The Magnificent Wilf

by Gordon R. Dickson

  “Wobble?” cried Lucy. “What’s that in ordinary language?”

  “In ordinary language,” Tom said, grimly, “the bottom dropped out of the market. On Cayahno now you can’t give away a share of Wockii Futures; and when that happens, the Sector Council takes charge and enforces a schedule of payments from the debtor Race, beginning immediately. Already, on Earth, valuables such as useful minerals and other reserves are being readied for shipment to Sector markets, to begin payments to the Sharks that sold us the Wockii Futures. Eventually Earth will be stripped to the bone; and there’ll still be interstellar credits owing.”

  “But why payments when the buyers bought and paid for them in the first place? Having that payment should take care of—” Lucy broke off. “Wait a minute! Do you mean the Wockii Futures were like commodity futures trading on Earth? You buy on margin—put up fifty dollars to buy five thousand dollars worth of something—but you can end up owing five thousand dollars if the price of it goes to nothing in the market?”

  “Right!” said Tom.

  They were silent for a minute.

  “Well, at least,” said Lucy, “we weren’t on Earth when it happened, so there’s no way we can be involved in this personally, until we have to go home, so—”

  “Wrong!” said Tom. “You and I are now provisionally seated on the Sector Council, remember? That means we can be blamed for accepting control of the Jaktal Empire in the first place.”

  “But that’s not reasonable—”

  “Of course not,” said Tom. “But Mr. Valhinda thinks the Sharks themselves suggested to our Human buyers of the Wockii shares that they blame us; and they have.”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Lucy, “no sensible person would believe for a moment that—”

  “Want to bet?” Tom said. He pressed a button on his Assassin’s weapon harness. The button immediately began to feed out a thin rolled sheet of paper.

  “Why, that’s the front page of one of our own newspapers in English,” said Lucy. “How does the button do that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Tom, grimly. “But look at what’s on the page.”

  “The headlines take up more than half of it,” said Lucy, fascinated. “They say—”

  She broke off suddenly, staring. The sheet of paper had emerged all the way and unrolled itself into her hand. She and Tom read:

  Inexperienced Ambassador-At-Large Obligates

  Human Race To Untold Future Generations Of

  Poverty

  Jaktal Debt More Than Earth Can

  Pay In Millennia

  Wockii Futures Not Worth Paper They’re

  Written On

  “Recall Tom Parent and kill

  him slowly!” chants angry crowd.

  At approximately 9:15 PM, Eastern Standard Time yesterday, Tom Parent, ALIEN AFFAIRS appointed Ambassador-at-Large, accepted the Jaktal Empire …

  “How could they?” cried Lucy, indignantly. “When it was the investors’ fault, not yours—or mine?”

  “I suspect we’re being used as scapegoats by whoever was actually responsible,” said Tom.

  “But this is terrible!” said Lucy. “We could go home and find everybody hating us—or maybe they wouldn’t let us come home at all!”

  Tom had begun to pace back and forth on the floor.

  “Both the sixth and seventh of my para-instincts activated by the Assassin’s briefing are alerted by this whole business of the Wockii futures. My seventh, in particular, is very positive about it. It was all too easy, and now we’re committed. The Sector stock Sharks have spread a rumor that the Wockii have recently shown evidence of being forever incapable of acceptance by the Sector Council. If it weren’t for that, the Wockii Futures could be placed in escrow for repayment of the Jaktal debt—so freezing the Jaktal creditors’ claims against Earth. This would freeze any payment until either the Wockii were proved incapable of acceptance—say, they were predators on another possibly acceptable Race—or some chicanery is somehow involved.”

  He stopped pacing and stood eye to eye with Lucy.

  “You think there’s been chicanery?” demanded Lucy.

  “I have no proof. My ninth para-instinct has no doubt of it. Still, how can I prove it? And if I can’t prove it, as Ambassador-at-Large I’ll have to let things follow their natural course, which at best means condemning our Earth essentially to slavery for several millennia.”

  “Then we’ll have to uncover the chicanery. That’s all,” said Lucy, firmly.

