The IF Reader of Science Fiction

by Anthology

  “Evening, Hrooze,” Retief said. “Permit me to introduce Mr. Julius Mulvihill, Miss Suzette La Flamme, Wee Willie and Professor Fate, just in from out-system. There seems to be a room shortage in town. I thought perhaps you could accommodate them.”

  Hrooze eyed the door through which the Terrans had entered, twitched his nictating eyelids in a nervous gesture.

  “You know the situation here, Retief!” he said. “I have nothing against Terries personally, of course, but if I rent to these people—”

  “I was thinking you might fix them up with free rooms, just as a sort of good-will gesture.”

  “If we these Terries to the Ritz-Krudlu admit, the repercussions political out of business us will put!” Strupp expostulated.

  “The next ship out is two days from now,” Retief said. “They need a place to stay until then.”

  Hrooze looked at Retief, mopped his neck again. “I owe you a favor, Retief,” he said. “Two days, though, that’s all!”

  “But—” Strupp began.

  “Silence!” Hrooze sneezed. “Put them in twelve-oh-three and four!”

  He drew Retief aside as a small bell-hop in a brass-studded harness began loading baggage on his back.

  “How does it look?” he inquired. “Any hope of getting that squadron of Peace Enforcers to stand by out-system?”

  “I’m afraid not; Sector HQ seems to feel that might be interpreted by the Krultch as a war-like gesture.”

  “Certainly it would! That’s exactly what the Krultch can understand—”

  “Ambassador Sheepshorn has great faith in the power of words,” Retief said soothingly. “He has a reputation as a great verbal karate expert; the Genghis Khan of the conference table.”

  “But what if you lose? The cabinet votes on the Krultch treaty tomorrow! If it’s signed, Gaspierre will be nothing but a fueling station for the Krultch battle fleet! And you Terries will end up slaves!”

  “A sad end for a great oral athlete,” Retief said. “Let’s hope he’s in good form tomorrow.”

  In the shabby room on the twelfth level, Retief tossed a thick plastic coin to the baggage slave, who departed emitting the thin squeaking that substituted in his species for a jaunty whistle. Mulvihill, a huge man with a handlebar mustache, looked around, plumped his vast, bulging suitcase to the thin carpet, and mopped at the purple-fruit stain across his red plastiweve jacket.

  “I’d like to get my hands on the Gasper that threw that,” he growled in a bullfrog voice.

  “That’s a mean crowd out there,” said Miss La Flamme, a shapely redhead with a tattoo on her left biceps. “It was sure a break for us the Ambassador changed his mind about helping us out. From the look the old sourpuss gave me when I kind of bumped up against him, I figured he had ground glass where his red corpuscles ought to be.”

  “I got a sneaking hunch Mr. Retief swung this deal on his own, Suzie,” the big man said. “The Ambassador’s got bigger things on his mind than out-of-work variety acts.”

  “This is the first time the Marvelous Merivales have ever been flat out of luck on tour,” commented a whiskery little man no more than three feet tall, dressed in an old-fashioned frock coat and a checkered vest, in a voice like the yap of a Pekinese. “How come we got to get mixed up in politics?”

  “Shut up, Willie,” the big man said. “It’s not Mr. Retiefs fault we came here.”

  “Yeah,” the midget conceded. “I guess you fellows in the CDT got it land of rough too, trying to pry the Gaspers outa the Krultch’s hip pocket. Boy, I wish I could see the show tomorrow when the Terry Ambassador and the Krultch brass slug it out to see whose side the Gasper’ll be neutral on.”

  “Neutral, ha!” the tall, cadaverous individual looming behind Wee Willie snorted. “I caught a glimpse of that ferocious war vessel at the port, openly flying the Krultch battle-flag! It’s an open breach of interworld custom—”

  “Hey, Professor, leave the speeches to the CDT,” the girl said.

  “Without free use of Gaspierre ports, the Krultch plans for expansion through the Gloob cluster would come to naught. A firm stand—”

  “Might get ’em blasted right off the planet,” the big man growled. “The Krultch play for keeps.”

