by Keith Laumer
“You may address me as ‘Exalted One’,” the leader said. “Now dismount from that steed of Shaitan.”
“It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him ‘sir’,” Retief said. “I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Now you may conduct us to your headquarters.”
“Enough of your insolence!” The bearded man cocked his rifle. “I could blow your heads off!”
“The hen has feathers, but it does not fly,” Retief said. “We have asked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man, a hint is enough.”
“You mock me, pale one. I warn you—”
“Only love makes me weep,” Retief said. “I laugh at hatred.”
“Get out of the car!”
Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youth in the rear moved forward, teeth bared.
“Never give in to the fool, lest he say, ‘He fears me,’” Retief said.
“I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults,” the bearded Aga Kagan roared. “These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well!”
“When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings,” Retief said. “Distress in misfortune is another misfortune.”
The bearded man’s face grew purple.
Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car.
“Now I think we’d better be getting on,” he said briskly. “I’ve enjoyed our chat, but we do have business to attend to.”
The bearded leader laughed shortly. “Does the condemned man beg for the axe?” he enquired rhetorically. “You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then. Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you a brief farewell.”
The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positions around the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following the leading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh.
“That was close,” he said. “I was about out of proverbs.”
“You sound as though you’d brought off a coup,” Georges said. “From the expression on the whiskery one’s face, we’re in for trouble. What was he saying?”
“Just a routine exchange of bluffs,” Retief said. “Now when we get there, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and your insults sound like flattery, and you’ll be all right.”
“These birds are armed. And they don’t like strangers,” Georges said. “Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined this expedition.”
“Just stick to the plan,” Retief said. “And remember: a handful of luck is better than a camel-load of learning.”
* * * *
The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bed and across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a green oasis set with canopies.
The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent of glistening black. Before the tent armed men lounged under a pennant bearing a lion couchant in crimson on a field verte.
“Get out,” Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, their drawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from the car onto rich rugs spread on the grass. They followed the ferocious gesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interior of luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and the strumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behind the decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end of the room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently clad man with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape into his mouth. He wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offered by a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over.
Blackbeard cleared his throat. “Down on your faces in the presence of the Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of East and West.”
“Sorry,” Retief said firmly. “My hay-fever, you know.”
The reclining giant waved a hand languidly.
“Never mind the formalities,” he said. “Approach.”
Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew toward them. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on another silken scarf and held up a hand.
“Night and the horses and the desert know me,” he said in resonant tones. “Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen—” He paused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. “Turn off that damned air-conditioner,” he snapped.
He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The two exchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked his head and withdrew to the rear.
“Excellency,” Retief said, “I have the honor to present M. Georges Duror, Chef d’Regime of the Planetary government.”
“Planetary government?” The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. “My men have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they’re in distress, I’ll see about a distribution of goat-meat.”
“It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers’ plenty,” Retief said. “No goat-meat will be required.”
“Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah Katib Jelebi,” the Aga Kaga said. “I know a few old sayings myself. For example, ‘A Bedouin is only cheated once.’”
“We have no such intentions, Excellency,” Retief said. “Is it not written, ‘Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you’?”
“I’ve had some unhappy experiences with strangers,” the Aga Kaga said. “It is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. Still, he who visits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated.”
III
Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georges settled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence.
“We have come to bear tidings from the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne,” Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offered grapes.
“Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge,” the Aga Kaga said. “What brings the CDT into the picture?”
“The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern,” Retief said. “Whereas the words of kings….”
“Very well, I concede the point.” The Aga Kaga waved a hand at the serving maids. “Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph. These are mere diplomats. They are men of words, not deeds.”
The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him.
“Now,” the Aga Kaga said. “Let’s drop the wisdom of the ages and get down to the issues. Not that I don’t admire your repertoire of platitudes. How do you remember them all?”
“Diplomats and other liars require good memories,” said Retief. “But as you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I’m here to effect a settlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetary authorities. I have here a Note, which I’m conveying on behalf of the Sector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I’ll read it.”
“Go ahead.” The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor, eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses.
