Galactic Diplomat (21 page)

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Dools. You feel well enough to
travel? We’ll have to go down the outside; the stairs are collapsed.”

“How pleasant to see you alive, dear fellow,” Dools went on
in Terran. “I feared the miscreants had done their worst. I tried to interfere,
but alas—”

“I
saw you; at the time, I had the idea you were doing the sawing, but then I got
to thinking about the booze and girly-book supply in the filing cabinet.
Alcohol would poison you; and as for unadorned mammals—”

“Mr. Retief, take care,” Dools hissed. “My hearing is keen;
someone comes . . .”

Retief
looked toward the doorway, then hastily tucked the cut ends of the rope out of
sight under Dools’ body. “Play ’em close to your thorax, Mr. Dools,” he
cautioned.

A tall figure climbed through the flapping door hanging,
crouched on the sloping floor, braced by one hand. The other held a power
pistol, aimed at Retief.

“Just stay where you are, bright boy,” Klamper called over
the screech of the wind. “Don’t bother untying him. My errand won’t take but a
minute.”

He half-slid, half-crawled to the filing cabinet, keeping
both eyes on Retief, fumbled a key from a pocket. He opened the top drawer,
then the next, rummaged, tried the last drawer, then turned on Retief, showing
even white teeth in an expression that was not a smile.

“I ought to have my head examined. I let those two
light-weights sell me a story. What an act; Wimperton gobbled like a turkey
when he opened up that phoney cover and got a load of the funnybooks inside. So
I let ’em sucker me into a goose-chase—unless you’ve got it?” He came closer.
“Turn out your pockets, hot-shot.”

Retief shook his head. “If you’re looking for the papers,
forget it. I left them in my other suit.”

“You loused up six months’ work, greenhorn. But I’ll be back
to fill out some fresh forms. Too bad you won’t be here to watch.”

He raised the power pistol; behind him, Dools lunged for the
Patrolman’s ankle. A bolt of blue fire crackled harmlessly past Retief’s ear as
he leaned aside, chopped at Klamper’s gun hand, followed up with a knee to the
face. Klamper rolled with the blow, scrambled over a sagging desk, and dived
for the doorway. Dools grabbed up the gun, started after him.

“Let him go, Mr. Dools,” Retief said. “I think I know where
he’s headed. Now let’s get out of here before we get our clothes pressed with
us in ’em.”

At the Public Entry Well, Yum and a group of well-muscled
locals met Retief.

“Our man was here about ten minutes ago,” Yum said blandly.
“Big fellow, in a hurry.”

“You let him through?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you warned the boys at the boat to stop
him . . . ?”

“Well, no, Retief. I told them to let him go. As you pointed
out, he had a blaster . . . He’s several hundred miles out
by now . . .”

Retief folded his arms. “There’s something funny going on
here, Yum. What about the bomb? It’s probably timed to go off at the height of
the storm—say in another ten minutes.”

“Oh, that. I found it. It’s taken care of.”

“Found it where? And how do you take care of a sealed
titanite charge . . . ?”

“It was aboard the boat. You were right about that—”

“Come on, Yum. Give!”

“Well, Retief, I was a little curious; you can’t blame me,
after meeting you under such—unusual circumstances. I took a look through your
clothes. I found this . . .” He held up the document Retief had
extracted from the consulate files. “A fancy piece of paper laying claim to the
whole damned planet of Poon—which it states is uninhabited—which it would have
been if the bomb idea had worked out. The Mat would have broken up in the wind,
and when the sky cleared, it would look like just another natural disaster. And
in a few months, all five continents would be one big gold mine.”

“So?”

“So
I held out on you. Our slumbering pal had keys, all right. I went back and
opened up the boat. There sat the bomb—a nice little ten-kilo charge of
titanite, all labeled and ready to go—”

“Except for the detonator; that was wired to the root—”

“Uh-huh. A safety precaution. But I found another one. It
wasn’t hard to install. I had an idea the owner would be along to see about it
before zero hour; but I didn’t like the sight of the thing sitting out in the
middle of the floor, so I tucked it away.”

