by Keith Laumer
Originally published in Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962.
I
“The Consul for the Terrestrial States,” Retief said, “presents his compliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the Groacian Autonomy, and with reference to the Ministry’s invitation to attend a recital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret that he will be unable—”
“You can’t turn this invitation down,” Administrative Assistant Meuhl said flatly. “I’ll make that ‘accepts with pleasure’.”
Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.
“Miss Meuhl,” he said, “in the past couple of weeks I’ve sat through six light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows how many assorted folk-art festivals. I’ve been tied up every off-duty hour since I got here—”
“You can’t offend the Groaci,” Miss Meuhl said sharply. “Consul Whaffle would never have been so rude.”
“Whaffle left here three months ago,” Retief said, “leaving me in charge.”
“Well,” Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. “I’m sure I don’t know what excuse I can give the Minister.”
“Never mind the excuses,” Retief said. “Just tell him I won’t be there.” He stood up.
“Are you leaving the office?” Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. “I have some important letters here for your signature.”
“I don’t recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl,” Retief said, pulling on a light cape.
* * * *
“I wrote them for you. They’re just as Consul Whaffle would have wanted them.”
“Did you write all Whaffle’s letters for him, Miss Meuhl?”
“Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man,” Miss Meuhl said stiffly. “He had complete confidence in me.”
“Since I’m cutting out the culture from now on,” Retief said, “I won’t be so busy.”
“Well!” Miss Meuhl said. “May I ask where you’ll be if something comes up?”
“I’m going over to the Foreign Office Archives.”
Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. “Whatever for?”
Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. “You’ve been here on Groac for four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d’etat that put the present government in power?”
“I’m sure I haven’t pried into—”
“What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out this way about ten years back?”
“Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we avoid with the Groaci. I certainly hope you’re not thinking of openly intruding—”
“Why?”
“The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don’t welcome outworlders raking up things. They’ve been gracious enough to let us live down the fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on one occasion.”
“You mean when they came looking for the cruiser?”
“I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed, grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We try never to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief.”
“They never found the cruiser, did they?”
“Certainly not on Groac.”
Retief nodded. “Thanks, Miss Meuhl,” he said. “I’ll be back before you close the office.” Miss Meuhl’s face was set in lines of grim disapproval as he closed the door.
* * * *
The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressed bleat.
“Not to enter the Archives,” he said in his faint voice. “The denial of permission. The deep regret of the Archivist.”
“The importance of my task here,” Retief said, enunciating the glottal dialect with difficulty. “My interest in local history.”
“The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly.”
“The necessity that I enter.”
“The specific instructions of the Archivist.” The Groacian’s voice rose to a whisper. “To insist no longer. To give up this idea!”
“OK, Skinny, I know when I’m licked,” Retief said in Terran. “To keep your nose clean.”
Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carved windowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in the direction of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians on the street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsy high-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement. The air was clean and cool.
At the office, Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list of complaints.
Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street. An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate the Groacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in.
A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink from the bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze in mid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.
“To enjoy a cooling drink,” Retief said in Groacian, squatting down at the edge of the pit. “To sample a true Groacian beverage.”
“To not enjoy my poor offerings,” the Groacian mumbled. “A pain in the digestive sacs; to express regret.”
“To not worry,” Retief said, irritated. “To pour it out and let me decide whether I like it.”
“To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners.” The barkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers, eyes elsewhere, were drifting away.
“To get the lead out,” Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in the dish provided. “To shake a tentacle.”
“The procuring of a cage,” a thin voice called from the sidelines. “The displaying of a freak.”
* * * *
Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gesture of contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent the creature was drunk.
“To choke in your upper sac,” the bartender hissed, extending his eyes toward the drunk. “To keep silent, litter-mate of drones.”
“To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness,” the drunk whispered. “To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece.” He wavered toward Retief. “To show this one in the streets, like all freaks.”
“Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you?” Retief asked, interestedly.
“To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder,” the drunk said. The barkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk, took his arms and helped him to the door.
“To get a cage!” the drunk shrilled. “To keep the animals in their own stinking place.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Retief said to the bartender. “To be grateful as hell, but to have to hurry off now.” He followed the drunk out the door. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief looked at the weaving alien.
“To begone, freak,” the Groacian whispered.
“To be pals,” Retief said. “To be kind to dumb animals.”
“To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock.”
“To not be angry, fragrant native,” Retief said. “To permit me to chum with you.”
“To flee before I take a cane to you!”
“To have a drink together—”
“To not endure such insolence!” The Groacian advanced toward Retief. Retief backed away.
“To hold hands,” Retief said. “To be palsy-walsy—”
The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him, head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrow crossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local, who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrow alley-like passage, deserted, silent…except for the following Groacian.
Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacian fell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose; Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed.
“To not be going anywhere for a few minutes,” Re
tief said. “To stay right here and have a nice long talk.”
II
“There you are!” Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. “There are two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen.”
“Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast.” Retief pulled off his cape. “This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the Foreign Ministry.”