“The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to his Excellency, the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, Hereditary Sheik, Emir of the—”
“Yes, yes. Skip the titles.”
Retief flipped over two pages.
“…and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under the jurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that the territories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area, hereinafter designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms of the Agreement entered into by his Excellency’s predecessor, and as referenced in Sector Ministry’s Notes numbers G-175846573957-b and X-7584736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated in the Revised Galactic Catalogue, Tenth Edition, as amended, Volume Nine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter as Flamme—”
“Come to the point,” the Aga Kaga cut in. “You’re here to lodge a complaint that I’m invading territories to which someone else lays claim
, is that it?” He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one. “Well, I’ve been expecting a call. After all, it’s what you gentlemen are paid for. Cheers.”
“Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things,” Retief said.
“Call me Stanley,” the Aga Kaga said. “The other routine is just to please some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative members of my government. They’re still gnawing their beards and kicking themselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemy and got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. This charade is supposed to prove they were right all along. However, I’ve no time to waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds to accomplish.”
“At first glance,” Retief said, “it looks as though the places are already occupied, and the deeds are illegal.”
* * * *
The Aga Kaga guffawed. “For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Have another drink.” He poured, eyeing Georges. “What of M. Duror? How does he feel about it?”
Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. “Not bad,” he said. “But not quite good enough to cover the odor of goats.”
The Aga Kaga snorted. “I thought the goats were overdoing it a bit myself,” he said. “Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need their support.”
“Also,” Georges said distinctly, “I think you’re soft. You lie around letting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honest day’s work.”
The Aga Kaga looked startled. “Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron bar as big as your thumb.” He popped a grape into his mouth. “As for the rest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childish as my advisors’ faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As for myself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the end one will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my years are numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well, hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to others the arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions.”
“You admit you’re here to grab our land, then,” Georges said. “That’s the damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression—”
“Ah, ah!” The Aga Kaga held up a hand. “Watch your vocabulary, my dear sir. I’m sure that ‘justifiable yearnings for territorial self-realization’ would be more appropriate to the situation. Or possibly ‘legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerly exploited peoples’ might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition, an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle of Colonial Imperialism.”
“Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notorious planet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you—”
“Call me Stanley.” The Aga Kaga munched a grape. “I merely face the realities of popular folk-lore. Let’s be pragmatic; it’s a matter of historical association. Some people can grab land and pass it off lightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely for holding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that’s life, my friends. And I shall continue to take every advantage of it.”
“We’ll fight you!” Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskey and slammed the glass down. “You won’t take this world without a struggle!”
“Another?” the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered as his glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light.
“Excellent color, don’t you agree?” He turned his eyes on Georges.
“It’s pointless to resist,” he said. “We have you outgunned and outmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we’re prepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we do not immediately require until such time as you’re able to make other arrangements.”
“And by the time we’ve got a crop growing out of what was bare rock, you’ll be ready to move in,” the Boyar Chef d’Regime snapped. “But you’ll find that we aren’t alone!”
* * * *
“Quite alone,” the Aga said. He nodded sagely. “Yes, one need but read the lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique will make expostulatory noises, but it will accept the fait accompli. You, my dear sir, are but a very small nibble. We won’t make the mistake of excessive greed. We shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shall be dubbed warmongers.”
“I see you’re quite a student of history, Stanley,” Retief said. “I wonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the would-be empire nibblers of the past?”
“Ah, but they grew incautious. They went too far, too fast.”
“The confounded impudence,” Georges rasped. “Tells us to our face what he has in mind!”
“An ancient and honorable custom, from the time of Mein Kampf and the Communist Manifesto through the Porcelain Wall of Leung. Such declarations have a legendary quality. It’s traditional that they’re never taken at face value.”
“But always,” Retief said, “there was a critical point at which the man on horseback could have been pulled from the saddle.”
“Could have been,” the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the grapes and began peeling an orange. “But they never were. Hitler could have been stopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of the primitive atomics of the west in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extended at Rangoon. But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome. It has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilization from the wilderness and then, amid tearing of garments and the heaping of ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw, leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders, clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. Have a banana.”
