Keith Laumer - Retief 03 - Retief's War.pdf - Keith Laumer - widez2

RETIEF'S WAR

One

Jame Retief, Second Secretary and Consul of the Terrestrial Embassy to Quopp, paused in his stroll

along the Twisting Path of Sublime Release to admire the blaze of early morning sunlight on the stained

glass window of a modest grog shop wedged between a stall with a sign in jittery native script announcing

Bargain Prices in Cuticula Inlays, and the cheery facade of the Idle Hour Comfort Station, One Hundred

Stalls, No Waiting. He took out a long cigar of the old-fashioned type still hand-rolled on Jorgensen's

Worlds, glanced back along the steep, narrow street. Among the crowd of brilliantly colored

Quoppina—members of a hundred related native species mingling freely here in the Great Market of

Ixix—the four Terrans who had been trailing him for the past half hour stood out drably.

Retief drew on the cigar, savoring the aroma, turned and stepped through the low arch into the

tavern. From a high stool within the raised ring-bar at the center of the gaily lit chamber, the

barkeeper—a medium-sized, short-abdomened individual of the Herpp tribe, with chipped wing cases of

faded baby blue and four dexterous arms of bristly wine-red on one of which a Terran wristwatch was

strapped—manipulated the controls of the dispenser console, exchanged banter with the customers,

made change, and kept a pair of eyes on the free lunch simultaneously. He saw Retief, tilted his anterior

antennae in friendly greeting.

"I am Gom-Goo, and I dance the Dance of Welcome," he susurrated in Quopp trade dialect, his

voice reminiscent of fingernails on a blackboard. "What'll it be, Retief?"

"I'm Retief, and I dance the Dance of Glad Arrival," the diplomat replied in the same tongue. "How

about a shot of Bacchus brandy?"

"Red or black?"

"Black." The other customers made room as Retief moved up, unclipped a carefully charred wooden

bowl from the serving panel, got it under the proper bright-plated nozzle just in time to catch the

tar-colored syrup as it jetted forth.

"That's pretty good stuff," Gom-Goo said; he lowered his voice. "But for a real kick, you ought to try

a shot of Hellrose—cut ten to one, of course. That'll put a charge on your plates."

"I tried it once. Too sweet for a Terry. We like our sugar fermented."

"Sourballs?" The Herpp indicated an assortment of pea-sized lumps of yellow, white, purple, and

green.

Retief shook his head. "I prefer salt peanuts to salt-peter," he confided.

"Well, every tribe to its own poison."

"Here's oil in your crankcase," Retief toasted formally, nibbling the brandy.

"Oil," Gom-Goo responded. "You haven't been in lately, Retief. Been dormant?"

"No more so than usual, Gom-Goo. Ambassador Longspoon's been imposing non-union hours on

the staff, I'm afraid. Wouldn't do to let the Groaci steal a march on us and get a Bolshoi-type ballet

theater built before we can get a Yankee-stadium type sports arena off the drawing board."

Gom-Goo worked his dorsal mandibles in the gesture that expressed courteous skepticism. "Frankly,

Retief, we Quoppina aren't much interested in watching Terries hobble around. After all, only two legs

and no wings . . ."

"I know; but it's traditional in these diplomatic competitions to build something conspicuously

inappropriate."

Gom-Goo tilted his oculars toward the door, where a pair of Quoppina with highly polished black

carapaces were rolling past, twirling nightsticks.

"Speaking of Terry programs, Retief, just between you and me, what's behind this business of buffing

up these Voion ne'er-do-wells and setting them to cruising the streets waving clubs at the rest of us?"

"Well, Gom-Goo, it appears that in some quarters the view is held that you Quoppina are a little too

fond of brawling, anarchy, and dueling in the streets to qualify as natural democrats. Ergo, a native police

force."

"Uh-huh—but why pick the Voion for the job? Their tribe's made its living by waylaying honest

Quoppina in back alleys ever since the Great Egg first hatched—"

A heavy foot clumped behind Retief. He turned to find the four Terrans ringing him in, ominous

expressions on their weathered features.

