Diplomat at Arms (16 page)

“There are too many of them,” Retief said. “They breed like
flies and, according to some sources, they mature in a matter of months.
They’ve been feeling their way into the sector for years now; set up outposts
on a thousand or so minor planets—cold ones, the kind they like. They want your
worlds because they need living space.”

“Retief must not be trapped here,” said Freya to her
compatriots. “His small boat is useless now; he must have a ship.”

“Of course,” Thor said. “And—”

“Retief,” a voice called. “A message for you; the operator
has phoned it up. A ’gram . . .”

Retief took the slip of paper, unfolded it. It was short, in
verbal code, and signed by Magnan.

“You are recalled herewith,” he read. “Assignment canceled.
Agreement concluded with Soetti relinquishing all claims so-called Jorgensen
system. Utmost importance that under no repeat no circumstances classified
intelligence regarding Soetti be divulged to locals. Advise you depart
instanter; Soetti occupation imminent.”

Retief looked thoughtfully at the scrap of paper, then
crumpled it, dropped it on the floor.

“Any answer?” the messenger asked.

“No,” Retief said. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t even get
the message.” He turned to Bo Bergman, took a tiny reel of tape from his
pocket.

“This contains information,” he said. “The Soetti attack
plan, a defensive plan worked out at Corps HQ, and instructions for the
conversion of a standard anti-acceleration unit into a potent weapon. If you
have a screen handy, we’d better get started; we have about seventy-two hours.”

In the Briefing Room at Svea Tower, Thor snapped off the
projector.

“Our
plan would have been worthless against that,” he said. “We assumed they’d make
their strike from a standard in-line formation. This scheme of hitting all our
settlements simultaneously, in a random order from all points—we’d have been
helpless.”

“It’s perfect for this defensive plan,” Bo Bergman said.
“Assuming this antiac trick works.”

“It works,” said Retief. “I hope you’ve got plenty of heavy
power cable available.”

“We export copper,” Thor said.

“We’ll assign about two hundred vessels to each settlement.
Linked up, they should throw up quite a field.”

“It ought to be effective up to about fifteen miles, I’d
estimate,” Retief said.

A red light flashed on the communications panel. Thor went to
it, flipped a key.

“Tower, Thor here,” he said.

“I’ve got a ship on the scope, Thor,” a voice said. “There’s
nothing scheduled; ACI 228 by-passed at 1600 . . .”

“Just one?”

“A lone ship; coming in on a bearing of 291/456/653; on
manual, I’d say.”

“How does this track key in with the idea of ACI 228 making a
manual correction for a missed automatic approach?” Retief asked.

Thor talked to the tower, got a reply.

“That’s it,” he said.

“How long before he touches down?”

Thor glanced at a lighted chart. “Perhaps eight minutes.”

“Any guns here?”

Thor shook his head.

“If
that’s old 228, she ain’t got but the one 50mm rifle,” Chip said. “She cain’t
figure on jumpin’ the whole planet.”

“Hard to say what she figures on,” Retief said. “Mr. Tony
will be in a mood for drastic measures.”

“I wonder what kind o’ deal the skunk’s got with the
Sweaties,” Chip said. “Prob’ly he gits to scavenge, after the Sweaties kill off
the Jorgensens.”

“He’s upset about our leaving him without saying goodbye. And
you left the door hanging open, too.”

Chip cackled. “Old Mr. Tony don’t look so good to the
Sweaties now, hey, mister?”

Retief turned to Bo Bergman. “Chip’s right. A Soetti died on
the ship, and a tourist got through the cordon. Tony’s out to redeem himself.”

“He’s on final now,” the tower operator said. “Still no
contact.”

“We’ll know soon enough what he has in mind,” Thor said.

“Let’s take a look.”

Outside, the four men watched the point of fire grow, evolve
into a ship ponderously settling to rest. The drive faded and cut; silence
fell.

Inside
the briefing room, the speaker called out. Bo Bergman went inside, talked to
the tower, motioned the others in. “This is the tower talking to the ship,” he
said.

