Bolo

by Keith Laumer

  Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to Jorgensen’s Worlds. Then, if Magnan’s information was correct, there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. It would be good to know what Jorgensen’s Worlds would be up against.

  Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska and coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony and his retainers still sat at the Captain’s table.

  As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered across the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lighted end in Retief’s coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.

  The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.

  “You must want to get to Jorgensen’s pretty bad,” the thug said in a grating voice. “What’s your game, hick?”

  Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.

  “I don’t think I want my coffee,” he said. He looked at the thug. “You drink it.”

  The thug squinted at Retief. “A wise hick,” he began.

  With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug’s face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug went down.

  Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing openmouthed.

  “You can take your playmates away now, Tony,” he said. “And don’t bother to come around yourself. You’re not funny enough.”

  Mr. Tony found his voice.

  “Take him, Marbles!” he growled.

  The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out a long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.

  Retief heard the panel open beside him.

  “Here you go, Mister,” Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed french knife lay on the sill.

  “Thanks, Chip,” Retief said. “I won’t need it for these punks.”

  Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistol from his shoulder holster.

  “Aim that at me and I’ll kill you,” Retief said.

  “Go on, burn him!” Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the Captain appeared, white-faced.

  “Put that away, you!” he yelled. “What kind of—”

  “Shut up,” Mr. Tony said. “Put it away, Hoany. We’ll fix this bum later.”

  “Not on this vessel, you won’t,” the Captain said shakily. “I got my charter to consider.”

  “Ram your charter,” Hoany said harshly. “You won’t be needing it long.”

  “Button your floppy mouth, damn you!” Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at the man on the floor. “Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the slob.”

  He turned and walked away. The Captain signaled and two waiters came up. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.

  The panel opened.

  “I usta be about your size, when I was your age,” Chip said. “You handled them pansies right. I wouldn’t give ’em the time o’ day.”

  “How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?” Retief said.

  “Sure, mister. Anything else?”

  “I’ll think of something,” Retief said. “This is shaping up into one of those long days.”

  “They don’t like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin,” Chip said. “But the Cap’n knows I’m the best cook in the Merchant Service. They won’t mess with me.”

  “What has Mr. Tony got on the Captain, Chip?” Retief asked.

  “They’re in some kind o’ crooked business together. You want some more smoked turkey?”

  “Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen’s Worlds?”

  “Dunno. Hasn’t been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was yer age.”

  “I’ll bet you can still handle it, old timer. What are Jorgensen’s Worlds like?”

  “One of’em’s cold as hell and three of’em’s colder. Most o’ the Jorgies live on Svea; that’s the least froze up. Man don’t enjoy eatin’ his own cookin’ like he does somebody else’s.”

  “That’s where I’m lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo’s the Captain got aboard for Jorgensen’s?”

  “Derned if I know. In and out o’ there like a grasshopper, ever few weeks. Don’t never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says. Don’t know what we even run in there for.”

  “Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?”

  “To Alabaster. That’s nine days’ run in-sector from Jorgensen’s. You ain’t got another one of them cigars, have you?”

  “Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship.”

  “Plenty o’ space, mister. We got a dozen empty cabins.” Chip puffed the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and brandy.

  “Them Sweaties is what I don’t like,” he said.

  Retief looked at him questioningly.

  “You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin’ devils. Skinny legs, like a lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin’ head. You can see the pulse beatin’ when they get riled.”

  “I’ve never had the pleasure,” Retief said.

  “You prob’ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh every trip out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin’.”

  There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.

  “I ain’t superstitious ner nothin’,” Chip said. “But I’ll be triple-damned if that ain’t them boarding us now.”

  Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door, accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy knock shook the door.

  “They got to look you over,” Chip whispered. “Nosy damn Sweaties.”

  “Unlock it, Chip.” The chef opened the door.

  “Come in, damn you,” he said.

  A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hooflike feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees. Behind the alien, the Captain hovered nervously.

  “Yo’ papiss,” the alien rasped.

  “Who’s your friend, Captain?” Retief said.

  “Never mind; just do like he tells you.”

  “Yo’ papiss,” the alien said again.

  “Okay,” Retief said. “I’ve seen it. You can take it away now.”

  “Don’t horse around,” the Captain said. “This fellow can get mean.”

  The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle, clicked toothed pincers under Retief’s nose.

  “Quick, soft one.”