“Where?”

“In the chart storage bin.”

Retief whirled to the discarded Terran uniform, jerked the
communicator from the lapel clip, keyed it on the official frequency.

“Klamper, if you can hear me, answer—fast!”

After a moment, Klamper’s voice came back, a thin piping in
the miniature ear-phone. Yum and Dools leaned close.

“Klamper here. Who’re you?”

“This is Retief, Klamper—”

“Oh, yeah, the bright young official. Well, I predict a big
change in the near future for you. In about thirty seconds, to be exact.”

“Klamper, there’s a bomb—”

“Well, well, so you found out about that, too. Sorry I can’t
help you. So long, su—” The earphones went dead.

“Klamper!”

Yum looked at his watch. “Right on the button,” he said.

“At least,” Dools said, “he lived long enough to exonerate
Mr. Retief . . .”

There was a patter of hurried footsteps. Retief and Yum
turned. In the door, Wimperton and Pird stood like ruffled birds, staring.

“I’m afraid you lads missed the boat,” Retief called. Yum
signaled with his hand. Half a dozen local citizens fanned out to hem in the
newcomers.

“Ah, why, Mr. Retief . . . what are you
doing out of bed?” Pird squeaked.

“Oh,
I just dropped down to offer you boys a crack at a peachy new opportunity in
the Achievement Corps. Consul-General Dools here has need of two volunteers to
man the new wildlife census stations over on continents One and Two. I’m going
to give you first grabs at it. We’ll go over to the Shelter and type out your
resignations from the CDT, and a couple of five-year enlistment contracts in
the A.C.—on a non-compensatory basis, of course.”

Wimperton’s mouth sagged open.

“And I have a number of micro-tape recordings I’ll
contribute,” Dools said. “They’re quite exciting—all about bombs and land claims
and gold mines. You can play them over during your leisure time—during
sandstorms, perhaps.”

“But—Mr. Retief,” Pird cried. “We—we’ve found conditions here
somewhat less than congenial . . .”

“What if—if we refuse?” Wimperton gulped.

“In that case, Yum and his associates would like to interview
you on the subject of homesteading . . .”

“Your pen or mine?” Pird said hastily.

“I’ll ask a couple of the boys to help these two
philanthropists over to the consulate,” Yum said. “Let the business wait till
morning. You and I have a bottle of yiquil to finish, Retief.”

“Show Mr. Dools a few of those pearls we netted, Yum.”

Yum fished out the stones, handed them to Dools, who canted
two pairs of eye-stalks at the lustrous one-inch spheres.

“Gentlemen—this is precisely the product I need to qualify
Poon as a Class One commercial world! Can these be supplied in any volume? Say,
a dozen a month?”

“I think it could be arranged,” Yum said in heavily accented
Terran. “Why don’t you join Retief and the boys and me in a snort?”

“Well, I really don’t think . . .”

“I know a barman who can concoct a suitable booze for any
metabolism,” Yum urged. “And a hangover cure afterward.”

Retief linked arms with the slender Groaci. “Come along, Mr.
Consul-General,” he said. “We won’t take no for an answer.”

“For
all their professional detachment from emotional involvement in petty local
issues, tough-minded CDT envoys have ever opened their hearts to long-suffering
peoples striving to cast off the yoke of economic oppression. At Glave,
Ambassador Sternwheeler’s dedicated group selflessly offered their services,
assisting the newly unshackled populace in savoring the first fruits of
freedom . . .”

—Vol. IV, Reel 71, 492 AE (AD 2953)

Retief
turned back the gold-encrusted scarlet cuff of the mess jacket of a First
Secretary and Consul, gathered in the three eight-sided black dice, shook them
by his right ear, and sent them rattling across the floor to rebound from the
bulkhead.

“Thirteen’s the point,” the Power Section Chief called. “Ten
he makes it!”