“—over to you,” the speaker was saying. There was a crackling
moment of silence; then another voice:

“—illegal entry. Send the two of them out, I’ll see to it
they’re dealt with.”

Thor flipped a key. “Tower, switch me direct to the ship.”

“Right.”

“You on ACI 228,” he said. “Who are you?”

“What’s that to you?” the speaker crackled.

“You weren’t cleared to berth here. Do you have an emergency
aboard?”

“Never mind that, you,” the speaker rumbled. “I tracked this
bird in; I got the lifeboat on the screen now. They haven’t gone far in six
hours. Let’s have ’em.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

There was a momentary silence.

“You think so, hah?” the speaker blared. “I’ll put it to you
straight: I see two guys on their way out in one minute, or I open up.”

“He’s bluffin’,” Chip said. “The pop-gun won’t bear on us.”

“Take a look out the window,” said Retief.

In the white glare of the moonlight a loading cover swung
open at the stern of the ship, dropped down, formed a sloping ramp. A squat and
massive shape appeared in the opening, trundled down onto the snow-swept
tarmac.

Chip whistled. “I told you the captain was slippery,” he
muttered. “Where the devil’d he git that at?”

“What is it?” Thor asked.

“A tank,” Retief said. “A museum piece, by the look of it.”

“I’ll say,” Chip said. “That’s a Bolo
Resartus
, Model
M. Built mebbe two hundred years ago in Concordiat times. Packs a wallop too,
I’ll tell ye.”

The tank wheeled, brought a gun muzzle to bear in the base of
the tower.

“Send ’em out,” the speaker growled. “Or I blast ’em out.”

“One round in here, and I’ve had a wasted trip,” Retief said.
“I’d better go out.”

“Wait a minute, mister. I got the glimmerins of a idear.”

“I’ll stall them,” Thor said. He keyed the mike. “ACI 228,
what’s your authority for this demand?”

“I know that machine,” Chip said. “My hobby, old-time
fightin’ machines. Built a model of a
Resartus
once, inch to the foot; a
beauty. Now lessee . . .”

The icy wind blew snow crystals stingingly against Retief’s
face. Chip carried a short length of iron bar thrust into his belt. He looked
across at the tank. “Useta think that was a perty thing, that
Resartus
,”
he said. “Looks mean, now.”

“You’re getting the target’s eye view,” Retief said. “Sorry
you had to get mixed up in this, old-timer.”

“Mixed myself in. Dern good thing too.” Chip sighed. “I like
these folks. Them boys didn’t like lettin’ us come out here, but I’ll give ’em
credit; they seen it had to be this way, and they didn’t set to moanin’ about
it.”

“They’re tough people, Chip.”

“Funny how it sneaks up on you, ain’t it, mister? Few minutes
ago we was eatin’ high on the hog; now we’re right close to bein’ dead men.”

“They want us alive.”

“It’ll be a hairy deal. But t’hell with it. If it works, it
works.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“I hope I got them fields o’ fire right—”

“Don’t worry; I’ll bet a barrel of beer we make it.”

“We’ll find out in about ten seconds,” Chip said. “Here we
go . . .”

As they reached the tank the two men broke stride and jumped.
Retief leaped for the gun barrel, swung up astride it, ripped off the fur-lined
leather cap he wore, and, leaning forward, jammed it into the bore of the
cannon. The chef sprang for a perch above the fore scanner antenna. With an
angry whuff! anti-personnel charges slammed from apertures low on the sides of
the vehicle. Retief swung around, pulled himself up on the hull.

“Okay, mister,” Chip called. “I’m goin’ under.” He slipped
down the front of the tank, disappeared between the treads. Retief clambered
up, took a position behind the turret, lay flat as it whirled angrily, sonar
eyes searching for the tank’s tormentors. The vehicle shuddered, backed,
stopped, moved forward, pivoted.

Chip reappeared at the front of the tank.

“It’s stuck,” he called. He stopped to breathe hard, clung as
the machine lurched forward, spun to the right, stopped, rocking slightly.

