Retief 16
(1993)*
Keith Laumer
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
A noisy, jostling crowd of slightly mutated Terran-descended inhabitants of the planet Bloor filled the broad avenue, lined with the formerly imposing facades of Embassy Row. First Secretary Magnan, Econ Officer of the Terran Mission, accompanied by Jame Retief, two grades his junior, but six inches taller, were returning from a trip to the port to meet a newly-assigned colleague.
The purplish sun of the frontier world was casting ocher shadows across the noisy mob filling the Easiest Way, the primary avenue of the capital. The lone Terran-built ground-car with the armorial bearings of the CDT crept through the dense throng and pulled to the curb. In the front seat beside Ralph, the gloomy driver, Herb Lunchwell, the newly-arrived Econ Officer to the Terran Mission, dabbed at his forehead with a large floral-patterned hanky.
"My goodness, Ben," he addressed the senior officer present. "What's the cause of the riot? Won't they attack us as soon as we step out of the car?"
"What riot was that, Herb?" Magnan inquired interestedly. "If you're referring to the admittedly rather high-spirited locals, actually this is rather a quiet afternoon. They're uninhibited, you see, and perceiving their lots in life to be less desirable than could be desired, they freely express their natural resentments, but it's all quite harmless. They've no weapons, thanks to enlightened Terran policy, and they'll soon disperse, all friends again, and retire to the nearby bistros to get roaring drunk. You'll get used to their noisy ways, Herb, we all do. Isn't mat right, Retief?" Magnan turned to his junior for confirmation. Retief nodded.
"They're a little extra-excited today because this is Distribution Day, Mr. Lunchwell," Magnan added.
"Oh, you're referring to the formal alotments of rations and so on under the Goodies For Undesirables Program, eh?" Herb responded. "By the way, Ben, congrats on your appointment as Counselor of Embassy for GFU Affairs; a plum, indeed—but you'll have to be careful," he went on. "Every recipient will want to be sure he's getting his fair share."
"And clearly," Magnan amplified, nodding, "each one is already convinced he's being cheated. Odd," he mused on. "We owe them nothing, yet we distribute free gifts, and they complain it's not enough."
Ralph twisted to look back at his VIP passengers. "Say, Ben," he offered, "OK if I just ease into the alley up ahead?" He winced as a large, well-rotted stench-cabbage impacted on the windshield directly before him. See, these guys here are mostly of the Objectionable Clan; in town fer the annual rumble with the Reprehensibles; they don't—I mean, I ain't— well, you see, Ben, there's some guy from the Reprehensibles expecting—I mean, a guy could get hurt if he din't do what—"
"Ralphie!" Magnan chided, "you haven't been trafficking with the lawless element again! Not after last time!"
"Well, Ben, you see ..." Ralph nudged the car another ten feet through the tight rank of yelling Bloorian males and netted ugly looks, shaken fists, and a shower of small missiles. He was scrooched down in the seat in instinctive response to the barrage of stones, bottles, and dead animals raining down on the car, but he persevered, easing the heavy vehicle through the loafers, too lazy to riot, who crowded the sidewalk, past the plain gray stucco facade of the Groacian Embassy and the narrow front of the bonded warehouse, inching toward the brightly-lit portico of the Embassy of Terra. Then he braked to a halt as he encountered a solid rank of locals standing with linked arms, facing the Embassy car.
"End o' the line, gents," Ralph declared. "Them boys ain't moving."
"Where are the women and children?" Herb wanted to know as he peered anxiously out at the all-male mob.
"Oh," Magnan explained, "they have their own riots—no, a slip of the tongue, joyous expressions of high spirits, as His Excellency insists we call them— on alternate days. Tomorrow is Ladies' Day."
Retief opened the door against pressure and stepped out, nudging a few locals aside to make room for Magnan and Herb, who emerged cautiously, muttering precautionary apologies to the displaced locals.
As they were passing the warehouse side-entrance between the two Chanceries, Magnan plucked at Retief's sleeve. "Really, Jim," he confided in an anxious tone, "I think we should have had Ralph force his way through and drop us on the doorstep. I fear the looks these xenophobic fellows are casting our way aren't all that friendly, in spite of our generosity toward their backward world. He shuffled forward, pushed by the mob.
