The Return of Retief (5 page)

            "Well,
what now, gentlemen?" Sidesaddle addressed his underlings as the doors
whoosh!
ed
shut behind the inspectors. "It appears certain hotheads have assayed
a show of force, but failed to intimidate the insidious Ree. That," he
concluded with satisfaction, "leaves matters squarely up to diplomacy, in
its pure form. Now, we mustn't keep the Secretary waiting. So, shall we,
gentlemen?"

            Hy
Felix responded by hauling the big black glass door open for the others to file
through. Bringing up the rear, Magnan paused to mutter to the Information
attache.

            "One
almost wishes Retief were here, eh, Hy?" a gambit which netted him a sour
look from the former editor of the Caney, Kansas
Poultryman
's
Gazette.

           
"But he
ain't
here, Ben," Hy grunted. "He's still taking wildlife census on
Icebox Nine or something, after that fiasco out on Furtheron, eh? We won't see
any more of him fer a while. Not that he'd make any difference: these here Ree
got the Forces buffaloed, and the Corps, too. Let's go on up and find out what
the Deep-Think teams have come up with."

            The
VIP conference room in which the historic Peace Strategy Council was to be held
was on the twelfth floor. Three banks of elevators discharged arriving
functionaries from Missions throughout Tip Sector who, with the professionalism
of long experience, busied themselves competing for advantageous seats at the
long table, with its mathematically precisely positioned long yellow pads and
needle-sharp number two pencils at each place.

            "The
principle, Marvin," senior Cultural Attache Underthurst advised a young
General Services Officer, "is to pick a spot close enough to the head of
the table to be able to catch the eye of the chairman when you need to, but not
close enough to put you directly in his line of vision, if he's looking for
somebody to ream."

            "Gosh,
thanks, Mr. Underthrust," Marvin Lackluster said, and neatly hooked a
chair rung with his foot just in time to preempt it from occupancy by an
over-weight Counselor from the legation at Moosejaw.

            "At
the same time, Marvin," his mentor whispered, taking the adjacent place,
"one mustn't be thoughtless of matters of protocol; after all, the Moosejaw
Cadre may be making out your ER some day."

            "Gee
whiz, sir," the lad replied. "I didn't realize just coming in and
sitting down would be so technical. We didn't learn anything about this part at
the short course back at the Department."

            "Hist!
Here he comes!" Hy Felix's nasal whisper cut across the hubbub from the
lookout post he had taken up at the door. At once, silence reigned, as glassy
smiles—"Not too frivolous-looking, mind you, Marvin," Underthrust
warned —were adjusted in readiness to greet the chairman. Instead, a reedy
Admin type came in, and cleared his throat. The profound, attentive silence
grew even more profound.

            "Gentlemen;
you too, Hy," the advance man began, pausing for the academic laugh, while
Felix took his seat.

            "Gentlemen,
as an index of the gravity of today's meeting," the Admin type went on,
"no less a personage than Temporary Acting Deputy Undersecretary
Crodfoller himself will chair the proceedings."

            "Well,
it's better'n George, the janitor," Elmer Proudfoot, an Assistant
Political Officer, said in the too-loud tone that had so often delayed his
career development.

            "I
heard that, Elmer!" the hoarse voice of the janitor came from the back of
the room. Before Elmer could phrase a rejoinder absolving himself of prejudice
against custodial personnel, the door swung wide and Undersecretary Crodfoller
entered, going directly to his upholstered chair at the head of the table as
all hands rose; he replied to the chorus of effusive greeting with a grunt. As
he settled himself, his deceptively bland gaze ran along the rows of faces: he
summoned his advance man with a jab of a plump thumb.

            "Clarence,"
his glutinous voice sounded clearly, "I thought I told you to weed out the
trash first."

            "Gee,
sir, I was just going to, when you arrived so punctually." Clarence
consulted his watch. "Actually, Mr. Temp—er, Act—, er, Depitty
Undersecretary, sir," he said boldly. "Your Excellency is twelve
seconds early."

            "Precisely,"
Crodfoller pronounced the word as if confirming proof of his infallibility.
"Now, down to business, gentlemen." He waved away the hovering
Clarence, picked up a pristine pencil, and began drawing interlocking
rectangles on his pad.

            "Any
suggestions from the floor before we begin?" he inquired in a tone which
discouraged response. "What about you, Morris?" His little eyes
glinted at Ambassador Sidesaddle, who writhed for a moment before rising,
having assumed an expression of Astonishment at an Unwarranted Challenge
(15-B).

            "Whom,
I, sir?" he inquired in an ingratiating tone quite at variance with that
with which he was accustomed to address his staff. "I?" he repeated.
"Why, sir, isolated as I am at Dobe, well off the trade routes, I've had
little opportunity to fill myself in on the particular problem—the Ree invasion,
I presume you mean, sir.

            Crodfoller
drew a jagged line across the pattern which had begun to evolve on his pad and
wrote, 'Sidesaddle, have record up for review!' Then he let his glance wander
to the cadaverous, uniformed figure of General Ralph Otherday.

            "Ralph,"
the chairman addressed the officer blandly, "perhaps you'd be good enough
to outline the situation for Ambassador Sidesaddle, and any others present who
may have failed to keep their Classified Despatch Binders up to date."

            General
Otherday rose, a tall, gaunt man with a heavily sunlamped face and a black
brush mustache.