"We're just in from the Trading Post at Rum Jungle," the lean, scar-faced member of the quartet said

flatly. "We want to have a little talk with you, Mister." He put his left fist carefully against the palm of his

right hand and twisted it, looking around nervously.

Retief nodded. "Go ahead," he said pleasantly. A large man with thick, protuberant ears and thin

sandy hair eased the scarred man aside.

"Not in this dump," he said in a voice like a cannonball rolling downstairs. "Outside."

"If it's a private matter, maybe you'd better drop by my office—"

"We already been to the Embassy; talked to some bird named Magnan," the big man said. "He acted

like his lace drawers was itching him; no joy there."

"Don't argue with this chump, Big Leon," a squatty fellow with a bluish chin and a steel front tooth

advised. "Bring him along."

The bartender leaned over and buzzed sharply. "My name is Gom-Goo," he started. "I—"

"Better get your wiring checked, low-pockets," Scar-face cut him off. "Sounds like you got a short in

your talk box." He jerked his head at Retief. "Let's walk, Mister."

"I haven't quite finished my drink," Retief said mildly. "Why don't you go stand outside; I'll be along

presently."

The fourth man, yet to be heard from, edged close. "Ah, sir, we have a problem," he began. "We—"

"Skip it, Jerry," Scar-face snapped. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, glowered at Retief.

"Outside, you, like Big Leon said."

"Sorry," Retief said. "Some other time, maybe."

Scar-face narrowed his eyes, reached a large-knuckled hand for Retief's collar; Retief leaned aside,

caught the hand, and flipped it over, his fingers against the palm, his thumb against the scarred knuckles,

doubled it back over the wrist. Scar-face went to his knees with a yowl. Retief tsked.

"A very poor lead, Lefty," he said reproachfully. "It's a good thing I wasn't an enemy of yours."

"Hey," the big man said, stepping in. "Let him up."

Retief looked at the wide face that topped his own six-three by an inch. "Why do they call you Big

Leon?"

Big Leon set himself. "Put Seymour down and I'll show you," he grated.

Retief shifted his grip, lifted the scarred man clear of the floor, hoisted him chest-high. "Here, you

have him," he offered, and tossed him at the big man. Leon staggered back, oof! ed, thrust Seymour

aside, frowned, doubled a large fist, and moved in—

There was a shrill rasp of sound. A thick, five-foot Quoppina with a glistening black carapace

decked out in elaborate silver ornaments rolled between Retief and Big Leon.

"Outside, foreign grubs!" the intruder keened. He waved a long billy club of black wood, jabbed it at

the scar-faced man, who had stumbled to his feet. There were other club-wielders behind the first—two,

three, half a dozen or more, all wearing the new black and silver trappings of the CDT-sponsored

Federal Police. The Voion captain waved his palps, giving Retief a glimpse down a yellow-green throat

set with silvery needles.

"All of you are under arrest," he rasped. "Place your manipulative members above your sense-organ

clusters and proceed hence!"

"What's the charge?" Retief asked in the Voion dialect.

"Trespassing in forbidden territory, alien, not that it matters! The example may remind your fellows to

remain in the ghetto graciously assigned to them by the indulgence of the Planetary Government!"

"Just a minute," the barkeeper interrupted from his perch above. "I am Gom-Goo and—"

"Silence, panderer to alien perversions," the Voion snapped. "Or I'll find dungeon space for you,

too!"

The other Voion were unlimbering clubs now. Over their heads, Retief caught Big Leon's eye, jerked

his head minutely to the right; the big man narrowed his eyes, nodded quickly. As the Voion before Retief

brought his club back for a jab to the sternum, Leon reached, caught the alien by the upper pair of arms,

lifted him clear of the floor, whirled him, and slammed him at his fellows. Two of them went over with a

crash. Retief spun, intercepted an eager junior closing in from the left, caught him by his vestigial wing

cases, sent him reeling back to collide with his partner as Scar-face feinted, twisted the club from the

two-pronged grip of the nearest cop, ducked, and jammed it through the spokes of the alien's yard-high

main wheels. The victim stopped with a screech and a twanging of broken spokes. Big Leon met a

second charging Voion with a roundhouse swipe, yelled as his fist glanced off the armored and thorned

thorax, then landed a blow that spun the creature aside. Retief, ready, spiked its main wheels with the

club he had wrenched from his last victim, just as the sole undamaged Voion struck Big Leon a vicious

blow behind the ear. Leon turned with a roar, picked up the cop bodily, and slammed him against the

barkeeper's podium.

