Retief-Ambassador to Space (10 page)

Retief put the nose of the flier down, dived clear of the
stream of lead, swung back and up in a tight curve, rolled out on the
airplane's tail. Lib Glip, no mean pilot, put his ship through a series of
vertical eights, snaprolls, immelmans, and falling leaves, to no avail. Retief
held the courier boat glued to his tail almost close enough to brush the wildly
wig-wagging control surfaces.

After fifteen minutes of frantic evasive tactics, the
Gloian ship settled down to a straight speed run. Retief loafed alongside,
pacing the desperate flier. When Lib Glip looked across at him, Retief made a
downward motion of his hand and pointed at the ground. Then he eased over,
placed himself directly above the bright-painted plane, and edged downward.

Below, he could see Lib Glip's face, staring upward. He
lowered the boat another foot. The embattled Premier angled his plane downward.
Retief stayed with him, forcing him down until the craft was racing along
barely above the tops of the celery-shaped trees. A clearing appeared ahead.
Retief dropped until his keel almost scraped the fuel tank atop Lib Glip's
upper wing. The Gloian, accepting the inevitable, throttled back, settled his
ship into a bumpy landing, rolled to a stop just short of a fence. Retief
dropped in and skidded to a halt beside him.

The enraged Premier was already out of his cockpit, waving
a large clip-fed hand gun, as Retief popped the hatch of the boat.

"What's the meaning of this?" the Gloian yelled.
"Who are you! How ..." he broke off. "Hey, aren't you
What's-his-name, from the Terry Embassy?"

"Correct," Retief nodded. "I congratulate
Your Excellency on your acute memory."

"What's the idea of this piece of unparalleled
audacity?" the Gloian leader barked. "Don't you know there's a war
on? I was in the middle of leading a victorious air assault on those Blortian
blue-bellies—"

"Really? I had the impression your squadrons were
several miles to the north, tangling with an impressive armada of Blortian
bombers and what seemed to be a pretty active fighter cover."

"Well, naturally I have to stand off at a reasonable
distance in order to get the Big Picture," Lib Glip explained. "That
still doesn't tell me why a Terry diplomat had the unvarnished gall to
interfere with my movements! I've got a good mind to blast you full of holes
and leave the explanations to my Chief of Propaganda!"

"I wouldn't," Retief suggested. "This
little thing in my hand is a tight-beam blaster—not that there's any need for
such implements among friendly associates."

"Armed diplomacy?" Lib Glip choked. "I've
never heard of such a thing!"

"Oh, I'm off duty," Retief said. "This is
just a personal call. There's' a little favor I'd like to ask of you."

"A ... favor? What is it?"

"I'd like a ride in your airplane."

"You mean you forced me to the ground just to ... to
..."

"Right. And there's not much time, so I think we'd
better be going."

"I've heard of airplane fanciers, but this is
fantastic! Still, now that you're here, I may as well point out to you she has
a sixteen-cylinder V-head mill, swinging a twenty-four lamination sword-wood
prop, synchronized 9mm lead-spitters, twin spotlights, low-pressure tires,
foam-rubber seats, real instruments—no idiot lights—and a ten-coat hand-rubbed
lacquer job. Sharp, eh? And wait till you see the built-in bar."

"A magnificent craft, Your Excellency," Retief
admired the machine. "I'll take the rear cockpit and tell you which way to
steer."

"You'll tell me—"

"I have the blaster, remember?"

Lib Glip grunted and climbed into his seat. Retief ,
strapped in behind him. The Premier started up, taxied to the far end of the
field, gunned the engine, and lifted off into the tracer-streaked sky.

"That's him," Retief pointed to a lone vehicle
perched on a hilltop above a lively fire-fight, clearly visible now against a
landscape bathed in the bluish light of the newly risen crescent of Plushnik I,
the lower curve of which was at the horizon, the upper almost at Zenith.

"See here, this is dangerous," Lib Glip called
over the whine of air thrumming the rigging wires as the plane glided down in a
wide spiral. "That car packs plenty of firepower, and—" he broke off
and banked sharply as vivid flashes of blue light stuttered suddenly from
below. The brilliant light of Plushnik I glinted from the armored car's
elevated guns as they tracked the descending craft.

"Put a short burst across his bow," Retief said.
"But be careful not to damage him."

