Retief-Ambassador to Space (9 page)

"I'll mention your desires," Retief said.
"You know, Snop, it seems strange to me that you Gloians haven't been able
to settle your differences with the Blorts peaceably. This skirmishing back and
forth has been going on for quite a while now, with no decisive results."

"Hundreds of years, I guess," Snop nodded.
"But how can you settle your differences with a bunch of treacherous,
lawless, immoral, conscienceless, crooked, planet-stealing rogues like those
Blorts?" Dil Snop looked amazed, an effect he achieved by rapidly
intertwining the tendrils around his eyes.

"They seem harmless enough to me," Retief
commented. "Just what did they do that earns them that description?"

"What haven't they done?" Dil Snop waved a
jointed member. "Look at this office—a diplomatic mission! Bullet holes
all over the place, shrapnel scars on the walls—"

"The shrapnel scars were made by your boys in orange
the last time they took over," Retief reminded him.

"Oh. Well, these little accidents will happen in the
course of foiling the enemy's efforts to ravish our foster home—and this, mind
you, sir, after they've invaded the hallowed soil of Plushnik I, swiped the
entire planet, and left us to scrabble for ourselves on this lousy world!"

"Seems like a pretty fair planet to me," Retief
said. "And I was under the impression this was your homeland."

"Heck, no! This place? Pah! That"—Dil Snop
pointed through window at the looming disk of the nearby sister planet—"is
my beloved ancestral stamping ground."

"Ever been there?"

"I've been along on a few invasions, during summer
vacations. Just between us," he lowered his voice, "it's a little too
cold and wet for my personal taste."

"How did the Blorts manage to steal it?"

"Carelessness on our part," Snop conceded.
"Our forces were all over here, administering a drubbing to them, and they
treacherously slipped over behind our backs and entrenched themselves."

"What about the wives and little ones?"

"Oh, an exchange was worked out. After all, they'd
left their obnoxious brats and shrewish mates here on Plushnik II."

"What started the feud in the first place?"

"Beats me. I guess that's lost in the mists of
antiquity or something." The Gloian put down his glass and rose. "I'd
better be off now, Mr. Retief. My reserve unit's been called up, and I'm due at
the armory in half an hour."

"Well, take care of yourself, Dil Snop. I'll be
seeing you soon, I expect."

"I wouldn't guarantee it. Old Lib Glip's taken
personal command, and he burns troops like joss sticks." Snop tipped his
beret and went out. A moment later, the narrow face of Counsellor Magnan
appeared at the door.

"Come along, Retief. The Ambassador wants to say a
few words to the staff; everyone's to assemble in the commissary in five
minutes."

"I take it he feels that darkness and solitude will
be conducive to creative thinking."

"Don't disparage the efficacy of the Deep-think
technique. Why, I've already evolved half a dozen proposals for dealing with
the situation."

"Will any of them work?"

Magnan looked grave. "No—but they'll look quite
impressive in my personnel file during the hearings."

"A telling point, Mr. Magnan. Well, save a seat for
me in a secluded corner. I'll be along as soon as I've run down a couple of
obscure facts."

Retief employed the next quarter hour in leafing through
back files of classified despatch binders. As he finished, a Blort attired in
shapeless blues and a flak helmet thrust his organ cluster through the door.

"Hello, Mr. Retief," he said listlessly.
"I'm back."

"So you are, Kark," Retief greeted the lad.
"You're early. I didn't expect you until after breakfast."

"I got shoved on the first convoy; as soon as we
landed I sneaked off to warn you. Things are going to be hot tonight."

"So I hear, Kark—" A deafening explosion just
outside bathed the room in green light. "Is that a new medal you're
wearing?"

"Yep." The youth fingered the turquoise ribbon
anchored to his third rib. "I got it for service above and beyond the call
of nature." He went to the table at the side of the room, opened the
drawer.

"Just what I expected," he said. "That
Gloian creep didn't leave any cream for the coffee. I always leave a good
supply, but does he have the same consideration? Not him. Just like an
Oranger."

"Kark, what do you know about the beginning of the
war?"