"What's that 'backward'?" demanded a typically large, hawk-faced, horny-handed local dressed in the shabby bib overalls favored by the Bloorians. The big fellow stepped out from the warehouse doorway to deliberately block the walk, rolling his impressive shoulders in a truculent way. His grin was less than reassuring. As Magnan was forced against the unmoving bulk, the local doubled a right fist like a ham-shaped paving stone and drew it back, shifting his weight in preparation for putting all two hundred eighty pounds behind a low right jab.
"You tryna start sumpin wit Slum Dob, a chief of one hunhert?" he demanded.
"Do excuse me, sir," Magnan twittered. "I regret my clumsiness, but could you just scroonch over a teentsy bit, say to your left, and allow us to pass? You see we're late for the ceremonies at our Embassy."
"Hey, all youse Objectionables," the lout called over Magnan's head. "Youse hear that? This here nance is tryna order me outa duh way! Are we gonna take dat?" He set himself and drove the cocked fist toward Magnan's semiformal early mid-evening dickey, but the blow impacted the palm of Retief's hand instead of Magnan's short ribs.
"Get behind me, Mr. Magnan," Retief suggested. Slum Dob looked puzzled, then yelped as Retief's fingers closed around his hamlike fist and began to squeeze; he uttered a louder yell and his left arm came around in a roundhouse swipe aimed at Retief's head. Magnan uttered a bleat and seized the arm with both hands as it jerked him from his feet. He hung on and was slammed against the wall of the shabby warehouse sandwiched between the elegant Embassies of Groac and Terra.
"Fellers," the Bloorian again appealed to the crowd, "I'm Slum Dob, working outa local Three-oh-one o' duh United Miscreants, an' I'm pretty big in duh Reprehensible Tribe and clan Objectionable, as well. An' dis mug, or I meana say dese two mugs, is tryna strip me o my civil rights an all! All you Reps and Regs and Micks and Obbies oughta rally to my pertekshin onna double!" As Slum Dob concluded his appeal, he lunged suddenly in an attempt to free his hand, but Retief braced his feet and yanked him back to a face-to-face stance.
"Come on, pal" Slum appealed, twisting his gargoyle-like features into what Retief decided was an attempt at an ingratiating smirk. "Lemme go before duh boys catch wise and get duh idea I'm losing my stuff, OK?" He tried a snap-kick to the shin, but instead his own shin impacted the edge of Retief's boot. He howled and recoiled, slamming Magnan against the wall.
"Jim," Magnan bleated. "Force this ruffian to release me at once!"
"Just let go, Ben," Retief suggested. "It's you that's holding on to him. Thanks for the assist."
Magnan released his frantic clutch and fell underfoot. Slum tried a left to Retief's jaw and found that fist imprisoned like the other. As his knuckles were ground together, he screwed up his face and snarled.
"Yuh better lemme be, Terry, if yuh know what's good fer yuh!"
"Tell me, Dob, what's good for me?" Retief inquired interestedly.
"Yuh know," Dob pled, "a smart guy wudda went wid duh flow, like us: stuff happens, so why get caught in duh wheels?"
"You mean if I were smart I'd be like you?" Retief prompted.
"Now yer getting duh sketch, Pal," Dob approved. "Say, yuh wanna kinda leggo my fistes?"
"I heard you appeal tome Objectionables to lend assistance," Retief commented. "I've heard of the Objectionables, but who are they and how did they get their name?" Retief gave Slum's hands a final twist and let them go.
"Well," Slum started, in a relieved tone, "inna olden time our poor ignernt ancestors and all useta work alla time: dey liked it, see? Hundin' and diggin' and hoein' spuds and puttin' in crops and all dat. But fin'ly my high-class tribe, dey useta call us 'duh Busies,' we were duh foist group to figger if we could let duh udder mug do dun hard labor and den strong-arm duh like produck of his labors, dat'd be a lot easier dan doing our own woik. See? So dat's why dey dubbed us duh Objectionables, get it? Dey objected, see, when we harvested dere crops fer em, duh Spoilsports, which we're hereditary enemies now. Smart! Right? But did duh udder clans appreciate dem kine o' smarts? Naw!" Slum made a throwing-away gesture with his newly released hand. Dey was envious an all at foist. Den dey trieda pull duh same stuff on us! Duh lousy bums! Now get dis part, Terry: while our ancestors was sleeping off a hard day hunding rock-goats in duh foothills—it was a habit, see? Anyway dese sneaky Unspeakables—dat's what duh tribal council called 'em, an duh moniker stuck—snuck in an' taken all duh goat meat after we done alla woik! Can you top dat for unspeakable? Dey were the nex' bunch to try duh scam, and pretty soon nobody was hunding no rock-goats no more, when dey could get duh eats free, and pretty soon alla tribes tipped wise to duh technique, and dat's duh basis o' duh Bloorian economy to dis day."