  “And the Gaspers aim to be on the winning side,” the midget piped. “And all the smart money is on the Krultch battle-wagon to put up the best argument.”

  “Terries are fair game around here, it looks like, Mr. Retief,” Mulvihill said. “You better watch yourself going back.”

  Retief nodded. “Stay close to your rooms; if the vote goes against us tomorrow, we may all be looking for a quick way home.”

  II

  Outside on the narrow elevated walkway that linked the gray slab-like structures of the city, thin-featured Gaspierre natives shot wary looks at Retief, some skirting him widely, others jostling’ him as they crowded past. It was a short walk to the building where the Terrestrial delegation occupied a suite. As Retief neared it, a pair of Krultch sailors emerged from a shop, turned in his direction. They were short-coupled centauroid quadrupeds, with deep, narrow chests, snouted faces with businesslike jaws and fringe beards, dressed in the red-striped livery of the Krultch Navy, complete with side-arms and short swagger sticks.

  Retief altered course to the right to give them passing room; they saw him, nudged each other, and spaced themselves to block the walk. Retief came on without slowing, started between them. The Krultch closed ranks. Retief stepped back, started around the sailor on the left. The creature sidled, still blocking his path.

  “Oh-hoh, Terry loose in street,” he said in a voice like sand in a gear-box. “You lost, Terry?”

  The other Krultch crowded Retief against the rail. “Where you from, Terry? What you do—?”

  Without warning, Retief slammed a solid kick to the shin of the Krultch before him, simultaneously wrenched the stick from the alien’s grip, cracked it down sharply across the wrist of the other sailor as he went for his gun. The weapon clattered, skidded off the walk and was gone. The one whom Retief had kicked was hopping on three legs, making muffled sounds of agony. Retief stepped quickly to him, jerked his gun from its holster, aimed it negligently at the other Krultch.

  “Better get your buddy back to the ship and have that leg looked at,” he said. “I think I broke it.”

  A ring of gaping Gaspierre had gathered, choking the walk. Retief thrust the pistol into his pocket, turned his back on the Krultch, pushed through the locals. A large coarsehided Gaspierre policeman made as if to block his way; Retief rammed an elbow in his side, chopped him across the side of the neck as he doubled up, thrust him aside and kept going. A mutter was rising from the crowd behind him.

  The Embassy was just ahead now. Retief turned off toward the entry; two yellow-uniformed Gaspierre moved into sight under the marquee, eyed him as he came up.

  “Terran, have you not heard of the curfew?” one demanded in shrill but accurate Terran.

  “Can’t say that I have,” Retief replied. “There wasn’t any, an hour ago.”

  “There is now!” the other snapped. “You Terries are not popular here. If you insist in inflaming the populace by walking abroad, we cannot be responsible for your safety—” He broke off as he saw the Krultch pistol protruding from Retiefs pocket.

  “Where did you get that?” he demanded in Gaspierran, then switched to pidgin Terran: “Where you-fella catch um bang-bang?”

  “A couple of lads were playing with it in the street,” Retief said in the local dialect. “I took it away from them before someone got hurt.” He started past them.

  “Hold on there,” the policeman snapped. “Were not finished with you yet, fellow. We’ll tell you when you can go. Now . . .” He folded his upper elbows. “You’re to go to your quarters at once. In view of the tense interplanetary situation, you Terries are to remain inside until further notice. I have my men posted on all approaches to, ah, provide protection.”

  “You’re putting a diplo
matic mission under arrest?” Retief inquired mildly.

  “I wouldn’t call it that. Let’s just say that it wouldn’t be safe for foreigners to venture abroad.”

  “Threats too?”

  “This measure is necessary in order to prevent unfortunate incidents!”

  “How about the Krultch? They’re foreigners; are you locking them in their bedrooms?”

  “The Krultch are old and valued friends of the Gaspierre,” the police captain said stiffly. “We—”

  “I know; ever since they set an armed patrol just outside

  Gaspierran atmosphere, you’ve developed a vast affection for them. Of course, their purchasing missions help too.”

  The captain smirked. “We Gaspierre are nothing if not practical.” He held out his claw-like two-fingered hand. “You will now give me the weapon.”

