The Keith Laumer MEGAPACK®

by Keith Laumer

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes’ walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampart of thorn branches: the Flap-jacks’ outer defensive line against Terry forays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by the Flap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off his back, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situation was correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long….

  A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off. He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in an agitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket.

  “Sit tight,” he said. “Don’t try to do anything hasty….” His remarks were falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke as loudly as words.

  There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring of presences drawing closer.

  Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now, looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jacks came in all sizes.

  A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, faded out. Retief cocked his head, frowning.

  “Try it two octaves higher,” he said.

  “Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better?” a clear voice came from the darkness.

  “That’s fine,” Retief said. “I’m here to arrange a prisoner exchange.”

  “Prisoners? But we have no prisoners.”

  “Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal?”

  “Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require?”

  “The word of a gentleman is sufficient.” Retief released the alien. It flopped once, disappeared into the darkness.

  “If you’d care to accompany me to our headquarters,” the voice said, “we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort.”

  “Delighted.”

  Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thorny barrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand to a low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow.

  “I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome,” said the voice. “Had we known we would be honored by a visit—”

  “Think nothing of it,” Retief said. “We diplomats are trained to crawl.”

  Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling, Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor like burgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table of polished red granite that stretched down the center of the spacious room, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes.

  III

  “Let me congratulate you,” the voice said.

  Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings, rippled at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back. “You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure the test would be interesting, but I’m hoping we can avoid it.”

  “Avoid it?” Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in the silence. “Well, let us dine,” the mighty Flap-jack said at last. “We can resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic of the Two Dawns.”

  “I’m Retief.” Hoshick waited expectantly, “… of the Mountain of Red Tape,” Retief added.

  “Take place, Retief,” said Hoshick. “I hope you won’t find our rude couches uncomfortable.” Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room, communed silently with Hoshick. “Pray forgive our lack of translating devices,” he said to Retief. “Permit me to introduce my colleagues….”

  A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver tray laden with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled the drinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good.

  “I trust you’ll find these dishes palatable,” said Hoshick. “Our metabolisms are much alike, I believe.” Retief tried the food. It had a delicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateau d’Yquem.

  “It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,” said Hoshick. “I confess at first we took you for an indigenous earth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion.” He raised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retief returned the salute and drank.

  “Of course,” Hoshick continued, “as soon as we realized that you were sportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing a bit of activity for you. We’ve ordered out our heavier equipment and a few trained skirmishers and soon we’ll be able to give you an adequate show. Or so I hope.”

  “Additional skirmishers?” said Retief. “How many, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after…well, I’m sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer a contest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Such a bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we’ve come upon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you made captive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantastically keen tracker.”

  “Oh, by all means,” Retief said. “No atomics. As you pointed out, spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it’s wasteful of troops.”

  “Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics. Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of my Mosaic….”

  “Delicious,” said Retief. “I wonder. Have you considered eliminating weapons altogether?”

  * * * *

  A scratchy sound issued from the disk. “Pardon my laughter,” Hoshick said, “but surely you jest?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Retief, “we ourselves seldom use weapons.”

  “I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved the use of a weapon by one of your units.”

  “My apologies,” said Retief. “The—ah—the skirmishform failed to recognize that he was dealing with a sportsman.”

  “Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons….” Hoshick signaled and the servant refilled tubes.

  “There is an aspect I haven’t yet mentioned,” Retief went on. “I hope you won’t take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishforms think of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certain specific life-forms.”

  “Oh? Curious. What forms are those?”

  “Vermin. Or ‘varmints’ as some call them. Deadly antagonists, but lacking in caste. I don’t want our skirmishforms thinking of such worthy adversaries as yourself as varmints.”

  “Dear me! I hadn’t realized, of course. Most considerate of you to point it out.” Hoshick clucked in dismay. “I see that skirmishforms are much the same among you as with us: lacking in perception.” He laughed scratchily. “Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints.”

  “Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we’re up against a serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate. Therefore we’ve reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actions so dear to the heart of the sportsman. We’ve attempted to put an end to these contests altogether….”

  Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air. “What are you saying?” he gasped. “Are you proposing that Hoshick of the Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor….?”

  “Sir!” said Retief sternly. “You forget yourself. I, Retief of the Red Tape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with the newest sporting principles.”

  “New?” cried Hoshick. “My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I’m enthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate.”

  “It’s quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and the two individuals settle the issue between them.”

  “I…um…fear I don’t understand. What possible significance could one attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms?”

  “I haven’t made myself clear,” said Retief. He took a sip of wine. “We don’t involve the
skirmishforms at all. That’s quite passe.”

  “You don’t mean…?”

  “That’s right. You and me.”

  * * * *

  Outside on the starlit sand Retief tossed aside the power pistol, followed it with the leather shirt Swazey had lent him. By the faint light he could just make out the towering figure of the Flap-jack rearing up before him, his trappings gone. A silent rank of Flap-jack retainers were grouped behind him.

  “I fear I must lay aside the translator now, Retief,” said Hoshick. He sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. “My spawn-fellows will never credit this. Such a curious turn fashion has taken. How much more pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from a distance.”

  “I suggest we use Tennessee rules,” said Retief. “They’re very liberal. Biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well as the usual punching, shoving and kicking.”

  “Hmmm. These gambits seem geared to forms employing rigid endo-skeletons; I fear I shall be at a disadvantage.”