  “Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and I’m tempted to test it.”

  “Don’t start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those snappers.”

  “Last chance,” Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pinchers an inch from Retief’s eyes.

  “Show him your papers, you damned fool,” the Captain said hoarsely. “I got no control over Skaw.”

  The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same instant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alien and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous knee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spattering from the burst joint.

  “I told you he was brittle,” Retief said. “Next time you invite pirates aboard, don’t bother to call.”

  “Jesus, what did you do! They’ll kill us!” the Captain gasped, staring at the figure flopping on the floor.

  “Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat,” Retief said. “Tell him to pass the word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in Terrestrial space.”

  “Hey,” Chip said. “He’s quit kicking.”
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  The Captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close and sniffed.

  “He’s dead.” The Captain stared at Retief. “We’re all dead men,” he said. “These Soetti got no mercy.”

  “They won’t need it. Tell ’em to sheer off; their fun is over.”

  “They got no more emotions than a blue crab—”

  “You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back. We know their secret now.”

  “What secret? I—”

  “Don’t be no dumber than you got to, Cap’n,” Chip said. “Sweaties die easy; that’s the secret.”

  “Maybe you got a point,” the Captain said, looking at Retief. “All they got’s a three-man scout. It could work.”

  He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead alien gingerly into the hall.

  “Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti,” the Captain said, looking back from the door. “But I’ll be back to see you later.”

  “You don’t scare us, Cap’n,” Chip said. “Him and Mr. Tony and all his goons. You hit ’em where they live, that time. They’re pals o’ these Sweaties. Runnin’ some kind o’ crooked racket.”

  “You’d better take the Captain’s advice, Chip. There’s no point in your getting involved in my problems.”

  “They’d of killed you before now, mister, if they had any guts. That’s where we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts.”

  “They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.”

  “They don’t scare me none.” Chip picked up the tray. “I’ll scout around a little and see what’s goin’ on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything about that Skaw feller they’ll have to move fast; they won’t try nothin’ close to port.”

  “Don’t worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won’t do anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.”

  Chip looked at Retief. “You ain’t no tourist, mister. I know that much. You didn’t come out here for fun, did you?”

  “That,” Retief said, “would be a hard one to answer.”

  4

  Retief awoke at a tap on his door.

  “It’s me, mister. Chip.”

  “Come on in.”

  The chef entered the room, locking the door.

  “You shoulda had that door locked.” He stood by the door, listening, then turned to Retief.

  “You want to get to Jorgensen’s perty bad, don’t you, mister?”

  “That’s right, Chip.”

  “Mr. Tony gave the Captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The Sweaties didn’t say nothin’. Didn’t even act surprised, just took the remains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they call Marbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the Cap’n in his cabin and talked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the Cap’n come out and give some orders to the mate.”

  Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.

  “Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?”

  “He hated Skaw’s guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a gun?”

  “A two-mm needler. Why?”

  “The orders Cap’n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We’re bypassin’ Jorgensen’s Worlds. We’ll feel the course change any minute.”

  Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.

  “Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain’s cabin?”

  “This is it,” Chip said softly. “You want me to keep an eye on who comes down the passage?”

  Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The Captain looked up from his desk, then jumped up.

  “What do you think you’re doing, busting in here?”

  “I hear you’re planning a course change, Captain.”

  “You’ve got damn big ears.”

  “I think we’d better call in at Jorgensen’s.”

  “You do, huh?” The Captain sat down. “I’m in command of this vessel,” he said. “I’m changing course for Alabaster.”

  “I wouldn’t find it convenient to go to Alabaster,” Retief said. “So just hold your course for Jorgensen’s.”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  “Your use of the word ‘bloody’ is interesting, Captain. Don’t try to change course.”

  The Captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.

  “Power Section, this is the Captain,” he said. Retief reached across the desk, gripped the Captain’s wrist.

  “Tell the mate to hold his present course,” he said softly.

  “Let go my hand, buster,” the Captain snarled. Eyes on Retief’s, he eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the drawer. The Captain yelped and dropped the mike.

  “You busted it, you—”

  “And one to go,” Retief said. “Tell him.”

  “I’m an officer of the Merchant Service!”

  “You’re a cheapjack who’s sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley hoods.”

  “You can’t put it over, hick.”

  “Tell him.”