“Oh . . . Mr. Retief.” A tall thin youth
in the black-trimmed grey of a Third Secretary flapped a sheet of paper from
the edge of the circle surrounding the game. “The Ambassador’s compliments,
sir, and will you join him and the staff in the conference room at
once . . .”

Retief
rose and dusted his knees. “That’s all for now, boys,” he said. “I’ll take the
rest of your money later.” He followed the junior diplomat from the ward room,
along the bare corridors of the crew level, past the glare panel reading
NOTICE—FIRST CLASS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT, through the chandeliered and draped
ballroom and along a stretch of soundless carpet to a heavy door bearing a
placard with the legend CONFERENCE IN SESSION.

“Ambassador Sternwheeler seemed quite upset, Mr. Retief,” the
messenger said.

“He usually is, Pete,” Retief took a cigar from his breast
pocket. “Got a light?”

The Third Secretary produced a permatch. “I don’t know why
you smoke those things instead of dope-sticks, Mr. Retief,” he said. “The
Ambassador hates the smell.”

Retief nodded. “I only smoke this kind at conferences; it
makes for shorter sessions.” He stepped into the room. Ambassador Sternwheeler
eyed him down the length of the conference table.

“Ah, Mr. Retief honors us with his presence. Do be seated,
Retief.” He fingered a yellow Departmental dispatch. Retief took a chair,
puffed out a dense cloud of smoke.

“As I have been explaining to the remainder of my staff for
the past quarter hour,” Sternwheeler rumbled, “I’ve been the recipient of
important intelligence.” He blinked at Retief expectantly. Retief raised his
eyebrows in polite inquiry.

“It seems,” Sternwheeler went on, “that there has been a
change in regime on Glave. A week ago, the government which invited the
dispatch of this mission—and to which we’re accredited—was overthrown. The
former ruling class has fled into exile, and a popular workers’ and peasants’
junta has taken over.”

“Mr. Ambassador,” Counselor Magnan broke in, rising; “I’d
like to be the first—” he glanced around the table—“or one of the first,
anyway—to welcome the new government of Glave into the family of planetary
ruling bodies—”

“Sit down, Magnan!” Sternwheeler snapped. “Of course the
Corps always recognizes
de facto
sovereignty. The problem is merely one
of acquainting ourselves with the policies of this new group—a sort of
blue-collar coalition, it seems. In what position that leaves this Embassy I
don’t yet know.”

“I suppose this means we’ll spend the next month in a parking
orbit,” Counselor Magnan sighed.

“Unfortunately,”
Sternwheeler went on, “the entire affair has apparently been carried off
without recourse to violence, leaving the Corps no excuse to step in—that is,
it appears our assistance in restoring order will not be required.”

“Glave was one of the old Contract Worlds,” Retief said.
“What’s become of the Planetary Manager General and the technical staff?—And
how do the peasants and workers plan to operate the atmospheric purification
system, and weather control station, and the tide-regulation complexes?”

“I’m more concerned at present with the status of the
Mission. Will we be welcomed by these peasants and workers, or peppered with
buckshot?”

“You say that this is a popular junta, and that the former
leaders have fled into exile,” someone said. “May I ask the source of this
information, Mr. Ambassador?”

“The dispatch cites a ‘reliable Glavian source.’”

“That’s officialese for something cribbed from a broadcast
news tape,” Retief commented. “Presumably the Glavian news services are in the
hands of the revolution. In that case—”

“Yes, yes, there is the possibility that the issue is yet in
doubt; of course, we’ll have to exercise caution in making our approach; it
wouldn’t do to make overtures to the wrong side.”

“Oh, I think we need have no fear on that score,” the Chief
of the Political Section spoke up. “I know these entrenched cliques; once
challenged by an aroused populace, they scuttle for safety—with large balances
safely tucked away in neutral banks.”

“I’d like to go on record,” Magnan piped, “as registering my
deep gratification at this fulfillment of popular aspirations—”

“The most popular aspiration I know of is to live high off
someone else’s effort,” Retief said. “I don’t know of anyone outside the Corps
who’s managed it.”