"Why, that's Barfs personal car!" the Gloian
burst out. "I can't fire on him, or he might—that is, we have a sort of
gentleman's agreement—"

"Better do it," Retief said, watching the stream
of tracers from below arc closer as Barf found the range. "Apparently he
feels that at this range, the agreement's not in effect."

Lib Glip angled the nose of the craft toward the car, and
activated the twin lead-spitters. A row of. pockmarks appeared in the turf
close beside the car as the plane shot low over it, "That'll teach him to
shoot without looking," Lib Glip commented.

"Circle back and land," Retief called. The
Premier grumbled but complied. The plane came to a halt a hundred feet from the
armored car which turned to pin the craft down in the beams of its headlights.
Lib Glip rose, holding both hands overhead, and jumped down.

"I hope you realize what you're doing," he said
bitterly. "Forcing me to place myself in the hands of this barbarian is
flagrant interference in Plushniki internal affairs! So here, if he's been
crooked enough to offer you a bribe, I give you my word as a statesman that I'm
crookeder. I'll up his offer—"

"Now, now, Your Excellency, this is merely a friendly
get-together. Let's go over and relieve the general's curiosity before he
decides to clear his guns again."

As Retief and the Gloian came up, a hatch opened at the
top of the heavy car and the ocular stalk of the Blortian generalissimo emerged
cautiously. The three eyes looked over the situation; then the medal-hung chest
of the officer appeared.

"Here, what's all this shooting?" he inquired in
an irritated tone. "Is that you, Glip? Come out to arrange surrender
terms, I suppose. Could have gotten yourself hurt—"

"Surrender my maternal great-aunt Bunny!" the
Gloian shrilled. "I was abducted by armed force and brought here at
gunpoint!"

"Eh?" Barf peered at Retief. "I thought
you'd brought Retief along as an impartial witness to the very liberal amnesty
terms I'm prepared to offer—"

"Gentlemen, if you'll suspend hostilities for just a
moment or two," Retief put in, "I believe I can explain the purpose
of this meeting. I confess the delivery of invitations may have been a trifle
informal, but when you hear the news, I'm sure you'll agree it was well worth
the effort."

"What news?" both combatants echoed.

Retief drew a heavy, fan-shaped paper from an inner
pocket. "The war news," he said crisply. "I happened to be
rummaging through some old papers, and came across a full account of the story
behind the present conflict. I'm going to give it to the press first thing in
the morning, but I felt you gentlemen should get the word first, so that you
can realign your war aims accordingly."

"Realign?" Barf said cautiously.

"Story?" Lib Glip queried.

"I assume, of course, that you gentlemen are aware of
the facts of history?" Retief paused, paper in hand.

"Why, ah, as a matter of fact—" Barf said.

"I don't believe I actually, er ..." the Gloian
Premier harrumphed.

"But of course, we Blort don't need to delve into the
past to find cause for the present crusade for the restoration of the national
honor," Barf pointed out.

"Gloy has plenty of up-to-date reasons for her
determination to drive the invaders from the fair soil of her home
planet," Lib Glip snorted.

"Of course—but this will inspire the troops,"
Retief pointed out. "Imagine how morale will zoom, Mr. Premier," he
addressed the Gloian, "when it becomes known that the original Blortians
were a group of government employees from Old Plushnik, en route to the new
settlements here on Plushnik I and II."

"Government employees, eh?" Barf frowned.
"I suppose they were high-ranking civil servants, that sort of
thing?"

"No," Retief demurred. "As a matter of
fact, they were prison guards, with a rank of GB 19."

"Prison guards? GB 19?" Barf growled. "Why,
that was the lowest rank in the entire Old Plushniki government payroll!"

"Certainly there can be no charge of snobbery
there," Retief said in tones of warm congratulation.

A choking sound issued from Lib Glip's speaking aperture.
"Pardon my mirth," he gasped. "But after all the tripe we've
heard—eek-eek—about the glorious past of Blort ..."

"And that brings us to the Gloians," Retief put
in smoothly. "They, it appears, were traveling on the same vessel at the
time of the outbreak—or should I say break-out?"

"Same vessel?"

Retief nodded. "After all, the guards had to have
something to guard."

"You mean ...?"

"That's right," Retief said cheerfully.
"The Gloian founding fathers were a consignment of criminals sentenced to
transportation for life."