"Eh?" The new clerk looked up from his coffee
preparations. "Oh, it has something to do with the founding fathers. Care
for a cup? Black, of course."

"No thanks. How does it feel to be back on good old
Plushnik IT again?"

"Good old? Oh, I see what you mean. OK, I guess. Kind
of hot and dry, though." The building trembled to a heavy shock. The snarl
of heavy armor passing in the street shook the pictures on the walls.

"Well, I'd better be getting to work, sir. I think
I'll start with the Breakage Reports. We're three invasions behind."

"Better skip the paperwork for now, Kark. See if you
can round up a few members of the sweeping staff and get some of this glass
cleaned up. We're expecting several varieties of VIP about daybreak, and we
wouldn't want them to get the impression we throw wild parties."

"You're not going out, sir?" Kark looked
alarmed. "Better not try it; there's a lot of loose metal flying around
out there, and it's going to get worse!"

"I thought I'd take a stroll over toward the Temple
of Higher Learning."

"But—that's forbidden territory to any non-Plushnik
..." Kark looked worried, as evidenced by the rhythmic waving of his eyes.

Retief nodded. "I suppose it's pretty well
guarded?"

"Not during the battle. The Gloians have called up
everybody but the inmates of the amputees ward. They're planning another of
their half-baked counter-invasions. But Mr. Retief—if you're thinking what I
think you're thinking, I don't think—"

"I wouldn't think of it, Kark." Retief gave the
Blortian a cheery wave and went out into the deserted hall.

In the twilit street, Retief glanced up at the immense orb
of Plushnik I, barely a thousand miles distant, a celestial relief map
occluding half the visible sky. A slim crescent of the nearby world sparkled in
full sunlight; the remainder was a pattern of lighted cities gleaming in the
murk of the shadow cast as its twin transited between it and the primary. The
route of the Blortian invasion fleet was clearly visible as a line of tiny,
winking fires stretching in a loose catenary curve from the major staging areas
on the neighbor world across the not-quite-airless void. As Retief watched, the
giant disk sank visibly toward the horizon, racing in its two-hour orbit around
the system's common center.

A quarter of a mile distant across the park, the high,
peach-colored dome of the university library pushed up into the evening sky.
The darting forms of fighter planes were silhouetted beyond it, circling each
other with the agility of combative gnats. At the far end of the street, a
column of gaily caparisoned Gloian armored cars raced past, in hot pursuit of a
troop of light tanks flying the Blort pennant. The sky to the north and west
winked and nickered to the incessant dueling of Blue and Orange artillery.
There was a sharp, descending whistle as a badly aimed shell dropped half a
block away, sending a gout of pavement chips hurtling skyward. Retief waited
until the air was momentarily clear of flying fragments to cross the street and
head across the park.

The high walls of the Center of Learning, inset with
convoluted patterns in dark-colored mosaic tile, reared up behind a dense
barrier of wickedly thorned shark trees. Retief used a small pocket beamer to
slice a narrow path through into the grounds, where a flat expanse of deep
green lawn extended a hundred yards to the windowless structure. Retief crossed
it, skirted a neatly trimmed rose bed where a stuffed dustowl lay staring up
into the night with red glass eyes. Above, a ragged scar showed in the
brickwork of the sacrosanct edifice. There were dense vines on the wall at that
point.

It was an easy two-minute climb to the opening, beyond
which shattered glass cases and a stretch of hall were visible. Retief gave a
last glance at the searchlight-swept sky and stepped inside. Dim light glowed
in the distance. He moved silently along the corridor, pushed through a door
into a vast room filled with racks containing the fan-shaped books favored by
both Gloians and Blorts. As he did, a light stabbed out and flicked across his
chest, fixed on the center button of his dark green early-evening blazer.

"Don't come any farther," a reedy voice
quavered. "I've got this light right in your eye, and a bloop gun aimed at
where I estimate your vitals to be."

"The effect is blinding," Retief said. "I
guess you've got me." Beyond the feeble glow, he made out the fragile
figure of an aged Gloian draped in zebra-striped academic robes.

"I suppose you sneaked in here to make off with a
load of Plushniki historical treasures," the oldster charged.