  “Yes …”

  Tom started pacing again, then paused to glance at a screen across the room, which showed a wide expanse of concrete landing pad and a battalion of what looked like six-feet-tall praying mantises, armed and standing strictly at attention. “We’re almost down. There’s the Skikana Honor Guard drawn up to greet us. From now on be careful what you say. Even a mountaintop ten miles away has ears. Only in our ambassadorial quarters or aboard ship here—”

  The landing bell of the ship rang suddenly through all the rooms, followed by a distant thrumming that seemed to pierce the hull and vibrate in their bones, in a melodious but unbearable way.

  “What’s that?” cried Lucy.

  “The Skikana battle harps,” said Tom. “You’ll see them when we go out. They vibrate so powerfully they can be heard right through the hull of the ship. “Come on now. We get off first. It’s protocol. Corporal!”

  “Sir!” shouted the Hugwo Corporal, springing to life.

  He rapped out orders in Hugwo and the lance-gunners formed up behind Tom and Lucy. Together they all marched out of the suite, down the ship’s main corridor, and headed toward the air-lock.

  Chapter 13

  Just before Tom and Lucy could actually step through the air-lock entrance, however, a beetle-like alien, reddish-brown in color, came rushing up the outside gangway with a white rope, the end of which it pulled through the air-lock and laid against a metal part of the air-lock door, to which it clung.

  “A cord of honor and acceptance,” murmured Tom to Lucy as they stepped forward to the lock. The beetle-alien was standing at attention, beside it.

  “Gratkl,” said Lucy graciously to him, as they came level.

  The beetle-alien immediately fell to the floor of the lock and tried to curl itself up, as well as its carapace would allow it, whimpering.

  “He’s not a Skikana,” said Tom, “just one of their lesser-race servants. He thought you meant that you were about to have him executed.” He turned to the whimpering beetle. “Brnl Duhl jokt,” he added in a reassuring voice.

  The beetle jumped up, looking joyful. It saluted, and resumed its stiff stance at attention beside the rope it had just attached. Tom and Lucy went through the port and down the ramp.

  The wild screaming of the Skikana harps suddenly grew so loud that Lucy halted. Tom halted with her.

  “They’ll quiet down when we reach the bottom of the gangway,” he shouted into her ear. “Come on now. We have to lead the procession. Corporal!”

  “Sir!” shouted the Hugwo corporal behind him. He rapped out orders in Hugwo and led a dozen of the lance-gunners in order down the ramp behind Tom and Lucy. The)’ marched out onto the hard surface of the landing pad. The harps quieted somewhat.

  Before them were what looked like thousands of Skikana, bearing sword-like and gun-like weapons, and lined up as if on parade in units with ranks ten feet deep and twenty-five Skikana wide.

  “Be sure not to squint,” hissed Tom at Lucy in English as the)’ went. “I know the sun over this world’s very bright. But there’s almost nothing Skikanas mightn’t interpret as an insult. They take offense at the slightest provocation.”

  With the Hugwos before and behind them, Tom and Lucy marched through the lane between the units directly ahead of them, Lucy tiying valiantly not to squint in spite of the sunlight that made the whole scene waver through a film of tears. They halted. The Skikana battle harps were now in view, lined up behind the troops; great, seven-foot, trian
gular, metalstringed affairs, each resting on a spike driven deep into the hard fabric of the pad itself.

  “… And may I also present my Co-Ambassador, the Consort Lucy, Colonel?” Lucy heard Tom shouting in Skikana. She cleared her vision in time to see a six-foot-plus, praying-mantis shape leaning stiffly over her. The harps stopped playing.

  “H-honored to touch acquaintance with you, sir,” she managed in the Skikana tongue herself.

  “Madam!” snapped the Skikana Colonel with a frost)’ bow. “Max’ you dine on your worst enemy by sundown!”

  “Oh, thank you!” said Lucy. “May you dine on yours even sooner than that!”

  To her surprise she saw Tom frown.

  “Madam!” Stiffening, the Colonel clashed his jaws together almost spasmodically. Oddly, a little froth appeared between them. “I would not presume! We Skikana take no advantages and need none. To dine before the Consort of my guest! Skikana manners would not permit!”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean—” Lucy was beginning. But Tom, with diplomatic smoothness, was already stepping into the breach.