            "Fellows,"
he began abruptly. "It's like this: those damn worms—the Ree, they call
themselves—have been making nuisances of themselves all across Tip space for
some months now. Our intelligence boys say they've strayed across from the
Western Arm, and we've been getting howls from every Tom, Dick, and Meyer on
the frontier: infernal worms landing and menacing settlers and generally acting
as if they own the place—. All our outlying systems are infested, it appears,
and with our thin coverage out there, we haven't been able to bring them to
decisive battle. One report here—" he stabbed at an imaginary trideogram
of Tip space suspended before him "—and the next one over
here."
He
indicated a spot eighteen inches, or a fractional light, from the first.
"We head out that way, and they strike behind us, just isolated units, you
understand, no concentration of force we can get our teeth into. So far,
they've nibbled their way halfway across the Tip, and are about to enter the
Arm proper. Frankly, we're running low on supplies, and the minor skirmishes
we've had so far have been quite indecisive. So—we'll either have to mobilize
the reserves, or call for an appropriation that will enable us to mount an
across-the-board offensive,
or
fall back to prepared positions within
the Arm and wait for their next move."

            "Ah,
the appropriation you have in mind, General," Crodfoller mused in a tone
of innocence. "About how much—"

            "Precisely
twenty billion GUC this fiscal year, Mr. Undersecretary," the general
replied promptly. "Calling up the reserves would be cheaper— and
faster."

            "Out
of the question!" Crodfoller's pronouncement blanketed the chorus of
shocked gasps from the committee members.

            General
Otherday resumed his seat, clipped a Jorgensen cigar, and glanced Chairmanward
inquiringly, at which Crodfoller boomed:

            "Light
that thing, Ralph, and we'll see what kind of job a buck general can do on
KP."

            The
general deftly tucked away the offensive smoke, unlit, and assumed a bitter
smile. "Sorry, sir. I'm just a simple soldier, you recall, not accustomed
to such plush surroundings, of course. Out there in the foxholes, we get a
little careless about the niceties like air-conditioning."

            "It's
my understanding that you and your staff are quartered at the Ritz-Krudlu, on
Gaspierre, Ralph," Crodfoller countered. "Had no intention of denying
a vereran his comforts, of course."

            "Sure,"
the general agreed, "but what about these Ree? While we're sitting here
jawing about air conditioning, they're eating our outposts and settlements like
a Creepie swallowing jelly beans."

            "It
is precisely that question that brings us here today, Ralph," Crodfoller
said reasonably. "I have, at the request of your chief, Grand Admiral
Starbird, called together my Principal Officers and their key staffs from every
mission above Consulate-General rank in the entire Sector! And I am now
prepared, gentlemen," the Crodfoller glance drifted along the eager faces
at the table, "to entertain any constructive proposals which those of you
who, unlike Ambassador Sidesaddle, have kept abreast of events, may care to
offer."

            "What
did he say?" Hy Felix asked Colonel Trenchfoot. "I heard him, but I
got lost somewhere."

            Colonel
Trenchfoot
shush!
ed
the Press man and cleared his throat.

            "As
the general said, sir," he addressed Crodfoller, "it's about time we
got off our duffs and showed these worms who's running the Arm."

            "Ahem,
Colonel," the Undersecretary replied, "I can overlook your aggressive
terminology because you're new to the give and take of enlightened
diplomacy."

            "Looks
to me like we're doing all the giving, and they're doing all the taking,
Boss," Trenchfoot came back cheekily. Hy Felix snickered.

            "Mr.
Magnan," Crodfoller singled out the inoffensive Econ man for attention,
"What have you to contribute at this juncture?"

            "Well,
sir, if this is a juncture, I feel we should perhaps do something
positive."

            "
If
this is a juncture, you say, Magnan?" The Undersecretary's frown
resembled a cold front forming over jagged mountain peaks. "Inasmuch as I
characterized it as a juncture, you wish to question my judgment?"
Crodfoller paused ominously and deliberately blacked in a square on his pad,
and noted 'Run a 734 on Magnan.'

            "Insubordination
will contribute little to interplanetary peace, Ben," he pointed out
sadly.

            "All
I said was—" Magnan began, but was cut off by Crodfoller's booming voice,
his face now wreathed in smiles.

            "Enough
of dissention, fellows," he suggested. "Mr. Lackluster, we haven't
yet heard from you."

            "Uh,
sir, that is, Mr. Assistant Deputy—I mean Deputy Assistant—er, Mr.
Undersecretary, that is," Marvin faltered, looking desperately to First
Secretary Underthrust for a hint.

            "Why
don't we just send 'em a blank surrender form, signed and sealed, and let them
fill in the terms?" the older diplomat suggested in a sardonic whisper to
his pupil.

            "Why
don't we—uh, just send 'em a blank surrender form," Marvin parroted,
"and let them fill in the terms .., OK, sir?"

            "Oh-kay,
Marvin?" Crodfoller echoed hollowly. "When has a fighting Crodfoller
ever been known to throw in the figurative towel without a show of symbolic
resistance? I'll have no craven proposals, gentlemen! We can achieve the same
results while at the same time saving face, if we put on a spirited
retreat," he amplified.

            "I
say, let's form up a cordon and lay for the infernal worms out past Tip
space," General Otherday proposed loudly.

            "Warmongering,
Ralph?
Open
warmongering, at that. I'm surprised at you, General. A bit
more subtlety is to be expected of an officer of your rank, even if you
are
known
as a hawk type."