"Actually I was just looking for a shady spot to load
my Brownie," Retief said soothingly.

"Ah-hah, photographing Cultural Secrets, eh? That's
two death penalties you've earned so far. Make a false move, and it's three and
put."

"You're just too sharp for me, Professor,"
Retief conceded.

"Well, I do my job." The ancient snapped off the
light. "I think we can do without this. It gives me a splitting flurgache.
Now, you better come along with me to the bomb shelter. Those rascally Blorts
have been dropping shells into the Temple grounds, and I wouldn't want you to
get hurt before the execution."

"Certainly. By the way, since I'm to be nipped in the
bud for stealing information, I wonder if it would be asking too much to get a
few answers before I go?"

"Hmmm. Seems only fair. What would you like to
know?"

"A number of things," Retief said. "To
start with, how did this war begin in the first place?"

The curator lowered his voice. "You won't tell
anybody?"

"It doesn't look as though I'll have the
chance."

"That's true. Well, it seems it was something like
this ..."

"... and they've been at it ever since," the
ancient Gloian concluded his recital. "Under the circumstances, I guess
you can see that the idea of a cessation of hostilities is unthinkable."

"This has been very illuminating," Retief
agreed. "By the way, during the course of your remarks, I happened to
think of a couple of little errands that need attending to. I wonder if we
couldn't postpone the execution until tomorrow?"

"Well—it's a little unusual. But with all this
shooting going on outside, I don't imagine we could stage a suitable ceremony in
any case. I suppose I could accept your parole; you seem like an honest chap,
for a foreigner. But be back by lunchtime, remember. I hate these last-minute
noose adjustments." His hand came up suddenly; there was a sharp
zopp!
and
a glowing light bulb across the room pooled and died.

"All the same, it's a good thing you asked," the
old curator blew across the end of his pistol barrel and tucked the weapon
away.

"I'll be here," Retief assured the elder.
"Now if you'd just show me the closest exit, I'd better be getting
started."

The Gloian tottered along a narrow passage, opened a plank
door letting onto the side garden. "Nice night," he opined, looking
at the sky where the glowing vapor trails of fighter planes looped across the
constellations. "You couldn't ask for a better one for—say, what
are
these
errands you've got to run?"

"Cultural secrets," Retief laid a finger across
his lips and stepped out into the night.

It was a brisk ten-minute walk to the Embassy garages,
where the small official fleet of high-powered CDT vehicles were stored. Retief
selected a fast-moving one-man courier boat; a moment later the lift deposited
the tiny craft on the roof. He checked over the instruments, took a minute to
tune the tight-beam finder to the personal code of the Gloian Chief of State,
and lifted off.

Rocketing along at fifteen hundred feet, Retief had a
superb view of the fireworks below. The Blortian beachhead north of town had
been expanded into a wide curve of armored units poised ready for the dawn assault
that was to sweep the capital clear. To the west, Gloian columns were massing
for the counterstrike. At the point of juncture of the proposed assault lines,
the lights of the Terran Embassy glowed forlornly.

Retief corrected course a degree and a half, still
climbing rapidly, watching the quivering needles of the seek-and-find beam. The
emerald and ruby glow of a set of navigation lights appeared a mile ahead,
moving erratically at an angle to his course. He boosted the small flier to
match altitudes, swung in on the other craft's tail. Close now, he could
discern the bright-doped fabric-covered wings, the taut rigging wires, the
brilliant orange blazon of the Gloian national colors on the fuselage, above
the ornate personal emblem of Marshal Lib Glip. He could even make out the
goggled features of the warrior Premier gleaming faintly in the greenish light
from the instrument faces, his satsuma-toned scarf streaming bravely behind
him.

Retief maneuvered until he was directly above the
unsuspecting craft, then peeled off and hurtled past it on the left close
enough to rock the light airplane violently in the buffeting slip stream. He
came around in a hairpin turn, shot above the biplane as it banked right, did
an abrupt left to pass under it, and saw a row of stars appear across the
plastic canopy beside his head as the Gloian ace turned inside him, catching
him with a burst from his machine guns.