  “Happily,” he said, “I may inform the Colonel that my Consort has already broken her fast, this day.”

  “May I be the first to congratulate her, then!” said the Colonel, relaxing. He relaxed, in fact, quite noticeably; and his gaze became unfocused. Then he pulled himself together with a jerk and clashed his jaws again. “Follow me. I will escort you to your quarters.”

  He led them and their Hugwos to a waiting flying platform, which took off with him and them just as the battle harps struck up once more.

  “Whoof!” said Lucy in English, rubbing her ears when they were at last safely alone in their Ambassadorial suite at the Skikana fort. “What was that they were supposed to be playing?”

  “None Shall Interrupt Our Feast” replied Tom. “Hmm. Did you notice anything odd about the Colonel?”

  “I couldn’t tell,” said Lucy, truthfully. “Everything he did and said seemed odd to me. What’s that you’re humming?”

  “That song of theirs they just played,” said Tom, thoughtfully. “The Skikana are so touchy they’re likely to give themselves away with anything they do. Something is definitely rotten about that whole business of Wockii Futures.”

  “I’m beginning to agree with you,” said Lucy, “but what can we do about it?”

  “Play along, and hope for a clue,” said Tom, solemnly. He frowned. “What puzzles me,” he said, “are the Skikana themselves. They took protectorate rights over the Wockii originally; and that by definition means they had to give up any right to a direct interest in Wockii Futures. So they shouldn’t care one way or another about the gyrations of Wockii Futures on the Sector’s stock exchange—but I can’t escape the feeling they’re mixed up in it somehow.”

  “Maybe we can think of some way to get them to give themselves away,” said Lucy. “Betray their connection to the stock matter, I mean.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Tom, thoughtfully.

  He stepped across the room to a communications screen, and pressed a key. A second later the face of the Skikana Colonel appeared.

  “Sir Ambassador!” said the Colonel and champed his jaws. “In what way may I serve you?”

  “You may supply me with an escort, my dear Colonel,” said Tom. “I, with my Hugwos and the Consort Lucy, will start for Wockiiland, immediately.”

  The colonel stared out of the screen blankly at him for a moment.

  “But, Sir Ambassador,” the Skikana said, “it has been arranged for Wockii chiefs to come to the fort, here.”

  “No doubt. However,” said Tom, with diplomatic steeliness in his tones, “I have concluded that it is of the utmost importance for me to contact—” he bent a severe glance upon the Colonel in the screen “—the only subdominate race of Mul’rahr immediately.”

  “Sir!” The Colonel’s jaws champed. “A banquet has already been ordered!”

  “We shall go to it, then, but leave immediately after putting in an appearance. Good day,” said Tom, and cut the connection.

  Almost immediately, however, he activated the screen again, this time with a view outside the fort gate looking backward into the wooded hills of the wild native ^countryside, toward Wocldiland.

  “Who are you looking for?” said Lucy, after a moment.

  “Watch. Wait,” said Tom, without turning his head. Lucy watched. After a moment or two, a platoon of Skikana soldiers, mounted on individual flying platforms, left the gate and skimmed with haste toward the hills.

  “I see,” said Lucy, “The Skikana are involved with the Wockii in some illegal way, Til bet—even without having one of your para-instincts.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Tom. “The pot is starting to boil. Clearly for some reason the Skikana want to warn the Wockii against my coming. Why? There must be something in Wockiiland they don’t want me to see.”

  The doors to their quarters gave forth a mellow chime, interrupting him. A second later the Hugwo corporal returned from answering it, leading a Skikana Captain of regulars, lean and hard-bitten in his insectoidal way, but just at the moment with unfocused eyes.

  “Bells . . .” murmured the Captain, dazedly.

  “Sir!” shouted the Hugwo Corporal to Tom, and the Captain came to. “A visitor to speak with the Ambassador, sir!”

  He saluted and stepped back. The Captain pulled himself together and bowed to Tom and Lucy.

  “Sir,” he said, “I am Captain Jahbat of the Eighth Skikana here at Fort Duhnderhef. Possibly you noticed the medals on my prothorax?”

