smiled pleasantly, showing filed teeth, when Grundy presented Chief Umbubu from Moosejaw, and so on along the table. None of the planetary leaders, Retief noted, was afflicted with an effete appearance or any extraordinary air of over-intellectualization. At last, the ritual of introduction was broken into by a gap-toothed fellow with a bicycle chain wrapped around his fist and a flat leather cap which seemed molded to his flattened skull. "OK, so who's this, Mr. Retief, we got to waste all this time telling him our names?" he boomed from the far end of the table.

 

            "Like I told you at first, Nandy," the sergeant-major called back in an impatient tone, "Retief here's our CDT contact, got some great ideas about how we get ourselves organized. Talked about the special arms shipment and all."

 

            A black-bearded ruffian in solid whites with gold buttons responded from beside Nandy:

 

            "If he's the one shipped us the hand-guns labeled hand lotion, he's a all-right guy, right, guys?"

 

            "Wait a minute, Admiral," the Neanderthal-oid cut in. "You talk like this slicker thinks he's bossing the show. Nobody bosses Boss Nandy."

 

            "Not unless he qualifies in the traditional fashion, I presume you mean, Boss," a spidery fellow with impressive eyebrows and an elaborately broken nose put in, in an adenoidal voice. "Ha?" he pressed the query.

 

            "Well, Upright," Nandy grunted, rising to reveal a barrel-like torso supported by legs like gnarled parentheses, "I guess that's a legit of a idear, so let's just check out this guy's meat." He started toward the head of the table, exchanging quick handshakes and terse greetings as he went. "—tell 'em. Boss!"

 

            "—mash this here bum and get back."

 

            "—put on some, ain't you, Nan?"

 

            "—just take a minute ..."

 

            Watching the approach of the hulking fellow, Grundy whispered to Retief:

 

            "Looks like I got you into a fix here, Retief. But just play it cool; I got a .1mm stashed, and I'll sting him good if he starts to get too rough."

 

            Boss Nandy's rolling gait brought him quickly to confront Retief, who had risen quietly and stood easily, awaiting this challenger's next move. Now, face-to-shirt-front with his intended victim, Nandy hesitated, cocking his lumpy head to peer up at Retief from under brows like the overhang of a rock shelter at Les Eyzies.

 

            "Don't mess with Boss," Grundy advised Retief, sotto voce, "he ain't got much restraint, you know."

 

            "He won't be needing any, Sarge," Retief told him.

 

            "Kinda tall, ain't ya, feller?" Nandy commented in his guttural basso, at the same moment making a grab at Retief's arm with a calloused, broken-nailed hand the size of a catcher's mitt.

 

            Retief inobtrusively caught the Boss's forearm, held it immobile, and squeezed. Nandy's lumpy face grew red as he strained silently to free himself from Retief's grip.

 

            "You'd best go back and sit down," Retief suggested quietly. Nandy nodded, and Retief released the shaggy fellow's arm and started to turn away; just as he raised a hand to his breast pocket, he heard an abrupt scrape of Nandy's shoe-leather, and turned back; as he did, somehow his elbow collided with the Boss's prognathous jaw. Nandy's legs went rubbery, but he caught himself, and stood swaying slightly.

 

            "Oops," Retief said, "did I bump into you, Boss?"

 

            "I never seen them other three guys," Boss mourned. "Anyways, I heard you diplomatic Johnnies was creampuffs. I heard wrong," he added, as the last of the glaze faded from his deep-set, blood-shot eyes.

 

            "May I escort you to your place?" Retief asked. Nandy shook his head. The entire exchange had occurred so swiftly and inobstrusively that no one at the table had observed more than a momentary jostling.

 

            "Maybe you're a all-right guy at that," Nandy muttered. "Keeping it quiet like you done, instead of showing me up in front of the boys."

 

            "We can always put on a show for the boys latter, when your jawbone knits," Retief pointed out pleasantly. Nandy raised his voice to address the table:

 

            "Like I said, Retief here is the operations boss of this caper, and I don't want to hear no complaints."

 

            After a pause, he added. "How about you, Crubby?" The member so addressed was a hulking Mongol type, sweating profusely in a sheepskin vest which exposed biceps like lumpy watermelons, a robber baron from Dry wash known to his peers as Tang the Execrable.

 

            Tang gave Nandy a look like a slant-eyed cobra, and grunted. "He's OK with me, pal. Anybody got any objections?" Tang looked slowly along one side of the long table, and back along the other, found only bland smiles and averted eyes.