“You’re stretching your analogy a little too far,” Retief said. “You’re banking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong.”
“I shall know when to stop,” the Aga Kaga said.
“Tell me, Stanley,” Retief said, rising. “Are we quite private here?”
“Yes, perfectly so,” the Aga Kaga said. “None would dare to intrude in my council.” He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. “You have a proposal to make in confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would not like to see him disillusioned.”
“Don’t worry about Georges. He’s a realist, like you. He’s prepared to deal in facts. Hard facts, in this case.”
The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. “What are you getting at?”
“You’re basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps will sit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of planetary piracy.”
“Isn’t it the custom?” the Aga Kaga smiled complacently.
“I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance, neck-wringing seems more in order than hand-wringing.”
The Aga Kaga frowned. “Your manner—”
“Never mind our manners!” Georges blurted, standing. “We don’t need any lessons from goat-herding land-thieves!”
The Aga Kaga’s face darkened. “You dare to speak thus to me, pig of a muck-grubber!”
* * * *
With a muffled curse Georges launched himself at the potentate. The giant rolled aside. He grunted as the Boyar’s fist thumped in his short ribs; then he chopped down on Georges’ neck. The Chef d’Regime slid off onto the floor as the Aga Kaga bounded to his feet, sending fruit and silken cushions flying.
“I see it now!” he hissed. “An assassination attempt!” He stretched his arms, thick as tree-roots—a grizzly in satin robes. “Your heads will ring together like gongs before I have done with you!” He lunged for Retief. Retief came to his feet, feinted with his left and planted a short right against the Aga Kaga’s jaw with a solid smack. The potentate stumbled, grabbed; Retief slipped aside. The Aga Kaga whirled to face Retief.
“A slippery diplomat, by all the houris in Paradise!” he grated, breathing hard. “But a fool. True to your medieval code of chivalry, you attacked singly, a blunder I would never have made. And you shall die for your idiocy!” He opened his mouth to b
ellow—
“You sure look foolish, with your fancy hair-do down in your eyes,” Retief said. “The servants will get a big laugh out of it.”
With a choked yell, the Aga Kaga dived for Retief, missed as he leaped aside. The two went to the mat together and rolled, sending a stool skittering. Grunts and curses echoed as the two big men strained, muscles popping. Retief groped for a scissors hold; the Aga Kaga seized his foot, bit hard. Retief bent nearly double, braced himself and slammed the potentate against the rug. Dust flew. Then the two were on their feet, circling.
“Many times have I longed to broil a diplomat over a slow fire,” the Aga Kaga snarled. “Tonight will see it come to pass!”
“I’ve seen it done often at staff meetings,” said Retief. “It seems to have no permanent effect.”
The Aga Kaga reached for Retief, who feinted left, hammered a right to the chin. The Aga Kaga tottered. Retief measured him, brought up a haymaker. The potentate slammed to the rug—out cold.
* * * *
Georges rolled over, sat up. “Let me at the son of a—” he muttered.
“Take over, Georges,” Retief said, panting. “Since he’s in a mood to negotiate now, we may as well get something accomplished.”
Georges eyed the fallen ruler, who stirred, groaned lugubriously. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Georges said. “But I’m with you in any case.” He straddled the prone body, plucked a curved knife from the low table and prodded the Aga Kaga’s Adam’s apple. The monarch opened his eyes.
“Make one little peep and your windbag will spring a leak,” Georges said. “Very few historical figures have accomplished anything important after their throats were cut.”
“Stanley won’t yell,” Retief said. “We’re not the only ones who’re guilty of cultural idiocy. He’d lose face something awful if he let his followers see him like this.” Retief settled himself on a tufted ottoman. “Right, Stanley?”
The Aga Kaga snarled.
Retief selected a grape and ate it thoughtfully. “These aren’t bad, Georges. You might consider taking on a few Aga Kagan vine-growers—purely on a yearly contract basis, of course.”