by Keith Laumer
“I suppose this means we’ll spend the next month in a parking orbit,” Counsellor Magnan sighed.
“Unfortunately,” Sternwheeler went on, “the entire affair has apparently been carried off without recourse to violence, leaving the Corps no excuse to move in—that is, it appears our assistance in restoring order will not be required.”
“Glave was one of the old Contract Worlds,” Retief said. “What’s become of the Planetary Manager General and the technical staff? And how do the peasants and workers plan to operate the atmospheric purification system, the Weather Control station, the tide regulation complexes?”
“I’m more concerned at present with the status of the Mission! Will we be welcomed by these peasants or peppered with buckshot?”
“You say that this is a popular junta, and that the former leaders have fled into exile,” Retief said. “May I ask the source?”
“The despatch cites a ‘reliable Glavian source’.”
“That’s officialese for something cribbed from a broadcast news tape. Presumably the Glavian news services are in the hands of the revolution. In that case—”
“Yes, yes, there is the possibility that the issue is yet in doubt. Of course we’ll have to exercise caution in making our approach. It wouldn’t do to make overtures to the wrong side.”
“Oh, I think we need have no fear on that score,” the Chief of the Political Section spoke up. “I know these entrenched cliques. Once challenged by an aroused populace, they scuttle for safety—with large balances safely tucked away in neutral banks.”
“I’d like to go on record,” Magnan piped, “as registering my deep gratification at this fulfillment of popular aspirations—”
“The most popular aspiration I know of is to live high off someone else’s effort,” Retief said. “I don’t know of anyone outside the Corps who’s managed it.”
* * * *
“Gentlemen!” Sternwheeler bellowed. “I’m awaiting your constructive suggestions—not an exchange of political views. We’ll arrive off Glave in less than six hours. I should like before that time to have developed some notion regarding to whom I shall expect to offer my credentials!”
There was a discreet tap at the door; it opened and the young Third Secretary poked his head in.
“Mr. Ambassador, I have a reply to your message—just received from Glave. It’s signed by the Steward of the GFE, and I thought you’d want to see it at once….”
“Yes, of course; let me have it.”
“What’s the GFE?” someone asked.
“It’s the revolutionary group,” the messenger said, passing the message over.
“GFE? GFE? What do the letters SIGNIFY?”
“Glorious Fun Eternally,” Retief suggested. “Or possibly Goodies For Everybody.”
“I believe that’s ‘Glavian Free Electorate’,” the Third Secretary said.
Sternwheeler stared at the paper, lips pursed. His face grew pink. He slammed the paper on the table.
“Well, gentlemen! It appears our worst fears have been realized! This is nothing less than a warning! A threat! We’re advised to divert course and bypass Glave entirely. It seems the GFE wants no interference from meddling foreign exploiters, as they put it!”
Magnan rose. “If you’ll excuse me Mr. Ambassador, I want to get off a message to Sector HQ to hold my old job for me—”
“Sit down, you idiot!” Sternwheeler roared. “If you think I’m consenting to have my career blighted—my first Ambassadorial post whisked out from under me—the Corps made a fool of—”
“I’d like to take a look at that message,” Retief said. It was passed along to him. He read it.
“I don’t believe this applies to us, Mr. Ambassador.”
* * * *
“What are you talking about? It’s addressed to me by name!”
“It merely states that ‘meddling foreign exploiters’ are unwelcome. Meddling foreigners we are, but we don’t qualify as exploiters unless we show a profit—and this appears to be shaping up as a particularly profitless venture.”
“What are you proposing, Mr. Retief?”
“That we proceed to make planetfall as scheduled, greet our welcoming committee with wide diplomatic smiles, hint at largesse in the offing and settle down to observe the lie of the land.”
“Just what I was about to suggest,” Magnan said.
“That might be dangerous,” Sternwheeler said.
“That’s why I didn’t suggest it,” Magnan said.