"Here!" the barkeeper shrilled. "I am Gom-Goo and I dance the Dance of Distress—"

"Let's get out of here!" Scar-face ducked aside as a Voion's club whistled, charged for the door.

Quoppina of all sizes and colors scattered before him. Leon aimed a blow at a cop renewing the attack;

Jerry took the arm of the fourth Terran, staggering from a bloody cut across the scalp, plunged through

the crowd. Retief, backed against the podium by the last two Voion still in action, keeping their distance

and swinging their clubs in whistling arcs, plucked a tall bottle from a display, got in a hearty crack across

the head of one as Gom-Goo leaned down and laid the other out with a bung starter.

"Retief!" The Herpp called above the chatter of the clientele who had been enjoying the free show. "I

am Gom-Goo and I dance the Dance of Apology—"

"This dance is on me," Retief panted. "I think I'd better be off now, Gom-Goo; sorry about the

damage—"

"It was entirely the fault of these jacks-in-office," the bartender clashed his wing cases in agitation.

"Interfering in a friendly dispute among cash customers! Tum-Tuk . . ." He signaled to his two table

waiters. "Haul these Voion troublemakers out into the alley, to survive or not, just as they please." He

leaned over to eye the one Big Leon had thrown against the podium. "As for this fellow, stuff him in the

incinerator. He's shouldered his last free citizen off the parking-ledge."

"We'd better dust, Mister," Leon said. "That Bug was a cop and he's got plenty of pals . . ."

There was a distant clanging of gongs.

"You'd best transfer the scene of your diversions elsewhere for the nonce, Retief," Gom-Goo called.

"One of these spoil-sports has summoned his fellow black-guards . . ."

"We were just leaving; and thanks for tapping that last fellow; he was getting too close for comfort."

"My pleasure, Retief. The rascals have been getting pushier by the day. They're up to something,

mark my words! And remember: After the wheels, the juncture between the parietal plates is the best

spot to go for on a Voion."

"I'll remember that. Ta ta."

* * *

In a quieter grog shop half a mile from the scene of the action, Retief and four Terrans found a table

at the back of the room from which they could keep an eye on the street. Through the wide, doorless

arch, Voion cops could be seen hurrying past, grim and businesslike in their black and silver trappings.

Big Leon blew on his skinned fist, looked at Retief almost shyly.

"Sorry about the rough stuff, uh, Mister, uh . . ."

"Retief. No apology needed. I see now why they call you Big Leon."

Leon nodded. "You looked pretty good in there yourself, Mister. Maybe those Bugs'll think about it

before they tackle a bunch of Terries again."

"What's got into them Bugs?" the scarred man demanded. "They been giving us a hard time out in the

field, but I figured they'd be minding their manners here in town."

"That's what we came here to talk about," Big Leon said. "Something's stirring the Voion tribe up. I

thought it was just us planters and traders they were out to get, but they've got the whole town sewed up

like a dead sailor."

"We pretty near didn't get into the city," the steel-toothed man said. "There's a patrol around the port;

a man could get the idea he wasn't welcome."

"The new police force was designed to bring law and order to Quopp," Retief said. "According to

the official T.O. there are supposed to be no more than a hundred of them assigned to the city, with

smaller detachments at the major trading towns."

"A hundred my uncle Edgar," Leon growled. "The whole town's swarming with 'em—and there must

be another ten thousand between here and Rum Jungle."

"Yes, I'd say our friends the Voion have answered the call to civic duty in surprising numbers," Retief

said.

"They say Longspoon's the one behind it," Scar-face said. "Sometimes I wonder whose side you

CDT boys are on."