  “Indeed,” said Tom, his eyes narrowing.

  “They are poor things, no doubt, in the eyes of an Assassin,” said Jahbat, bowing again, gracefully. “Nevertheless I must confess to a nodule of pride in the medal on the far right. You see it there?”

  “Ah, yes,” said Tom.

  “I received it,” went on Jahbat, “on winning the championship of the quick-draw-kill-and-devour, of the Skikana handgun competition at the last All-Skikana World’s Games. As an Assassin, of course, you are familiar with the Skikana hand-gunning-and-devouring art?”

  “Of course,” said Tom.

  “Then, for the pride of the Eighth Skikana here at the fort,” said Jahbat, “may I ask you to accept this small offering?” He produced a tiny gold whistle from his weapons harness and blew it. A Skikana enlisted soldier marched in bearing a silver dish with a cover, which he placed on the small table at Tom’s right.

  Bowing, both Skikana withdrew.

  “They didn’t waste any time,” said Tom, as the door closed behind the two. He gazed with slitted eyes at the dish. “Devilishly subtle, these Skikana.”

  “What did he give you?” inquired Lucy, lifting the cover of the dish. “Oh—”

  “Don’t touch it!” said Tom, quickly.

  Lucy had revealed a beautiful competition model Skikana handgun. “If a human hand touches the weapon itself,” Tom said, “a signal will go off on the Eighth Skikana bulletin board, and I’ll have accepted the challenge.”

  “Challenge?” Lucy hastily put the cover back on the gun. “And he’s a champion? They’re deliberately trying to kill you?”

  “Nothing so crude, unfortunately,” said Tom. “What they must be planning is to discredit me. As an Assassin, they expect me to make short work of Jahbat in the duel. However, having killed him, according to their code I must finish off the matter by ceremoniously eating every bit of him. It’s the finest tribute to a fallen foe, according to the Skikana code duello. They’ve undoubtedly checked up and found that we humans haven’t the incredible Skikana capacity for food—even if Skikana were eatable by Human standards.”

  He looked thoughtful.

  “On the other hand, if I refused to eat him,” he went on, “they’ve undoubtedly planned a protest that will get me removed as Ambassador. And no other Human has my qualifications to see through what’s going on here.”

  “Don’t kill him, then,” sa
id Lucy. “Just scratch him.”

  “I’m not sure I can,” said Tom, solemnly. “You forget. I’ve had the briefing, but I lack the necessary years of intensive physical training and experience that makes a true Galactic Assassin. The Skikana don’t know it, but their champion can almost undoubtedly take me. I’d be dead before I could clear my weapon from its clip on my harness.”

  “Tom!” said Lucy. “There’s only one way out of this. You’ve got to find a way not to fight him! Simply refuse—he’s below your dignity! Or else—stand on your rights as an Ambassador and say that you can’t duel while on duty.”

  “Unfortunately there’s that matter of my being an Assassin,” said Tom. “An Assassin back away from a challenge? Impossible. The Assassins’ Guild themselves would eliminate me if I did such a thing.”

  “Well, there must be a way,” said Lucy, angrily. “I don’t see why a polite, firm refusal wouldn’t work.”

  “It flies in the face of all the evidence,” said Tom, sadly. “After all, whole armies have been known to mutiny and refuse to advance when they heard that a single Assassin barred their path—that information was part of my briefing.”

  He sighed heavily.

  “Well,” he said, “maybe together we can think of something. Meanwhile, we’d better get down to that banquet.”

  Surrounded by their Hugwos, they left their suite and were guided by an officer posted outside their door, down a corridor and into a vast, hall-like room with a lofty, raftered roof and no windows except narrow slits up near the rafters at the top of the walls.

  These windows were set ajar, however, to the warm, sunset air of Mul’rahr. Inside the hall great ceremonial torches eight feet tall flared and sent their flames dancing above the long tables at which erect Skikana officers sat. Wide circular platters, the color of polished maple wood, sat before each diner or empty chair; and enormous toadstools like logs of wood gave up a savory smell like roast beef, as they lay at length on the tables between rows of plates.

  The Hugwo corporal conducted Tom and Lucy to seats at the left of the Skikana Colonel.