“What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don’t mind telling you.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Come along. And bring an official recorder.”
Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornaments indicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered a courteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right.
“I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr. Consul,” the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. “May I present Shluh, of the Internal Police?”
“Sit down, gentlemen,” Retief said. They resumed their seats. Miss Meuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair.
“Oh, it’s such a pleasure—” she began.
“Never mind that,” Retief said. “These gentlemen didn’t come here to sip tea today.”
“So true,” Fith said. “Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report, Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it.” He nodded to the police chief.
“One hour ago,” The Groacian said, “a Groacian national was brought to hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of this individual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by a foreigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my department indicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that of the Terrestrial Consul.”
Miss Meuhl gasped audibly.
“Have you ever heard,” Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, “of a Terrestrial cruiser, the ISV Terrific, which dropped from sight in this sector nine years ago?”
“Really!” Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. “I wash my hands—”
“Just keep that recorder going,” Retief snapped.
“I’ll not be a party—”
“You’ll do as you’re told, Miss Meuhl,” Retief said quietly. “I’m telling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation.”
Miss Meuhl sat down.
Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. “You reopen an old wound, Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrial hands—”
“Hogwash,” Retief said. “That tune went over with my predecessors, but it hits a sour note with me.”
“All our efforts,” Miss Meuhl said, “to live down that terrible episode! And you—”
“Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groac and sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funny answers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left. Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they were innocent.”
“IF!” Miss Meuhl burst out.
“If, indeed!” Fith said, his weak voice trembling. “I must protest your—”
* * * *
“Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don’t think your story will be good enough.”
“It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten—”
“Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory.”
“Then you admit—”
“It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind to it.”
Fith rose; Shluh followed suit.
“I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not for your diplomatic immunity, I should do more—”
“Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task force paid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrial diplomatic mission.”
“This is an internal matter!” Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice. “The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. It has outdone itself—”
“—to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark,” Retief said. “And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you’ve visaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside the diplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, or your satellite—”
“Enough!” Fith’s mandibles quivered in distress. “I can talk no more of this matter—”
“You’ll talk to me, or there’ll be a task force here in five days to do the talking,” Retief said.
“You can’t!” Miss Meuhl gasped.
Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. The Groaci sat down.
“Answer me this one,” Retief said, looking at Shluh. “A few years back—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Some curious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged, they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through the streets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show.
“Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed to communicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit.
“Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after the parade was over?”
* * * *
Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluh retracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened her mouth, closed it and blinked rapidly.
“How did they die?” Retief snapped. “Did you murder them, cut their throats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figure out for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made them yell….”
“No!” Fith gasped. “I must correct this terrible false impression at once.”
“False impression, hell,” Retief said. “They were Terrans! A simple narco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw the parade.”
“Yes,” Fith said weakly. “It is true, they were Terrestrials. But there was no killing.”
“They’re alive?”
“Alas, no. They…died.”
Miss Meuhl yelped faintly.
“I see,” Retief said. “They died.”
“We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know what foods—”
“Didn’t take the trouble to find out, either, did you?”
“They fell ill,” Fith said. “One by one….”
“We’ll deal with that question later,” Retief said. “Right now, I want more information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship? What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they ‘fall ill’ before the big parade?”
“There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you!”
“Killed in the crash landing?”
“No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The…terrestrials…were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They were strange to us. We had never before seen such beings.”
“Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they?”
“Guns? No, no guns—”
“They raised their hands, didn’t they? Asked for help. You helped them; helped them to death.”
“How could we know?” Fith moaned.
“How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months looking for them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn’t it? I’ll bet you had a brisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A close call, eh?”
“We were afraid,” Shluh said. “We are a simple people. We feared the strange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but we felt it was as well they…did not survive. Then, when the warships came, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged our guilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and…offered our friendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We made a blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to make amends….”
“Where is the ship?”
“The ship?”
“What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget. Where is it?”
The two Groacians exchanged looks.
“We wish to show our contrition,” Fith said. “We will show you the ship.”
“Miss Meuhl,” Retief said. “If I don’t come back in a reasonable length of time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed.” He stood, looked at the Groaci.
“Let’s go,” he said.
* * * *
Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern. He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull.
“Any lights in here?” he asked.
A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up.
Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Empty emplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking was visible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words ‘IVS Terrific B7 New Terra’ were lettered in bright chrome duralloy.
“How did you get it in here?” Retief asked.
“It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,” Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. “This is a natural crevasse. The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over.”
“How did you shield it so the detectors didn’t pick it up?”
“All here is high-grade iron ore,” Fith said, waving a member. “Great veins of almost pure metal.”
Retief grunted. “Let’s go inside.”
Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship.
Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interior of the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchions where acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrument panels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thin frosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches had sliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding.
“The cargo compartment—” Shluh began.
“I’ve seen enough,” Retief said.
Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel and into the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to the steam car, Fith came to Retief’s side.
“Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,” he said. “Now that all has been fully and honestly shown—”
“You can skip all that,” Retief said. “You’re nine years late. The crew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killed them—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting what you’d done.”