"The motivation of the diplomat is an enigma that even his best friend, if he had one, would be hard

put to define," Retief confided. "Technically, the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne is dedicated to the

protection of Terran interests, Galaxy-wide. Of course, figuring out what those interests really are can get

a little complicated."

"Like equipping local cops with clubs to pound Terry heads, using fees squeezed out of Terry

businessmen," Seymour growled.

"What does the Corps want here, anyway?" Leon demanded. "Quopp was doing all right—with a

little help from Terry free enterprises; then along comes a bunch of CDT Johnnies getting everything

organized, and all of a sudden us Terries are undesirable aliens."

Retief refilled glasses. "Admittedly, some of the measures selected by our Chief of Mission may seem

paradoxical at first glance. But that's just because you haven't entered into the spirit of the game. All of

the measures Ambassador Longspoon has taken—restrictions on private enterprise by Terrans,

establishment of the Planetary Police, free goods for the indigent, subsidies for Voion commercial

enterprise, and the rest—are designed to bring peace and plenty to the downtrodden locals whom you

fellows have been exploiting."

"What do you mean, exploiting?" Big Leon's fist hit the table. "Why, a hundred years ago, when the

first Terries hit Quopp, there was nothing here but wild Bugs living in grass huts and eating each other.

We laid out the towns, built trails, started 'em in on a little cottage industry and intertribal trade. We

brought in electronics men to be country G.P.'s, developed new lines of merchandise to make life more

beautiful for the Quopp in the street, and taught 'em the idea of civilization. Sure, we made a good

profit—but they've got their money's worth every step of the way!"

"Still, Leon, now that you've put Quopp on the star maps, competition has set in. Our friends the

Groaci aren't going to let this world drift into the Terry camp without a struggle. They've set up a string of

trading posts along the other coast of Continent One, and they're doing a brisk trade in miniature Tri-D's,

artificial limbs and wheels, and electronic Mah-Jongg sets—"

"Direct competition with us!" Jerry burst out. "The copy-cats!"

"Of course," Retief went on, "no self-respecting diplomat could let the challenge pass without making

an effort to out-enlighten the opposition. Whatever the Groaci do, we have to do bigger—"

"Why?" Seymour grunted.

"Why does a golfer have to hit the golf ball?" Retief riposted. "Such is the challenge of diplomacy."

"But why this sudden compulsion to unite the planet under a single government—and with the Voion

in charge, of all people!" Jerry looked indignant.

"You know we can't even travel inland to look over the markets?" Big Leon said.

"You know why? The Voion! They're all over like a land-lubber's lunch—waving clubs and telling us

where we can and can't go!"

"Longspoon's made a mistake, backing the Voion," Big Leon said. "There's not a Bug on the planet

doesn't hate their main windings. Slavers and dope-runners, con artists, highway robbers, and

second-story men—that's what they were—until this idea of reforming 'em and putting badges on 'em

came along."

"His Excellency envisions the day when a trained cadre of reformed Voion will lead the newly

enlightened masses to a new era of planetary unity," Retief explained. "Or so he frequently says."

"Retief, how long you been here on Quopp?" Leon inquired.

"Only a few weeks, I'm afraid."

"You talk the dialects pretty good."

"I've spent a few hours on the encephalotapes."

"Uh-huh," Leon nodded. "Well, I was born here, Retief. Hell, I haven't been off the planet half a

dozen times in my life. And I can tell you—these devils have got something up their sleeve!"

"I'm inclined to agree their police badges seem to have gone to their heads—"

"It ain't just that," Seymour said. "There's something in the wind! We saw it, out in the jungle—and

now here in town! It's getting ready to pop! Pushing Terries around—that's bad medicine, Mister!"

"And I'll tell you something else," the steel-toothed man said. "Those Bugs are tapping CDT

shipments at the port—in broad daylight!"

Retief frowned. "You're sure of that?"

"Been down to the port lately?" Big Leon inquired.

"Not in the past month."

"Come on," Leon rose. "Let's go take a look-see. There's a CDT shipment on the pad right now big

enough to put half the Terries on Quopp out of business." As he stood, a buzzing three-inch yellow-green

Keith Laumer - Retief 03 - Retief's War.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: