The Return of Retief (21 page)

            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!"

            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

-

            "Tell
His Excellency to get down off that chandelier at once!" Ambassador
Smallfrog said in a choked voice. He plucked appealingly at his First Consuls
sleeve. "But in a nice way, Ben, of course," he added.

            Ben
Magnan nodded and rose briskly, glancing up in surprise at the scarlet-robed
and gold-braided amoeboid form of the Grotian Minister of Foreign Affairs,
which was clinging to the ornate crystal lighting fixture above the table where
the three members of the
Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne
—Ambassador
Frederick Small-frog, First Consul Ben Magnan, and Special Envoy Retief—were
plying the Minister with lunch.

            "Heavens!
How did he get up there?" Ambassador Smallfrog murmured. "He didn't
seem the athletic type. Retief!" he whispered sharply to the
broad-shouldered Envoy seated to his right. "Do something! But use no
force."

            Retief
rose, studying the manner in which the short, digitless limbs of the alien were
entwined among the branching arms of the chandelier. He drew on his Jorgensen
cigar to bring it to a cherry-red glow, gestured the hot end toward the alien's
purple-pink hide, and commented distinctly, "We could, you know, apply
heat to the Minister's elbow—or is it a knee?"

            The
limb immediately contracted, scrambling for new purchase farther from the
potential source of discomfort.

            Retief
waved the cigar closer to the Grotian's nervously quivering form.

            The
alien retracted his pseudopods and contracted his bulk into a gourd-shaped mass
dangling by a single jointless limb.

            "Dearie
me, Retief," Magnan chirped. "I'm not at all sure Terran-Grote
relations are being cemented by your somewhat drastic sign-language. You'd
better let well enough alone."

            "Factually,
I haven't touched him," Retief said. "How else can we get His
Excellency's attention to a simple request? He seems pretty much wrapped up in
himself."

            "Retief,
shhh," Magnan interposed hastily, "that comes very close to being a
racially biased remark."

            "I
doubt that His Excellency is in any condition to comprehend it," Retief
soothed his senior. "I'm not sure where he keeps his IQ, but by now it
must be squeezed pretty flat."