"No wonder they all call each other 'Scoundrels' and 'Hatefuls' and 'Unimaginables' and so on," Magnan mused.
"I see," Retief encouraged. "You boys were contentedly taking in each other's washing until we Terries came along and started handing out the equivalent of goat meat, and spoiled all the fun."
"Dat's it, chum," Slum confided. "Say, you got a good head on youse, fer a foreigner, I mean, and dat left hook ain't too bad, neither. Roont duh whole basis o' our culture, is what youse boys done! It ain't hardly to be borne!" Slum knuckled an eye in demonstration of his emotional distress. "O' course," he added, "we still got duh poor dumb peasants-like, duh B-9's, dat keep duh chickens and made duh bread and all—fer fun, see? Dey like woik! Some kinda throwbacks, I guess; it's lucky at dat: hamboigers don't grow onna trees, you know."
"I hadn't heard about the B-9's," Retief commented.
"Naw, dey keep to duh hills mostly." Dob grunted. "We don't mess wid 'em an' dey got smarts enough dey don't mess wid us."
"Great Heavens, Retief!" Magnan spoke up. "I'd never considered the Goodies For Undesirables program in that light! Why, we may have done irreparable harm to this livery emergent, ah, backward, or developing, that is to say inferior society, all in the name of Benign Dispensation!"
"Yeah," Slum confirmed. "Dat's duh trouble wit' you do-gooders, you go aroun do-gooding fer yer own lacks, and don't give no consideration to what yuh might be doing to hallowed local values an' all!"
He paused to grieve silently, while Magnan fought to restrain his emotion. "Goodness gracious me," he whimpered. "How can we—and in particular, I, make it up to them?"
"You could start by belting that Unthinkable who's lifting your wallet," Retief suggested. Magnan looked amazed, then jumped, clapped a hand over the pocket where he kept his credit coder and found himself eyeball-to-eyeball with a stubby seven-foot local. He yipped and jabbed forked fingers at the pickpocket's bleary eyes, a move that sent the fellow reeling back, yelling, and striking out randomly at the nearest bystanders among the clot of the idle curious who had fallen out of the free-for-all to observe the fate of the foreigners who had been cornered by Slum Dob, a proven Champion of One Hundred.
Noting their hero's distress, the mass of Bloorians advanced in a solid wave of brandished fists and snarling faces. While Retief battered an opening, Ralph and Herb made a run for it. Magnan was thrust back against the unmarked door, which collapsed under the avalanche. Retief felled a persistent Incorrigible as he reached for Ben, and urged Magnan through the opening. Inside, Magnan had shrunk back against the wall and was blinking in the dim gloom of the bonded warehouse, while recovering his breath.
"Good Lord, Jim," he commented between gasps. "It appears security is more lax than I had dreamed. Why, that door isn't even on the Schedule! I'd no idea—and now we're trapped down here! The security doors will be locked tight! Why does it smell so bad in here? There's nothing in bond right now except the remaining GFU supplies from the last shipment."
"Just a moment," Retief cut in. "I want to take a look over here." He went along the wall to the corner, where a flimsy construction of plywood partitioned off a cramped space. Through the gaping joints, dim light revealed brooms and mops.
"Retief!" Magnan yipped. "It's—that must be the storage closet used by the custodial personnel. Difficult chaps, those sweepers! Just last week the Admin Officer called the Boss Boy in to tell him he was raising their pay. The insolent fellow replied that it wasn't enough!"
"You have to remember the locals lose face if they're detected doing anything useful," Retief reminded his chief.
