The 35th Golden Age of Science Fiction: Keith Laumer

by Keith Laumer

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

  Tove talked to the tower, got a reply.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “How long before he touches down?”

  Tove glanced at a lighted chart “Perhaps eight minutes. “Any guns here?”

  Tove 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, Chip,” Retief said. “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,” he said. “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,” Tove 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 to the others.

  “—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.”

  Tove flipped a key. “Switch me direct to the ship,” he said. “Right.”

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

  “What’s that to you?”

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

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

  “You’re wasting your time,” Tove said.

  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 popgun won’t bear on us.”

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

  In the white glare of the moonlight, a loading cover swung open at the stern of the ship, dropped down and 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?” Tove 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,” Chip said. “I got the glimmerin’s of a idear.”

  “I’ll stall them,” Tove 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…”

  Chapter VII

  The icy wind blew snow crystals stingingly against Retief’s face.

  “Keep your hands in your pockets, Chip,” he said. “Numb hands won’t hack the program.”

  “Yeah.” Chip 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. Durn good thing, too.” Chip sighed. “I like these folks,” he said. “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, Chip.”

  “It’ll be a hairy deal, Mister,” Chip said. “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.

  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 going 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 its 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, hitched 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 dizzying sine curve. Retief clung grimly, inches from the clashing treads.

  The machine ground to a halt. Retief 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 heavy rods extended themselves, moved down to touch the pavement, grated. The left track creaked as the weight went off it. Suddenly the tank’s drive raced, and Retief grabbed for a hold as the right tread clashed, heaved the fifty-ton machine forward. The jacks screeched as they scored the tarmac, then bit in. The tank pivoted, chips of pavement flying. The jacks extended, lifted the clattering left track clear of the surface as 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 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. Chip snaked forward to ram a short section of steel 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 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,” Retief said. “And their attack plan. They followed it.”

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

  “Not much of a spectacle,” Retief said. “You couldn’t see them. Too far away. They all crashed 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 or two Soetti we attempted to question, ah…” Magnan coughed again. “There was an accident,” he finished. “We got nothing from them.”

  “The Jorgensens have a rather special method of interrogating prisoners,” Retief said. “They took one from a wreck, still alive but unconscious. They managed to get the story from him. He died of it.”

  “It’s immaterial, actually,” Magnan said. “Since 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, Mr. Retief,” he said. He picked up a folder from his desk, opened it. “By the way, I have another little task for you, Retief. We haven’t had a comprehensive wild-life census report from Brimstone lately—”

  “Sorry,” Retief said. “I’ll be tied up. I’m taking a month off. Maybe more.”

  “What’s that?” Magnan’s head came up. “You seem to forget—”

  “I’m trying, Mr. Councillor,” Retief said. “Good-by now.” He reached out and flipped the key. Magnan’s face faded from the screen. Retief stood up.

  “Chip,” he said, “we’ll crack that keg when I get back.” He turned to Anne-Marie.

  “How long,” he said, “do you think it will take you to teach me to ski by moonlight?”

  GAMBLER’S WORLD

  Originally published in Worlds of If, November 1961.

  I

  Retief paused before a tall mirror to check the overlap of the four sets of lapels that ornamented the vermilion cutaway of a First Secretary and Consul.

  “Come along, Retief,” Magnan said. “The Ambassador has a word to say to the staff before we go in.”

  “I hope he isn’t going to change the spontaneous speech he plans to make when the Potentate impulsively suggests a trade agreement along the lines they’ve been discussing for the last two months.”

  “Your derisive attitude is uncalled for, Retief,” Magnan said sharply. “I think you realize it’s delayed your promotion in the Corps.”

  Retief took a last glance in the mirror. “I’m not sure I want a promotion,” he said. “It would mean more lapels.”

  Ambassador Crodfoller pursed his lips, waiting until Retief and Magnan took places in the ring of Terrestrial diplomats around him.

  “A word of caution only, gentlemen,” he said. “Keep always foremost in your minds the necessity for our identification with the Nenni Caste. Even a hint of familiarity with lower echelons could mean the failure of the mission. Let us remember that the Nenni represent authority here on Petreac. Their traditions must be observed, whatever our personal preferences. Let’s go along now. The Potentate will be making his entrance any moment.”

  Magnan came to Retief’s side as they moved toward the salon.

  “The Ambassador’s remarks were addressed chiefly to you, Retief,” he said. “Your laxness in these matters is notorious. Naturally, I believe firmly in democratic principles myself—”

  “Have you ever had a feeling, Mr. Magnan, that there’s a lot going on here that we don’t know about?”