 

            "Now, let's get on to the details," Sergeant-Major Grundy yelled over the sudden outburst of conversation which followed Tang's challenge. "Retief," he went on, "want to tell 'em about the relief shipments?"

 

            Retief nodded. "Since CDT issue supplies are listed alphabetically," he told his attentive listeners, "errors can occur if the computers hiccup, and skip a space. Hence, orders for hand-lotion are interpreted as 'hand-guns,' flame-retardent paint is adjacent to flame-throwers, and so on. That being the case, I suggest you unpack any recent deliveries of semi-annual requisition items."

 

            "You mean it's all just another bureaucratic snafu?" a mass of bristly black whiskers inquired in a surprisingly melodious tenor voice. "Well," he went on, "no one ever said Stan Spewak was slow on the uptake. Had to disguise what they was doing, so's not to let on they were backing us frontier fellers."

 

            A bull-like man with one arm and a complicated hook arrangement pushed back his chair and rose. "And we ain't gonna let 'em down, are we, boys?" He paused for the roar of approval and the thumping of tankards to subside. "So let's clear port!"

 

2

 

            Six hours later, with Goldblatt's World looming on the DV screens, which also revealed a swarm of Ree gunboats pacing the intruding Terran convoy, Grundy spoke up:

 

            "So far so good, Retief: I heard you telling that Slive character you'd be on time for your appointment; but I still don't see why they ain't shooting back. Our boys don't rate so good on discipline, I give you that; when they opened up after the word went out to hold fire, I figgered we were in for it. I'm gonna enjoy the court-martial after we land down there."

 

            "That may have to wait," Retief pointed out. At that moment, the ship-to-shore talker tuned to the Ree fleet band cleared its throat and said:

 

            "All right, we want this sucker down all in one piece. Retief is a Special Item, you know. So open up, and let 'em go into descent."

 

            On the screens, the disorderly swarm promptly regrouped into a precise formation through which an open lane remained.

 

            "Shall we steer through there?" Grundy asked, "like they want us to, or do we say to hell with it and scatter 'em?"

 

            The view on the screen immediately made it clear that the question was academic, as the sixty-one units comprising the Cluster expeditionary force spontaneously broke formation and powered through the escorting spates and shoals of Ree gunboats, scattering them like minnows fleeing a carp.

 

            Accepting the fait accompli, Grundy, at Retief's nod, used the command talker to order: "All units to independent operational stations; penetrate inner line and rendezvous at previously designated point, which stabilize, over and out."

 

            As the space before them crackled with low-yield missile bursts and the occasional detonation of a gunboat, plus the explosion of at least one CDF irregular, Retief steered Phoenix around the most exuberant areas of the fire-fight and entered atmosphere on the far side of the planet, accompanied by a small self-appointed escort, mostly converted luxury boats with hastily installed deck guns, which they used to clear the Ree in a narrow swath.

 

            A squadron of Ree which had followed in his wake peeled off to fly past in salute while he followed a standard approach pattern to the port, taking the same VIP dock to which he had been guided on his previous visit.

 

            Telling Grundy to remain aboard, Retief debarked amid sporadic firing by his escort. This time he ignored the waiting line-cart and commandeered the Ree limousine waiting on standby status.

 

            "Geeze, boss," the startled driver exclaimed, roused from his nap. "What's up? The shooting and all, I mean."

 

            "Nothing much," Retief reassured him as the heavy vehicle started off. "Just a change of administration."

 

            "Cripes! And I never even got to vote," the driver mourned.

 

            "Neither did I." Retief said. "So we cancel out."

 

            With that, the driver whisked him across town to the glossy black tower.

 

            The smartly turned-out sentries stepped forward to bar his way, but Retief waved them aside and leaving the chauffeur to explain matters, made his way unassisted along the narrow passages, now deserted, to Slive's private no-waiting room. The door to the Intimidator's sanctum sanctorum was ajar and Retief entered without hesitation. Back of his massive console, Slive looked up as if surprised.

 

            "So, it's you. Precisely on time. Foolish of you. But of course you are a fool. Consider: knowing full well the dread fate which awaited you here, you nonetheless came here, uncoerced. Ergo, you are either so incredibly stupid as to have forgotten, or, worse, doubted my promise to terminate your existence—or, even less perceptively, failed to realize that simply by staying away, you could have averted that fate. The dullest recruit in the Fleet of Great Ree could have figured that one out. Such appalling lack of wit is, of course, diagnostic of your inadequate species; thus it is crystal-clear that Destiny requires that Great Ree occupy the breeding surfaces otherwise wasted on the support of congenital inferiors."