  Retief handed it over silently.

  “Come; I will escort you to your room,” the cop said.

  Retief nodded complacently, followed the Gaspierre through the entry cubicle and into the lift.

  “I’m glad you’ve decided to be reasonable,” the cop said. “After all, if you Terries should convince the cabinet, it will be much nicer all around if there have been no incidents.”

  “How true,” Retief murmured.

  He left the car at the 20th floor.

  “Don’t forget, now,” the cop said, watching Retief key his door. “Just stay inside and all will yet be well.” He signaled to a policeman standing a few yards along the corridor.

  “Keep an eye on the door, Klosta.”

  Inside, Retief picked up the phone, dialed the Ambassador’s room number. There was a dry buzz, no answer. He looked around the room. There was a tall, narrow window set in the wall opposite the door with a hinged section that swung outward. Retief opened it, leaned out, looked down at the dizzying stretch of blank facade that dropped sheer to the upper walkway seventy yards below. Above, the wall extended up twenty feet to an overhanging cornice. He went to the closet, yanked a blanket from the shelf, ripped it in four wide strips, knotted them together, and tied one end to a chair which he braced below the window.

  Retief swung his legs outside the window, grasped the blanket-rope, and slid down.

  The window at the next level was closed and shuttered. Retief braced himself on the skill, delivered a sharp kick to the panel; it shattered with an explosive sound. He dropped lower, reached through, released the catch, pulled the window wide, knocked the shutter aside, and scrambled through into a darkened room.

  “Who’s there?” a sharp voice barked. A tall, lean man in a ruffled shirt with an unknotted string tie hanging down the front gaped at Retief from the inner room.

  “Retief! How did you get here? I understood that none of the staff were to be permitted—that is, I agreed that protective custody—er, it seems . . .”

  “The whole staff is bottled up here in the building, Mr. Ambassador. I’d guess they mean to keep us here until after the Cabinet meeting. It appears the Kraltch have the fix in.”

  “Nonsense! I have a firm commitment from the Minister that no final commitment will be made until we’ve been heard—”

  “Meanwhile, we’re under house arrest—just to be sure we don’t have an opportunity to bring any of the cabinet around to our side.”

  “Are you suggesting that I’ve permitted illegal measures to be taken without a protest?” Ambassador Sheepshorn fixed Retief with a piercing gaze which wilted, and slid aside. “The place was alive with armed gendarmes,” he sighed. “What could I do?”

  “A few shrill cries of outrage might have helped,” Retief pointed out. “It’s not too late. A fast visit to the Foreign Office—”

  “Are you out of your mind? Have you observed the temper of the populace? We’d be tom to shreds!”

  Retief nodded. “Quite possibly; but what do you think our chances are tomorrow, after the Gaspierre conclude a treaty with the Kraltch?”

  Sheepshorn made two tries, then swallowed hard. “Surely, Retief, you don’t—”

  “I’m afraid I do,” Retief said. “The Krultch need a vivid symbol of their importance—and they’d also like to involve the Gaspierre in their skulduggery, just to insure their loyalty. Packing a clutch of Terry diplomats off to the ice mines would do both jobs.”

  “A great pity,” the Ambassador sighed. “And only nine months to go till my retirement.”

  “I’ll have to be going now,” Retief said. “There may be a posse of annoyed police along at any moment, and I’d hate to make it too easy for them.”

  “Police? You mean they’re not even waiting until after the Cabinet’s decision?”

  “Oh, this is just a personal matter; I damaged some Krultch Naval property and gave a Gaspierre cop a pain in the neck.”

  “I’ve warned you about your personality, Retief,” Sheepshorn admonished. “I suggest you give yourself up, and ask for clemency; with luck, you’ll get to go along to the mines with the rest of us. I’ll personally put in a good word!”

  “That would interfere with my plans, I’m afraid,” Retief said. He went to the door. “I’ll try to be back before the Gaspierre do anything irrevocable. Meanwhile hold the fort here. If they come for you, quote regulations at them; I’m sure they’ll find that discouraging.”