"Scant danger!" Magnan snapped. "That gang of loafers spend their on-duty hours playing Bliff in the back corridor. They don't even bother anymore to rub the used motor oil on the phones to make them shine!"
Retief eased through the open joint into the broom closet and invited Magnan to follow. Pushing past the mops and buckets, he eased the closet door open and the two stepped out into the brilliant light and bustle of the boisterous crowd filling the Embassy lobby.
"We hardly look presentable, Jim," Magnan carped. "We can't attend the gala in this state of disarray!"
"We'll have to, Ben," Retief countered. "Come on; no one will notice, after we've pushed our way through this mob."
"Heavens!" Magnan squeaked. "I'd no idea Hy had invited so many uncouth locals to attend the banquet! I doubt we can serve so many—and they look like big eaters, too!" He clutched Retief's arm. "Imagine the expression on Freddie Underknuckle's face when I tell him of the gross flaw in his security!"
"That's nothing to what Randy O'Rourke is going to tell his gyrenes when he finds out," Retief pointed out.
Retief led the way, forcing a passage through the noisy Bloorians of every caste, tribe, clan, union, service club, and fraternity, all argumentatively determined to be first to reach the banquet hall.
"It was awkward," Magnan was telling Retief breathlessly, "just to entice the members of so many of the local factions to foregather peacefully here tonight, suppressing for a while their innate instinct to attack everyone in sight!"
"With these boys," Retief replied, ducking under a roundhouse swing as he delivered a stiff right to the attacking Nasty's broad torso, "it's hard to tell peace from war."
"True," Magnan murmured judiciously. "Still, it appears that so far the paramedics have been able to evacuate the wounded at a rate which slightly exceeds the rate of mayhem. So we've no actual accumulation of casualties with which to deal."
"Jim," Magnan raised his voice to make himself heard over the hubbub, enlivened by a number of brisk fist- and knife-fights among the members of traditionally hostile guest-groups, "regarding the broom-closet, how did you know—or suspect—"
"Yesterday I saw three sweepers go into the broom closet and nobody came out," Retief explained.
"Oh, so it was after all quite obvious," Magnan sighed. "Pity Sergeant Randy O'Rourke didn't notice."
"It's not so strange," Retief pointed out. "After all, His Ex has failed to notice that the mob-leader to whom he's about to award the Legion Third Class is a dope-smuggling child molester."
"Retief! Remember it's Child Molester Pride Week!"
"I guess I had it confused with Rapist Pride Month," Retief confessed, as they forged ahead toward the receiving line.
"Now, Retief," Counselor Magnan cautioned as he trailed his tall, powerfully built assistant to the ornate double door where Marv Lacklustre waited, shaking hands and murmuring to each arrival. "We mustn't take it upon ourselves," Magnan cautioned, "to be adversely critical of His Excellency's choice as recipient of the Longspoon Award. It's quite true that Minister of Internal Chaos Bam Slang had acquired a somewhat unsavory popular reputation as a thieving, murderous leader of a dacoit mob, prior to our arrival, but since the CDT has recognized that he in fact embodies his people's legitimate aspirations for self-determination, we must acknowledge that he and his band of patriots were in fact, merely requisitioning supplies, albeit in an informal manner, to carry on the good fight against colonialism."
"Sure, Ben," Retief reminded his senior. "He had to loll all the women and children so as to 'emphasize the determination of the people to achieve democracy'; I read Hy's press handout. But why did he have to burn down the schools and hospitals we'd built and sell the relief supplies we sent in after the flood, then buy a solid gold bed? I admit I'm a little hazy on that part."
"As to that," Magnan evaded, "we should, of course, have provided the gold bed directly. And we have only the unsupported reports of the putative victims' to suggest that atrocities did in fact take place." That, and all the corpses, Retief agreed.
"Tush," Magnan chided. "You must learn to curb your tendency toward ad hoc cynicism. Remember: Bam Slang is the Fred Hiesenwhacker of Bloor, or, more precisely, of the Bloorish people."
"That's too mild an encominum," Retief suggested. "Hiesenwhacker only burned down the Legislature, with all the legislators and insurance company bagmen inside. Bam has wiped out the entire governmental apparatus."
...
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