“Still it’s essential that we learn more of the situation than can be gleaned from official broadcasts,” Sternwheeler mused. “Now, while I can’t justify risking the entire Mission, it might be advisable to dispatch a delegation to sound out the new regime.”
“I’d like to volunteer,” Magnan said, rising.
“Of course, the delegates may be murdered—”
“—but unfortunately, I’m under treatment at the moment.” Magnan sat down.
“—which will place us in an excellent position, propaganda-wise.
“What a pity I can’t go,” the Military Attache said. “But my place is with my troops.”
“The only troops you’ve got are the Assistant Attache and your secretary,” Magnan pointed out.
“Say, I’d like to be down there in the thick of things,” the Political Officer said. He assumed a grave expression. “But of course I’ll be needed here, to interpret results.”
“I appreciate your attitude, gentlemen,” Sternwheeler said, studying the ceiling. “But I’m afraid I must limit the privilege of volunteering for this hazardous duty to those officers of more robust physique, under forty years of age—”
“Tsk. I’m forty-one,” Magnan said.
“—and with a reputation for adaptability.” His glance moved along the table.
“Do you mind if I run along now, Mr. Ambassador?” Retief said. “It’s time for my insulin shot.”
Sternwheeler’s mouth dropped open.
“Just kidding,” Retief said. “I’ll go. But I have one request, Mr. Ambassador: no further communication with the ground until I give the all-clear.”
* * * *
II
Retief grounded the lighter, in-cycled the lock and stepped out. The hot yellow Glavian sun beat down on a broad expanse of concrete, an abandoned service cart and a row of tall ships casting black shadows toward the silent control tower. A wisp of smoke curled up from the shed area at the rim of the field. There was no other sign of life.
Retief walked over to the cart, tossed his valise aboard, climbed into the driver’s seat and headed for the operations building. Beyond the port, hills rose, white buildings gleaming against the deep green slopes. Near the ridge, a vehicle moved ant-like along a winding road, a dust trail rising behind it. Faintly a distant shot sounded.
Papers littered the ground before the Operations Building. Retief pushed open the tall glass door, stood listening. Slanting sunlight reflected from a wide polished floor, at the far side of which illuminated lettering over empty counters read IMMIGRATION, HEALTH and CUSTOMS. He crossed to the desk, put the valise down, then leaned across the counter. A worried face under an oversized white cap looked up at him.
“You can come out now,” Retief said. “They’ve gone.”
The man rose, dusting himself off. He looked over Retief’s shoulder. “Who’s gone?”
“Whoever it was that scared you.”
“Whatta ya mean? I was looking for my pencil.”
“Here it is.” Retief plucked a worn stub from the pocket of the soiled shirt sagging under the weight of braided shoulderboards. “You can sign me in as a Diplomatic Representative. A break for you—no formalities necessary. Where can I catch a cab for the city?”
The man eyed Retief’s bag. “What’s in that?”
“Personal belongings under duty-free entry.”
“Guns?”
“No, thanks, just a cab.”
“You got no gun?” The
man raised his voice.
“That’s right, fellows,” Retief called out. “No gun; no knife, not even a small fission bomb. Just a few pairs of socks and some reading matter.”
A brown-uniformed man ran from behind the Customs Counter, holding a long-barreled blast-rifle centered on the Corps insignia stitched to the pocket of Retief’s powder-blue blazer.
“Don’t try nothing,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”
“It can’t be overtime parking. I’ve only been here five minutes.”
“Hah!” The gun-handler moved out from the counter, came up to Retief. “Empty out your pockets!” he barked. “Hands overhead!”
“I’m just a diplomat, not a contortionist,” Retief said, not moving. “Do you mind pointing that thing in some other direction?”
“Looky here, Mister, I’ll give the orders. We don’t need anybody telling us how to run our business.”
“I’m telling you to shift that blaster before I take it away from you and wrap it around your neck,” Retief said conversationally. The cop stepped back uncertainly, lowering the gun.