  “Plans? Retief, I positively forbid you to—”

  Retief stepped through the door and closed it behind him, cutting off the flow of Ambassadorial wisdom. A flat policeman, posted a few feet along the corridor, came to the alert.

  “All right, you can go home now,” Retief said in brisk Gaspierran. “The chief changed his mind; he decided violating a Terran Embassy’s quarters was just asking for trouble. After all, the Krultch haven’t won yet.”

  The cop stared at him, then nodded. “I wondered if this wasn’t kind of getting the rickshaw before the coolie . . .”

  He hesitated. “But what do you know about it?”

  “I just had a nice chat with the captain, one floor up.”

  “Well, if he let you come down here, I guess it’s all right.”

  “If you hurry, you can make it back to the barracks before the evening rush begins.” Retief waved airily and strolled away along the corridor.

  III

  Back at ground level, Retief went along a narrow service passage leading to the rear of the building, stepped out into a deserted-looking courtyard. There was another door across the way. He went to it, followed another hall to a street exit. There were no cops in sight. He took the sparsely peopled lower walkway, set off at a brisk walk.

  Ten minutes later, Retief surveyed the approaches to the Hostelry Ritz-Krudlu from the shelter of an inter-level connecting stair. There was a surging crowd of Gaspierre blocking the walkway, with a scattering of yellow police uniforms patrolling the edge of the mob. Placards lettered TERRY GO HOME and KEEP GASPIERRE BROWN bobbed above the sea of flattened heads. Off to one side, a heavily braided Krultch officer stood with a pair of age-tarnished locals, looking on approvingly.

  Retief retraced his steps to the debris-littered ground level twenty feet below the walkway, found an eighteen-inch wide airspace leading back between buildings. He inched along it, came to a door, found it locked. Four doors later, a latch yielded to his touch.

  He stepped inside, made out the dim outlines of an empty storage room. The door across the room was locked. Retief stepped back, slammed a kick against it at latch level; it bounced wide.

  After a moment’s wait for the sound of an alarm which failed to materialize, Retief moved off along the passage, found a rubbish-heaped stair. He clambered over the debris, and started up.

  At the twelfth level, he emerged into the corridor. There was no one in sight. He went quickly along to the door numbered 1203, tapped lightly. There was a faint sound from inside; then a bass voice rumbled, “Who’s there?”

  “Retief. Open up before the house dick spots me.”

  Bolts clattered and the door swung wide; Julius Mulvihi
ll’s mustached face appeared; he seized Retief’s hand and pumped it.

  “Cripes, Mr. Retief, we were worried about you. Right after you left, old Hrooze called up here and said there was a riot starting up!”

  “Nothing serious; just a few enthusiasts out front putting on a show for the Krultch.”

  “What’s happened?” Wee Willie chirped, coming in from the next room with lather on his chin. “They throwing us out already?”

  “No, you’ll be safe enough right here. But I need your help.”

  The big man nodded, flexed his hands.

  Suzette La Flamme thrust a drink into Retiefs hand. “Sit down and tell us about it.”

  “Glad you came to us, Retief,” Wee Willie piped.

  Retief took the offered chair, sampled the drink, then outlined the situation.

  “What I have in mind could be dangerous,” he finished.

  “What ain’t?” Willie demanded.

  “It calls for a delicate touch and some fancy footwork,” Retief added.

  The professor cleared his throat. “I am not without a certain dexterity—” he started.

  “Let him finish,” the redhead said.

  “And I’m not even sure it’s possible,” Retief stated.

  The big man looked at the others. “There’s a lot of things that look impossible—but the Marvelous Merivales do ’em anyway. That’s what’s made our act a wow on a hundred and twelve planets.”

  The girl tossed her red hair. “The way it looks, Mr. Retief, if somebody doesn’t do something, by this time tomorrow this is going to be mighty unhealthy territory for Terries.”

  “The ones the mob don’t get will be chained to an oar in a Krultch battle-wagon,” Willie piped.

  “With the Mission pinned down in their quarters, the initiative appears to rest with us,” Professor Fate intoned. The others nodded.