by Keith Laumer
IV
“You have the gall,” Qorn stormed, “to stand here in the center of Qornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains—”
“Oh, these,” Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum links stretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. “We diplomats like to go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn’t want to mislead you. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I—”
Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering.
“I told you they were brutes,” Zubb shrilled.
Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. “I don’t care what they are!” he honked. “Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships!”
“And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcers with a hundred megatons/second firepower each.”
“Retief.” Magnan tugged at his sleeve. “Don’t forget their superdrive.”
“That’s all right. They don’t have one.”
“But—”
“We’ll take you on!” Qorn French-horned. “We’re the Qorn! We glory in battle! We live in fame or go down in—”
“Hogwash,” the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. “If it wasn’t for you, Qorn, we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having to prove anything.”
“Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here,” Retief said. “I think the rest of the boys would listen to reason—”
“Over my dead body!”
“My idea exactly,” Retief said. “You claim you can lick any man in the house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on the floor, and we’ll see how good you are at backing up your conversation.”
* * * *
Magnan hovered at Retief’s side. “Twelve feet tall,” he moaned. “And did you notice the size of those hands?”
Retief watched as Qorn’s aides helped him out of his formal trappings. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. I doubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard pounds here.”
“But that phenomenal reach—”
“I’ll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me, I’ll get a crack at him.”
Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort.
“Enough! Let me at the upstart!”
Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointed arms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feet clacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitors and bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on the combatants.
Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut at Retief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qorn bent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker took him just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retief leaped clear.
Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien’s off-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed to the floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behind the narrow back, seized Qorn’s neck in a stranglehold and threw his weight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at an awkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reaching in vain for Retief.
Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him.
“Need I remind you, sir,” he said icily, “that this is an official diplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterested parties.”
Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. “I must ask you to hand me your weapons, Zubb.”
“Look here,” Zubb began.
“I may lose my temper,” Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passed them to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turned back to watch the encounter.
Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn’s left wrist, bound it to the alien’s neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn’s shoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrapped it around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qorn flopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around his neck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly.
“If I were you, I’d relax,” Retief said, rising and releasing his grip. Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn’s chin hit the floor with a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbs and gay silks.
Retief turned to the watching crowd. “Next?” he called.
The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. “Maybe this would be a good time to elect a new leader,” he said. “Now, my qualifications—”
“Sit down,” Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table, seated himself in Qorn’s vacated chair. “A couple of you finish trussing Qorn up for me.”
“But we must select a leader!”
“That won’t be necessary, boys. I’m your new leader.”
* * * *
“As I see it,” Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wine glass, “you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don’t particularly like to fight.”
“We don’t mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, as Qornt, we’re expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rush things?”
“I have a suggestion,” Magnan said. “Why not turn the reins of government over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group.”
“What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there’s always one among us who’s a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to follow him.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the way it’s done.”
“Why not do it another way?” Magnan offered. “Now, I’d like to suggest community singing—”
“If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what would happen?”
“Live too long?” Magnan looked puzzled.
“When estivating time comes there’d be no burrows for us. Anyway, with the new Qornt stepping on our heels—”
“I’ve lost the thread,” Magnan said. “Who are the new Qornt?”
“After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they’re Qornt, of course. The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosize into Verpp—”
“You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will become warmongers like Qorn?”
“Very likely. ‘The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,’ as the old saying goes.”
“What do Qornt turn into?” Retief asked.
“Hmmmm. That’s a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood.”
“Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways?” Magnan asked. “What about taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance?”
“Don’t mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It’s great sport to sit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashing off to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. But we prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling you Terrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea what your strength was.”
“But now that’s all off, of course,” Magnan chirped. “Now that we’ve had diplomatic relations and all—”
“Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we’re Qornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action.”
“But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won’t let you!”
“Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even if he orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the other Centers—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion is definitely on.”
“Why don’t you go invade somebody else?” Magnan suggested. “I could name some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course.”
“Hold everything,” Retief said. “I think we’ve got the basis of a deal here….”
V
At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retief and Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the
bright tower of the CDT Sector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged, flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white.
“Curious,” Magnan commented. “I wonder what the significance of the white ensign might be?”
Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrements and a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The high white sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes, butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather.
“A brave show indeed,” Magnan commented approvingly. “I confess the idea has merit.”
The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tired wheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomat stepped out.
“Why, Ambassador Nitworth,” Magnan glowed. “This is very kind of you.”
“Keep cool, Magnan,” Nitworth said in a strained voice. “We’ll attempt to get you out of this.”
He stepped past Magnan’s out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly at the ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, at the eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts.
“Good afternoon, sir…ah, Your Excellency,” Nitworth said, blinking up at the leading Qornt. “You are Commander of the Strike Force, I assume?”
“Nope,” the Qornt said shortly.
“I…ah…wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuate Headquarters,” Nitworth plowed on.
“Mr. Ambassador.” Retief said. “This—”
“Don’t panic, Retief. I’ll attempt to secure your release,” Nitworth hissed over his shoulder. “Now—”
“You will address our leader with more respect!” the tall Qornt hooted, eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up.
“Oh, yes indeed, sir…your Excellency…Commander. Now, about the invasion—”
“Mr. Secretary,” Magnan tugged at Nitworth’s sleeve.