  The Captain groaned and picked up the mike. “Captain to Power Section,” he said. “Hold your present course until you hear from me.” He dropped the mike and looked up at Retief.

  “It’s eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You going to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?”

  Retief released the Captain’s wrist and turned to the door.

  “Chip, I’m locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what’s going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I’m sitting up with a sick friend.”

  “Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he’s slippery.”

  “What are you going to do?” the Captain demanded.

  Retief settled himself in a chair.

  “Instead of strangling you, as you deserve,” he said, “I’m going to stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen’s Worlds.”

  The Captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.

  “Then I’ll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel like dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don’t mind me.”

  Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.

  “If anything happens that I don’t like,” he said, “I’ll wake you up. With this.”

  “Why don’t you let me spell you, Mister?” Chip said. “Four hours to go yet. You’re gonna hafta be on yer toes to handle the landing.”

  “I’ll be all right, Chip. You get some sleep.”

  “Nope. Many’s the time I stood four, five watches runnin’, back when I was yer age. I’ll make another round.”

  Retief stood up, stretched his legs, paced the floor, stared at the repeater instruments on the wall. Things had gone quietly so far, but the landing would be another matter. The Captain’s absence from the bridge during the highly complex maneuvering would be difficult to explain …

  The desk speaker crackled.

  “Captain, Officer of the Watch here. Ain’t it about time you was getting up here with the orbit figures?”

  Retief nudged the Captain. He awoke with a start, sat up.

  “Whazzat?” He looked wild-eyed at Retief.

  “Watch Officer wants orbit figures,” Retief said, nodding toward the speaker.

  The Captain rubbed his eyes, shook his head, picked up the mike. Retief released the safety on the needler with an audible click.

  “Watch Officer, I’ll … ah … get some figures for you right away. I’m … ah … busy right now.”

  “What the hell you talking about, busy?” the speaker blared. “You ain’t got them figures ready, you’ll have a hell of a hot time getting ’em up in the next three minutes. You forgot your approach pattern or something?”

  “I guess I overlooked it,” the Captain said, looking sideways at Retief. “I’ve been busy.”

  “One for your side,” Retief said.
He reached for the Captain.

  “I’ll make a deal,” the Captain squalled. “Your life for—”

  Retief took aim and slammed a hard right to the Captain’s jaw. He slumped to the floor.

  Retief glanced around the room, yanked wires loose from a motile lamp, trussed the man’s hands and feet, stuffed his mouth with paper and taped it.

  Chip tapped at the door. Retief opened it and the chef stepped inside, looking at the man on the floor.

  “The jasper tried somethin’, huh? Figured he would. What we goin’ to do now?”

  “The Captain forgot to set up an approach, Chip. He outfoxed me.”

  “If we overrun our approach pattern,” Chip said, “we can’t make orbit at Jorgensen’s on automatic. And a manual approach—”

  “That’s out. But there’s another possibility.”

  Chip blinked, “Only one thing you could mean, mister. But cuttin’ out in a lifeboat in deep space is no picnic.”

  “They’re on the port side, aft, right?”

  Chip nodded. “Hot damn,” he said. “Who’s got the ’tater salad?”

  “We’d better tuck the skipper away out of sight.”

  “In the locker.”

  The two men carried the limp body to a deep storage chest, dumped it in, closed the lid.

  “He won’t suffercate. Lid’s a lousy fit:”

  Retief opened the door went into the corridor, Chip behind him.

  “Shouldn’t oughta be nobody around now,” the chef said. “Everybody’s mannin’ approach stations.”

  At the D deck companionway, Retief stopped suddenly.

  “Listen.”

  Chip cocked his head. “I don’t hear nothin’,” he whispered.

  “Sounds like a sentry posted on the lifeboat deck,” Retief said softly.

  “Let’s take him, mister.”

  “I’ll go down. Stand by, Chip.”

  Retief started down the narrow steps, half stair, half ladder. Halfway, he paused to listen. There was a sound of slow footsteps, then silence. Retief palmed the needler, went down the last steps quickly, emerged in the dim light of a low-ceilinged room. The stern of a five-man lifeboat bulked before him.

  “Freeze, you!” a cold voice snapped.

  Retief dropped, rolled behind the shelter of the lifeboat as the whine of a power pistol echoed off metal walls. A lunge, and he was under the boat, on his feet. He jumped, caught the quick-access handle, hauled it down. The outer port cycled open.