 

            "Gosh," Retief said. "I'll bet it's a relief to get that off your chest. Been rehearsing it for a whole month, eh?"

 

            "Hardly," Slive objected. "I but blurted out, extempore, the facts as they were clear to one at sight of you. Such dumbness is hardly to be credited."

 

            "I just dropped in to tell you the fun is over, Slive. And your title has been changed: you can call yourself 'IF' now; that's for 'Incompetent Fumbler.' Terra has decided to swat you, IF. Perhaps you noticed a small disturbance in your upper atmosphere starting about an hour ago: that was my armada squashing your gadflies. Your HQ is now out of business, permanently."

 

            "Absurd!" Slive barked. "Why, at the mere pressing of a button, I can summon my crack first-line squadrons to annihilate any being so lacking in judgment as to infringe Ree sovereignty."

 

            "Try it," Retief suggested. "Be my guest, IF."

 

            Slive pushed a button, then another, without apparent result; then rose and rippled across to the door.

 

            "Freddy!" he yelled, and receiving no reply flung the door wide in time to see the towering figure of Powerful Pete stride into the anteroom, wearing a bandolier across his chest and gripping in one fist a powergun with its hotlight glowing red.

 

            Slive slammed the door. "Drat! Where's Freddy?" he snarled, returning to his chair. "After I elevated the scamp from the ranks to a position of trust! When I need him, he's not to be found!"

 

            "Don't blame Freddy," Retief said mildly. "Sergeant-Major Grundy has him well in hand, no doubt. Now, it's time to get to the substantive portion of today's meeting: I want you to pack up and go home. We'll graciously allow you to do whatever you like in the Western Arm, and I think I can even guarantee you a modest market for glimp eggs. But first, get Snith on the hot-line and chew him out."

 

            "Whatever for?" Slive wanted to know.

 

            "You'll think of something," Retief predicted. Slive complied silently, and in a moment the Groaci's breathy voice hissed from the talker:

 

            "—here, Slive, to not know just what you have in mind, but if you'll recall the terms of our entent cordiale, to be at once clear to you that this affair of taking back my hostages is not to be borne by proud Groac!"

 

            "Skip all that, Snith," Slive broke in tonelessly. "We got troubles. And speaking ententes, what's the idea telling me these Terries would roll up like a rug if I come on like a down-trodden minority? I got this Terry right here in my office now, says he's gonna gimme a break and let me retreat."

 

            "To inquire, my dear Intimidator," Snith came back, "would the name of this rogue Terry, be, ah, 'Retief,' by any fell chance?"

 

            "That's him," Slive confirmed. "You want to talk to him?"

 

            "Lackaday," Snith mourned. "Alas for my dreams of a procuratorship, a haughty Terra humbled, and even a hot tub of sand with the Lady Sith."

 

            "Yeah, that's tough E-pores about the hot sand and all," Slive cut in unfeelingly. "But you better shoo out the rest of the Terry hostages you've been holding out. Don't call me, Mr. Ambassador, I'll call you, if I got anything else to say, which I doubt." He cut the connection.

 

            "Nicely done, Fumbler," Retief congratulated his host. "Now, you had in mind throwing me out that window of yours over there—in fact, you had it installed especially for the purpose, and it would be a pity to let it go to waste. Suppose you go over and look out."

 

            "Never!" Slive barked. "Such devices are suited to the insensitive nervous systems of lower orders which evolved in the tree-tops, dangling by their tails! To a nobleman of Great Ree, the prospect is unthinkable!"

 

            "If just peeking out is that bad, what would yOu say to sticking your face out and looking straight down?" Retief inquired as he advanced casually toward the former Intimidator.

 

            "Retief! You wouldn't!" Slive hoped aloud.

 

            "It may not be necessary if you cooperate nicely," Retief conceded. It was at that moment that the heavy door burst from its hinges and powerful Pete slammed into the room.

 

            "Oh, hi, Chief," he said casually, switching his blast gun to the yellow-light position. "I guess we got this dump sewed up. Want me to get rid of his Nibs here? Looks like his rank-paint needs retouching."

 

            "Hi, there," Slive caroled. "I'm Incompetent Fumbler Slive, and I was just telling Ambassador Retief about my plans to pull all my troops back into the Western Arm where they belong, and recommend a zero population growth program to the Ultimate."

 

 

The End

 

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