“Jake! Horny! Pud! come on out!”
Three more brown uniforms emerged from concealment.
“Who are you fellows hiding from, the top sergeant?” Retief glanced over the ill-fitting uniforms, the unshaved faces, the scuffed boots. “Tell you what. When he shows up, I’ll engage him in conversation. You beat it back to the barracks and grab a quick bath—”
“That’s enough smart talk.” The biggest of the three newcomers moved up to Retief. “You stuck your nose in at the wrong time. We just had a change of management around here.”
“I heard about it,” Retief said. “Who do I complain to?”
“Complain? What about?”
“The port’s a mess,” Retief barked. “Nobody on duty to receive official visitors! No passenger service facilities! Why, do you know I had to carry my own bag—”
“All right, all right, that’s outside my department. You better see the boss.”
“The boss? I thought you got rid of the bosses.”
“We did, but now we got new ones.”
“They any better than the old ones?”
“This guy asks too many questions,” the man with the gun said. “Let’s let Sozier answer ’em.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s the Military Governor of the City.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Retief said. “Lead the way, Jake—and don’t forget my bag.”
* * * *
Sozier was a small man with thin hair oiled across a shiny scalp, prominent ears and eyes like coal chips set in rolls of fat. He glowered at Retief from behind a polished desk occupying the center of a spacious office.
“I warned you off,” he snapped. “You came anyway.” He leaned forward and slammed a fist down on the desk. “You’re used to throwing your weight around, but you won’t throw it around here! There’ll be no spies pussyfooting around Glave!”
“Looking for what, Mr. Sozier?”
“Call me General!”
“Mind if I sit down?” Retief pulled out a chair, seated himself and took out a cigar. “Curiously enough,” he said, lighting up, “the Corps has no intention of making any embarrassing investigations. We deal with the existing government, no questions asked.” His eyes held the other’s. “Unless, of course, there are evidences of atrocities or other illegal measures.”
The coal-chip eyes narrowed. “I don’t have to make explanations to you or anybody else.”
“Except, presumably, the Glavian Free Electorate,” Retief said blandly. “But tell me, General—who’s actually running the show?”
A speaker on the desk buzzed. “Hey, Corporal Sozier! Wes’s got them two hellions cornered. They’re holed up in the Birthday Cake—”
“General Sozier, damn you! and plaster your big mouth shut!” He gestured to one of the uniformed men standing by.
“You! Get Trundy and Little Moe up here—pronto!” He swiveled back to Retief. “You’re in luck. I’m too busy right now to bother with you. You get back over to the port and leave the same way you came—and tell your blood-sucking friends the easy pickings are over as far as Glave’s concerned. You won’t lounge around here living high and throwing big parties and cooking up your dirty deals to get fat on at the expense of the working man.”
Retief dribbled ash on Sozier’s desk and glanced at the green uniform front bulging between silver buttons.
“Who paid for your potbelly, Sozier?” he inquired carelessly.
Sozier’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I could have you shot!”
“Stop playing games with me, Sozier,” Retief rapped. “There’s a squadron of Peace Enforcers standing by just in case any apprentice statesmen forget the niceties of diplomatic usage. I suggest you start showing a little intelligence about now, or even Horny and Pud are likely to notice.”
* * * *
Sozier’s fingers squeaked on the arms of his chair. He swallowed.
“You might start by assigning me an escort for a conducted tour of the capital,” Retief went on. “I want to be in a position to confirm that order has been re-established, and that normal services have been restored. Otherwise it may be necessary to send in a Monitor Unit to straighten things out.”
“You know you can’t meddle with the internal affairs of a sovereign world!”
Retief sighed. “The trouble with taking over your boss’s job is discovering its drawbacks. It’s disillusioning, I know, Sozier, but—”
“All right! Take your tour! You’ll find everything running as smooth as silk! Utilities, police, transport, environmental control—”
“What about Space Control? Glave Tower seems to be off the air.”