  “Of course,” Retief said, “if you’d prefer a more plebeian type of contest….”

  “By no means. But perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just to even it.”

  “Very well. Shall we begin?”

  With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, and leaped on the Flap-jack’s back…and felt himself flipped clear by a mighty ripple of the alien’s slab-like body. Retief rolled aside as Hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a right hay-maker to Hoshick’s mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringe around in an arc that connected with Retief’s jaw, sent him spinning onto his back…and Hoshick’s weight struck him.

  Retief twisted, tried to roll. The flat body of the alien blanketed him. He worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back. Hoshick nestled closer.

  Retief’s air was running out. He heaved up against the smothering weight. Nothing budged.

  It was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete.

  He remembered the rangerform he had captured. The sensitive orifice had been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area….

  He groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missing skin tomorrow…if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orifice and probed.

  The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping with the other hand. If the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there would be a set of ready made hand-holds….

  * * * *

  There were.

  Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on, scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell on top of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, flopped in terror, then went limp.

  Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard. Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and moved gingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assisted him into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily, adjusted the volume.

  “There is much to be said for the old system,” he said. “What a burden one’s sportsmanship places on one at times.”

  “Great sport, wasn’t it?” said Retief. “Now, I know you’ll be eager to continue. If you’ll just wait while I run back and fetch some of our gougerforms—”

  “May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms!” Hoshick bellowed. “You’ve given me such a sprong-ache as I’ll remember each spawning-time for a year.”

  “Speaking of hide-ticks,” said Retief, “we’ve developed a biterform—”

  “Enough!” Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on his hide. “Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I had hoped….” He broke off, drew a rasping breath. “I had hoped, Retief,” he said, speaking sadly now, “to find a new land here where I might plan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a crop of paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. But my spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerforms without end. I am shamed before you….”

  “To tell you the truth, I’m old-fashioned myself. I’d rather watch the action from a distance too.”

  “But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude.”

  “My spawn-fellows aren’t here. And besides, didn’t I mention it? No one who’s really in the know would think of engaging in competition by mere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling the sand, raising lichens—things like that—”

  “That on which we dined but now,” said Hoshick, “and from which the wine is made.”

  “The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition. Now, if you’d like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we’ll promise to stick to the oases and vegetables.”

  Hoshick curled his back in attention. “Retief, you’re quite serious? You would leave all the fair sand hills to us?”

  “The whole works, Hoshick. I’ll take the oases.”

  Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. “Once again you have outdone me, Retief,” he cried. “This time, in generosity.”

  “We’ll talk over the details later. I’m sure we can establish a set of rules that will satisfy all parties. Now I’ve got to get back. I think some of the gougerforms are waiting to see me.”

  IV

  It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreed on with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stood up.

  “There you are,” he said. “We been wonderin’ whether to go out after you.”

  Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out a raw-boned hand. “Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, I thought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT.”

  Bert came up behind Lemuel. “How do you know he ain’t, Lemuel?” he said. “Maybe he—”

  Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. “Next cotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse’n that.”

  “Tell me,” said Retief. “How are you boys fixed for wine?”

  “Wine? Mister, we been livin’ on stump water for a year now. ’Dobe’s fatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker.”

  “Try this.” Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork, sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel.

  “Mister, where’d you get that?”

  “The Flap-jacks make it. Here’s another question for you: Would you concede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peace guarantee?”

  At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief. “We’ll make any reasonable deal,” he said. “I guess they got as much right here as we have. I think we’d agree to a fifty-fifty split. That’d give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side.”

  “What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them the desert?”

  Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. “Keep talkin’, mister,” he said. “I think you got yourself a deal.”

  * * * *

  Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper.

  “Sit down, Retief,” he said absently. “I thought you were over on Pueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert.”

  “I’m back.”

  Passwyn eyed him sharply. “Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speak up. Don’t expect me to request any military assistance, no matter how things are….”

  Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. “Here’s the Treaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement.”

  “Eh?” Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leaned back in his chair, beamed.

  “Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled.” He stopped, blinked at Retief. “You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you’ve been conducting yourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff.”

  “I attended a sporting event,” Retief said. “One of the players got a
little excited.”

  “Well…it’s one of the hazards of the profession. One must pretend an interest in such matters.” Passwyn rose, extended a hand. “You’ve done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of following instructions to the letter.”

  Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough to take from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and drop it in the slot.

  AIDE MEMOIRE

  Originally published in Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.

  I

  Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheet of parchment and looked grave.

  “This aide memoire,” he said, “was just handed to me by the Cultural Attache. It’s the third on the subject this week. It refers to the matter of sponsorship of Youth groups—”

  “Some youths,” Retief said. “Average age, seventy-five.”

  “The Fustians are a long-lived people,” Magnan snapped. “These matters are relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—”

  “That’s right. He’ll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.”

  “Precisely the problem,” Magnan said. “But the Youth Movement is the important news in today’s political situation here on Fust. And sponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of the Terrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of the mission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cement relations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future. You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.”

  “I’m not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing their rumbles,” Retief said. “Now, if you have a proposal for a pest control group—”

  “To the Fustians this is no jesting matter,” Magnan cut in. “This group—” he glanced at the paper—“known as the Sexual, Cultural, and Athletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaiting sponsorship for a matter of weeks now.”

  “Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipment and anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural and athletic development,” Retief said.