  Magnan nodded. “Quite so. Ambassador Crodfoller’s point exactly. Matters which are not of concern to the Nenni are of no concern to us.”

  “Another feeling I get is that the Nenni aren’t very bright. Now suppose—”

  “I’m not given to suppositions, Retief. We’re here to implement the policies of the Chief of Mission. And I should dislike to be in the shoes of a member of the staff whose conduct jeopardized the agreement that will be concluded here tonight.”

  A bearer with a tray of drinks rounded a fluted column, shied as he confronted the diplomats, fumbled the tray, grabbed and sent a glass crashing to the floor.

  Magnan leaped back, slapping at the purple cloth of his pants leg. Retief’s hand shot out to steady the tray. The servant rolled terrified eyes.

  “I’ll take one of these, now that you’re here,” Retief said. He took a glass from the tray, winking at the servant.

  “No harm done,” he said. “Mr. Magnan’s just warming up for the big dance.”

  A Nenni major-domo bustled up, rubbing his hands politely.

  “Some trouble here?” he said. “What happened, Honorables, what, what.…”

  “The blundering idiot,” Magnan spluttered. “How dare—”

  “You’re quite an actor, Mr. Magnan,” Retief said. “If I didn’t know about your democratic principles, I’d think you were really mad.”

  The servant ducked his head and scuttled away.

  “Has this fellow.…” The major-domo eyed the retreating bearer.

  “I dropped my glass,” Retief said. “Mr. Magnan’s upset because he hates to see liquor wasted.”

  Retief turned to find himself face-to-face with Ambassador Crodfoller.

  “I witnessed that,” The Ambassador hissed. “By the goodness of Providence, the Potentate and his retinue haven’t appeared yet. But I can assure you the servants saw it. A more un-Nenni-like display I would find it difficult to imagine!”

  Retief arranged his features in an expression of deep interest.

  “More un-Nenni-like, sir?” he said. “I’m not sure I—”

  “Bah!” The Ambassador glared at Retief, “Your reputation has preceded you, sir. Your name is associated with a number of the most bizarre incidents in Corps history. I’m warning you; I’ll tolerate nothing.” He turned and stalked away.

  “Ambassador-baiting is a dangerous sport, Retief,” Magnan said.

  Retief took a swallow of his drink. “Still,” he said, “it’s better than no sport at all.”

  “Your time would be better spent obse
rving the Nenni mannerisms. Frankly, Retief, you’re not fitting into the group at all well.”

  “I’ll be candid with you, Mr. Magnan. The group gives me the willies.”

  “Oh, the Nenni are a trifle frivolous, I’ll concede,” Magnan said. “But it’s with them that we must deal. And you’d be making a contribution to the overall mission if you merely abandoned that rather arrogant manner of yours.” Magnan looked at Retief critically. “You can’t help your height, of course. But couldn’t you curve your back just a bit—and possibly assume a more placating expression? Just act a little more.…”

  “Girlish?”

  “Exactly.” Magnan nodded, then looked sharply at Retief.

  Retief drained his glass and put it on a passing tray.

  “I’m better at acting girlish when I’m well juiced,” he said. “But I can’t face another sorghum-and-soda. I suppose it would be un-Nenni-like to slip the bearer a credit and ask for a Scotch and water.”

  “Decidedly.” Magnan glanced toward a sound across the room.

  “Ah, here’s the Potentate now!” He hurried off.

  Retief watched the bearers coming and going, bringing trays laden with drinks, carrying off empties. There was a lull in the drinking now, as the diplomats gathered around the periwigged Chief of State and his courtiers. Bearers loitered near the service door, eyeing the notables. Retief strolled over to the service door, pushed through it into a narrow white-tiled hall filled with the odors of the kitchen. Silent servants gaped as he passed, watching as he moved along to the kitchen door and stepped inside.

  II

  A dozen or more low-caste Petreacans, gathered around a long table in the center of the room looked up, startled. A heap of long-bladed bread knives, French knives, carving knives and cleavers lay in the center of the table. Other knives were thrust into belts or held in the hands of the men. A fat man in the yellow sarong of a cook stood frozen in the act of handing a knife to a tall one-eyed sweeper.

  Retief took one glance, then let his eyes wander to a far corner of the room. Humming a careless little tune, he sauntered across to the open liquor shelves, selected a garish green bottle and turned unhurriedly back toward the door. The group of servants watched him, transfixed.