“Take over here,” Retief said. He crawled forward, watched as
the chef pulled himself up, slipped down past him, feeling for the footholds
between the treads. He reached the ground, dropped on his back, hitching
himself under the dark belly of the tank. He groped, found the handholds,
probed with a foot for the tread-jack lever.

The
tank rumbled, backed quickly, turned left and right in a sine curve. Retief
clung grimly, inches from the clashing treads. He found the lever, braced his
back, pushed. The lever seemed to give minutely. He set himself again, put both
feet against the frozen bar, and heaved. With a dry rasp it slid back.
Immediately, two rods extended themselves, slid down to grate against the
pavement, drove on irresistibly. The left track raced as the weight went off
it. Retief grabbed for a hold as the right tread clashed, heaving the fifty-ton
machine forward, jacks screeching as they scored the tarmac. The tank pivoted,
chips of pavement flying. The jacks lifted the clattering left track clear of
the surface and the tank spun like a hamstrung buffalo.

The
tank stopped, sat silent, canted now on the extended jacks. Retief emerged from
under the machine, jumped, pulled himself above the anti-personnel apertures as
another charge rocked the tank. He clambered to the turret, crouched beside
Chip. They waited, watching the entry hatch.

Five minutes passed.

“I’ll bet old Tony’s givin’ the chauffeur hell,” Chip said.

The hatch moved, cycled open. A head came cautiously into
view in time to see the needler in Retief’s hand.

“Come on out,” Retief said.

The head dropped, and Chip snaked forward, rammed the iron
rod under the hatch near the hinge. The hatch began to cycle shut, groaned,
stopped. There was a sound of metal failing, and the hatch, popped, stood open.
Retief half rose, aimed the needler. The walls of the tank rang as the metal
splinters ricocheted inside.

“That’s one keg o’ beer I owe you, mister,” Chip said. “Now
let’s git outa here before the ship lifts and fries us.”

“The biggest problem the Jorgensen’s people will have is
decontaminating the wreckage,” Retief said.

Magnan
leaned forward. “Amazing,” he said. “They just kept coming, did they? Had they
no inter-ship communication?”

“They had their orders. And their attack plan. They followed
it.”

“What a spectacle! Over a thousand ships, plunging out of
control one by one as they entered the stress-field.”

“Not much of a spectacle. You couldn’t see them; too far
away. They all crashed back in the mountains.”

“Oh.” Magnan’s face fell. “But it’s as well they did; the
bacterial bombs—”

“Too cold for bacteria. They won’t spread.”

“Nor will the Soetti,” Magnan said smugly, “thanks to the
promptness with which I acted in dispatching you with the requisite data.” He
looked narrowly at Retief. “By the way, you’re sure
no . . . ah . . . message reached you
after your arrival?”

“I got something,” Retief said, looking Magnan in the eye.
“It must have been a garbled transmission. It didn’t make sense.”

Magnan coughed, shuffled papers. “This information you’ve
reported,” he said hurriedly. “This rather fantastic story that the Soetti
originated in the Cloud, that they’re seeking a foothold in the main galaxy
because they’ve literally eaten themselves out of subsistence; how did you get
it? The one of two Soetti we attempted to
question . . . ah,” Magnan coughed again. “There was an
accident,” he finished. “We got nothing from them.”

“The
Jorgensens took a Soetti from a wreck, still alive but unconscious. They
managed to get the story from him.”

“It’s immaterial, actually,” Magnan said. “The Soetti
violated their treaty with us the day after it was signed. Had no intention of
fair play. Far from evacuating the agreed areas, they had actually occupied
half a dozen additional minor bodies in the
Whate
system.”

Retief clucked sympathetically. “You don’t know who to trust,
these days,” he said. Magnan looked at him coldly.

“Spare me your sarcasm, Retief.” He picked up a folder from
his desk, opened it. “While you’re out that way, I have another little task for
you. We haven’t had a comprehensive wildlife census report from Brimstone
lately—”