“I shut it down. We don’t need anything and we don’t want anything from the outside.”
“Where’s the new Premier keeping himself? Does he share your passion for privacy?”
The general got to his feet. “I’m letting you take your look, Mr. Big Nose. I’m giving you four hours. Then out! And the next meddling bureaucrat that tries to cut atmosphere on Glave without a clearance gets burned!”
“I’ll need a car.”
“Jake! You stick close to this bird. Take him to the main power plant, the water works and the dispatch center. Ride him around town and show him we’re doing okay without a bunch of leeches bossing us. Then dump him at the port—and see that he leaves.”
“I’ll plan my own itinerary, thanks. I can’t promise I’ll be finished in four hours—but I’ll keep you advised.”
“I warned you—”
“I heard you. Five times. And I only warned you once. You’re getting ahead of me.” Retief rose, motioned to the hulking guard. “Come on, Jake. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before we come back for our dinner.”
* * * *
III
At the curb, Retief held out his hand. “Give me the power cylinder out of your rifle, Jake.”
“Huh?”
“Come on, Jake. You’ve got a nervous habit of playing with the firing stud. We don’t want any accidents.”
“How do you get it out? They only give me this thing yesterday.”
Retief pocketed the cylinder. “You sit in back. I’ll drive.” He wheeled the car off along a broad avenue crowded with vehicles and lined with flowering palms, behind which stately white buildings reared up into the pale sky.
“Nice looking city, Jake,” Retief said conversationally. “What’s the population?”
“I dunno. I only been here a year.”
“What about Horny and Pud? Are they natives?”
“Whatta ya mean, natives? They’re just as civilized as me.”
“My boner, Jake. Known Sozier long?”
“Sure. He useta come around to the club.”
“I take it he was in the army under the old regime?”
“Yeah—but he didn’t like the way they run it. Nothing but band playing and fancy marchin
g. There wasn’t nobody to fight.”
“Just between us, Jake—where did the former Planetary Manager General go?” Retief watched Jake’s heavy face in the mirror. Jake jumped, clamped his mouth shut.
“I don’t know nothing.”
Half an hour later, after a tour of the commercial center, Retief headed towards the city’s outskirts. The avenue curved, leading up along the flank of a low hill.
“I must admit I’m surprised, Jake,” Retief said. “Everything seems orderly. No signs of riots or panic. Power, water, communications normal—just as the general said. Remarkable, isn’t it, considering that the entire managerial class has packed up and left?”
“You wanta see the Power Plant?” Retief could see perspiration beaded on the man’s forehead under the uniform cap.
“Sure. Which way?” With Jake directing, Retief ascended to the ridge top, cruised past the blank white facade of the station.
“Quiet, isn’t it?” Retief pulled the car in to the curb. “Let’s go inside.”
“Huh? Corporal Sozier didn’t say nothing—”
“You’re right, Jake. That leaves it to our discretion.”
“He won’t like it.”
“The corporal’s a busy man, Jake. We won’t worry him by telling him about it.”
Jake followed Retief up the walk. The broad double doors were locked. “Let’s try the back.”
The narrow door set in the high blank wall opened as Retief approached. A gun barrel poked out, followed by a small man with bushy red hair. He looked Retief over.
“Who’s this party, Jake?” he barked.
“Sozier said show him the plant,” Jake said.
“What we need is more guys to pull duty, not tourists. Anyway, I’m Chief Engineer here. Nobody comes in here ’less I like their looks.” Retief moved forward, stood looking down at the redhead. The little man hesitated, then waved him past. “Lucky for you I like your looks.” Inside, Retief surveyed the long room, the giant converter units, the massive busbars. Armed men—some in uniform, some in work clothes or loud sport shirts—stood here and there. Other men read meters, adjusted controls or inspected dials.
“You’ve got more guards than workers,” Retief said. “Expecting trouble?”