General Barf uttered a loud screech of amusement and
slapped himself on the thigh.

"I don't know why I didn't guess that
intuitively!" he chortled. "How right you were, Retief, to dig out
this charming intelligence!"

"See here!" Lib Glip shrilled. "You can't
publish defamatory information of that sort! I'll take it to court—"

"And give the whole Galaxy a good laugh over the
breakfast trough," Barf agreed. "A capital suggestion, my dear
Glip!"

"Anyway, I don't believe it! It's a tissue of lies! A
bunch of malarkey! A dirty, lousy falsehood and a base canard!"

"Look for yourself." Retief offered the
documents.

Lib Glip fingered the heavy parchment, peered at the
complicated characters.

"It seems to be printed in Old Plushnik," he
grumbled. "I'm afraid I never went in for dead languages."

"General?" Retief handed over the papers. Barf
glanced at them and handed them back, still chuckling. "No, sorry, I'll
have to take your word for it—and I do."

"Fine, then," Retief said. "There's just
one other little point. You gentlemen have been invading and counterinvading
now for upward of two centuries. Naturally, in that length of time the records
have grown a trifle confused. However, I believe both sides are in agreement
that the original home planets have changed hands, and that the Blortians are
occupying Gloy territory while the Gloians have taken over the original Blort
world."

Both belligerents nodded, one smiling, one glumly.

*That's nearly correct," Retief said, "with just
one minor correction. It isn't the planets that have changed hands; it's the
identities of the participants in the war."

"Eh?"

"What did you say?"

"It's true, gentlemen," Retief said solemnly.
"You, and your troops, General, are descendants of the original Gloians;
and your people," he inclined his head to the Gloian Premier,
"inherit the mantle of Blortship."

"But this is ghastly," General Barf groaned.
"I've devoted half a lifetime to instilling a correct attitude toward
Gloians in my chaps. How can I face them now!"

"Me, a Blort?" Lib Glip shuddered.
"Still," he said as if to himself, "we
were
the guards,
not the prisoners. I suppose on the whole we'll be able to console ourselves
with the thought that we aren't representatives of the criminal class—"

"Criminal class!" Barf snorted. "By Pud, sir,
I'd rather trace my descent from an honest victim of the venal lackeys of a
totalitarian-regime than to claim kinship with a pack of hireling
turnkeys!"

"Lackeys, eh? I suppose that's what a pack of
butter-fingered pickpockets would think of a decent servant of law and
order!"

"Now, gentlemen, I'm sure these trifling differences
can be settled peaceably—"

"Ah-hah, so
that's
it!" Barf crowed.
"You've dug the family skeletons out of the closet in the mistaken belief
it would force us to suspend hostilities!"

"By no means, General," Retief said blandly.
"Naturally, you'll want to exchange supplies of propaganda leaflets and go
right on with the crusade. But of course you'll have to swap planets,
too."

"How's that?"

"Certainly. The CDT can't stand by and see the entire
populations of two worlds condemned to live on in exile on a foreign planet.
I'm sure I can arrange for a fleet of Corps transports to handle the transfer
of population—"

"Just a minute," Lib Glip cut in. "You mean
you're going to repatriate all us, er, Blortians to Plushnik I, and give
Plushnik II to these rascally, ah, Gloians?"

"Minus the slanted adjectives, a very succinct
statement of affairs."

"Now, just a minute," Barf put in. "You
don't expect me to actually settle down on this dust-ball full time, do you?
With my sinus condition?"

"Me, live in the midst of
that
swamp?"
Lib Glip hooked a thumb skyward at the fully risen disk of the gibbous planet,
where rivers and mountains, continents and seas gleamed cheerfully, reflecting
the rays of the distant sun. "Why, my asthma would kill me in three weeks!
That's why I've always stuck to lightning raids instead of long, drawn-out
operations!"

"Well, gentlemen, the CDT certainly doesn't wish to
be instrumental in undermining the health of two such cooperative statesmen
..."

"Ah ... how do you mean, cooperative?" Barf
voiced the question cautiously.

"You know how it is, General," Retief said.
"When one has impatient superiors breathing down one's neck, it's a little
hard to really achieve full rapport with even the most laudable aspirations of
others. However, if Ambassador Biteworse were in a position to show the
inspectors a peaceful planet in the morning, it might very well influence him
to defer the evacuation until further study of the question."