“In heaven’s name, permit me to negotiate in peace!” Nitworth snapped. He rearranged his features. “Now your Excellency, we’ve arranged to evacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested—”
“Requested?” the Qornt honked.
“Ah…demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered. Instructed. And, of course, we’ll be only too pleased to follow any other instructions you might have.”
“You don’t quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary,” Retief said. “This isn’t—”
“Silence, confound you!” Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked at Retief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffed a length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around and held him facing Retief.
“If you don’t mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said blandly. “I think I should mention that this isn’t an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the Peace Enforcement Corps.”
Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth’s mouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. “We felt,” he said, “that the establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structure would provide the element of novelty the Department has requested in our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma of Terrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations.”
Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caught the Qornt’s eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides.
“I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun,” Retief said. Magnan edged close. “What about the gag?” he whispered.
“Let’s leave it where it is for a while,” Retief murmured. “It may save us a few concessions.”
* * * *
An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across his desk at Retief and Magnan.
“This entire affair,” he rumbled, “has made me appear to be a fool!”
“But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just how clever you are,” Magnan burbled.
Nitworth purpled. “You’re skirting insolence, Magnan,” he roared. “Why was I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at the sight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced?”
“We tried to get through, but our wavelengths—”
“Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle!”
“Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking—”
“I did not panic!” Nitworth bellowed. “I merely adjusted to the apparent circumstances. Now, I’m of two minds as to the advisability of this foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believe the wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruise in an uninhabited sector of space—”
The office windows rattled. “What the devil!” Nitworth turned, stared out at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale blue light. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third.
Nitworth whirled on Magnan. “What’s this! Who ordered these recruits to embark without my permission?”
“I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,” Retief said. “There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltrating the Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it.”
“Call them back at once!”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. They’re under orders to maintain total communications silence until completion of the mission.”
Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtful expression dawned. He nodded.
“This may work out,” he said. “I should call them back, but since the fleet is out of contact, I’m unable to do so, correct? Thus I can hardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising the Groaci.”
He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. “Very well, gentlemen, I’ll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it the Smorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. And by the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of the indetectable drive the Qornt use?”
“No, sir. That is, yes, sir.”
“Well? Well?”
“There isn’t any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground.”
“Underground? Doing what?”
“Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch.”
* * * *
Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking to a tall man in a pilot’s coverall.
“I’ll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—your recruiting theme, Retief,” Magnan said. “Suppose you run into the city to assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?”
Magnan raised his eyebrows. “You’re remarkably compliant today, Retief. I’ll arrange transportation.”
“Don’t bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilot who ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.”
“I’ll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief,” the pilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye. “An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you’re not consorting with his kind socially.”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Retief said. “We just want to go over a few figures together.”
THE GOVERNOR OF GLAVE
Originally published in Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963.
I
Retief turned back the gold-encrusted scarlet cuff of the mess jacket of a First Secretary and Consul, gathered in the three eight-sided black dice, shook them by his right ear and sent them rattling across the floor to rebound from the bulk-head.
“Thirteen’s the point,” the Power Section Chief called. “Ten he makes it!”
“Oh…Mr. Retief,” a strained voice called. Retief looked up. A tall thin youth in the black-trimmed gray of a Third Secretary flapped a sheet of paper from the edge of the circle surrounding the game. “The Ambassador’s compliments, sir, and will you join him and the staff in the conference room at once?”
Retief rose and dusted his knees. “That’s all for now, boys,” he said. “I’ll take the rest of your money later.” He followed the junior diplomat from the ward room, along the bare corridors of the crew level, past the glare panel reading NOTICE—FIRST CLASS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT, through the chandeliered and draped ballroom and along a stretch of soundless carpet to a heavy door bearing a placard with the legend CONFERENCE IN SESSION.
“Ambassador Sternwheeler seemed quite upset, Mr. Retief,” the messenger said.
“He usually is, Pete.” Retief took a cigar from his breast pocket. “Got a light?”
The Third Secretary produced a permatch. “I don’t know why you smoke those things instead of dope sticks, Mr. Retief,” he said. “The Ambassador hates the smell.”
Retief nodded. “I only smoke this kind at conferences. It makes for shorter sessions.” He stepped into the room. Ambassador Sternwheeler eyed him down the length of the conference table.
“Ah, Mr. Retief honors us with his presence. Do be seated, Retief.” He fingered a yellow Departmental despatch. Retief took a chair, puffing out a dense cloud of smoke.
“As I have been explaining to the remainder of my staff for the past quarter-hour,” Sternwheeler rumbled, “I’ve been the recipient of important intelligence.” He blinked at Retief expectantly. Retief raised his eyebrows in polite inquiry.
“It seems,” Sternwheeler went on, “that there has been a change in regime on Glave. A week ago, the government which invited the dispatch of this mission—and to which we’re accredited—was overthrown. The former ruling class has fled into exile. A popular workers’ and peasants’ junta has taken over.”
“Mr. Ambassador,” Counsellor Magnan broke in, rising. “I’d like to be the first—” he glanced around the table—“or one of the first, anyway, to welcome the new government of Glave into the family of planetary ruling bodies—”
* * * *
“Sit down, Magnan!” Sternwheeler snapped. “Of course the Corps always recognizes de facto sovereignty. The problem is merely one of acquainting ourselves with the policies of this new group—a sort of blue-collar coalition, it seems. In what position that leaves this Embassy I don’t yet know.”