The Keith Laumer MEGAPACK®

by Keith Laumer

“But as you said, Fith speaks highly of me….”

  “Oh, true. It’s the cultural intelligentsia I’m referring to. Miss Meuhl’s records show that you deliberately affronted a number of influential groups by boycotting—”

  “Tone deaf,” Retief said. “To me a Groacian blowing a nose-whistle sounds like a Groacian blowing a nose-whistle.”

  “You have to come to terms with local aesthetic values,” Pardy explained. “Learn to know the people as they really are. It’s apparent from some of the remarks Miss Meuhl quoted in her report that you held the Groaci in rather low esteem. But how wrong you were! All the while, they were working unceasingly to rescue those brave lads marooned aboard our cruiser. They pressed on even after we ourselves had abandoned the search. And when they discovered that it had been a collision with their satellite which disabled the craft, they made that magnificent gesture—unprecedented. One hundred thousand credits in gold to each crew member, as a token of Groacian sympathy.”

  “A handsome gesture,” Retief murmured.

  * * * *

  “I hope, Retief, that you’ve learned from this incident. In view of the helpful part you played in advising Mr. Fith in matters of procedure to assist in his search, I’m not recommending a reduction in grade. We’ll overlook the affair, give you a clean slate. But in future, I’ll be watching you closely.”

  “You can’t win ’em all,” Retief said.

  “You’d better pack up. You’ll be coming along with us in the morning.” Pardy shuffled his papers together.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “that I can’t file a more flattering report on you. I would have liked to recommend your promotion, along with Miss Meuhl’s.”

  “That’s okay,” Retief said. “I have my memories.”

  RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN

  Originally published in Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.

  “It’s true,” Consul Passwyn said, “I requested assignment as principal officer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resort worlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressed spaceman or two a year. Instead, I’m zoo-keeper to these confounded settlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight!” He stared glumly at Vice-Consul Retief.

  “Still,” Retief said, “it gives an opportunity to travel—”

  “Travel!” the consul barked. “I hate travel. Here in this backwater system particularly—” He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared his throat. “Not that a bit of travel isn’t an excellent thing for a junior officer. Marvelous experience.”

  He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagram appeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger disk representing the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating the innermost planet.

  “The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—a mere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble with an intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can’t think why they bother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However I have, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters to take certain action.” He swung back to face Retief. “I’m sending you in to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders.” He picked up a fat buff envelope. “A pity they didn’t see fit to order the Terrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late. I’m expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrial and Adoban and a division of territory. It’s idiotic. However, failure would look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results.”

  He passed the buff envelope across to Retief.

  “I understood that Adobe was uninhabited,” Retief said, “until the Terrestrial settlers arrived.”

  “Apparently, that was an erroneous impression.” Passwyn fixed Retief with a watery eye. “You’ll follow your instructions to the letter. In a delicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptu element introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail at Sector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear?”

  “Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe?”

  “Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions, you’d best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less than an hour.”

  “What’s this native life form like?” Retief asked, getting to his feet.

  “When you get back,” said Passwyn, “you tell me.”

  * * * *

  The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spat toward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen.

  “They’s shootin’ goin’ on down there,” he said. “See them white puffs over the edge of the desert?”

  “I’m supposed to be preventing the war,” said Retief. “It looks like I’m a little late.”

  The pilot’s head snapped around. “War?” he yelped. “Nobody told me they was a war goin’ on on ’Dobe. If that’s what that is, I’m gettin’ out of here.”

  “Hold on,” said Retief. “I’ve got to get down. They won’t shoot at you.”

  “They shore won’t, sonny. I ain’t givin’ ’em the chance.” He started punching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said I’ve got to get down.”

  The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retief blocked casually. “Are you nuts?” the pilot screeched. “They’s plenty shootin’ goin’ on fer me to see it fifty miles out.”

  “The mail must go through, you know.”

  “Okay! You’re so dead set on gettin’ killed, you take the skiff. I’ll tell ’em to pick up the remains next trip.”

  “You’re a pal. I’ll take your offer.”

  The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. “Get in. We’re closin’ fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lob one this way….”

  Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over the controls. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief a heavy old-fashioned power pistol. “Long as you’re goin’ in, might as well take this.”

  “Thanks.” Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “I’ll see they pick you up when the shootin’s over—one way or another.”

  The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiff dropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from the departing mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on the manual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine….

  A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out.

  Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavy radiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawed but by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on a high trajectory and had no connection with the skiff….

  Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed.

  He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. This was going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retief threw the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward the oncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen, correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for no more than 1000 yards.

  At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed past the missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restraining harness in the concussion of the explosion…a mile astern, and harmless.

  Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed. Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Points of light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinary chemical warheads the skiff’s meteor screens should handle them. The screen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped on its back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series of shocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by the ping of hot metal contracting.

  * * * *

  Cough
ing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. He beat out sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched it open. A wave of hot jungle air struck him. He lowered himself to a bed of shattered foliage, got to his feet…and dropped flat as a bullet whined past his ear.

  He lay listening. Stealthy movements were audible from the left.

  He inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewhere a song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life, buzzed off. There was another rustle of foliage from the underbrush five yards away. A bush quivered, then a low bough dipped.

  Retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log. A stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, moving cautiously, a pistol in his hand.

  As he passed, Retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him.

  They went down together. The stranger gave one short yell, then struggled in silence. Retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist—

  “Hey!” the settler yelled. “You’re as human as I am!”

  “Maybe I’ll look better after a shave,” said Retief. “What’s the idea of shooting at me?”

  “Lemme up. My name’s Potter. Sorry ’bout that. I figured it was a Flap-jack boat; looks just like ’em. I took a shot when I saw something move. Didn’t know it was a Terrestrial. Who are you? What you doin’ here? We’re pretty close to the edge of the oases. That’s Flap-jack country over there.” He waved a hand toward the north, where the desert lay.

  “I’m glad you’re a poor shot. That missile was too close for comfort.”

  “Missile, eh? Must be Flap-jack artillery. We got nothing like that.”

  “I heard there was a full-fledged war brewing,” said Retief. “I didn’t expect—”

  “Good!” Potter said. “We figured a few of you boys from Ivory would be joining up when you heard. You are from Ivory?”

  “Yes. I’m—”

  “Hey, you must be Lemuel’s cousin. Good night! I pretty near made a bad mistake. Lemuel’s a tough man to explain something to.”

  “I’m—”

  “Keep your head down. These damn Flap-jacks have got some wicked hand weapons. Come on….” He moved off silently on all fours. Retief followed. They crossed two hundred yards of rough country before Potter got to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face.

  “You move good for a city man. I thought you folks on Ivory just sat under those domes and read dials. But I guess bein’ Lemuel’s cousin you was raised different.”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  “Have to get you some real clothes, though. Those city duds don’t stand up on ’Dobe.”

  Retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blue blazer and slacks.

  “This outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home,” he said. “But I guess leather has its points.”

  “Let’s get on back to camp. We’ll just about make it by sundown. And, look. Don’t say anything to Lemuel about me thinking you were a Flap-jack.”

  “I won’t, but—”

  Potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. Retief pulled off the sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie and followed Potter.

  II

  “We’re damn glad you’re here, mister,” said a fat man with two revolvers belted across his paunch. “We can use every hand. We’re in bad shape. We ran into the Flap-jacks three months ago and we haven’t made a smart move since. First, we thought they were a native form we hadn’t run into before. Fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin’ it was fair game. I guess that was the start of it.” He stirred the fire, added a stick.

  “And then a bunch of ’em hit Swazey’s farm here,” Potter said. “Killed two of his cattle, and pulled back.”

  “I figure they thought the cows were people,” said Swazey. “They were out for revenge.”

  “How could anybody think a cow was folks?” another man put in. “They don’t look nothin’ like—”

  “Don’t be so dumb, Bert,” said Swazey. “They’d never seen Terries before. They know better now.”

  Bert chuckled. “Sure do. We showed ’em the next time, didn’t we, Potter? Got four.”

  “They walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time,” Swazey said. “We were ready for ’em. Peppered ’em good. They cut and run.”

  “Flopped, you mean. Ugliest lookin’ critters you ever saw. Look just like a old piece of dirty blanket humpin’ around.”

  “It’s been goin’ on this way ever since. They raid and then we raid. But lately they’ve been bringing some big stuff into it. They’ve got some kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. We’ve lost four men now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. We can’t afford it. The colony’s got less than three hundred able-bodied men.”

  “But we’re hanging onto our farms,” said Potter. “All these oases are old sea-beds—a mile deep, solid topsoil. And there’s a couple of hundred others we haven’t touched yet. The Flap-jacks won’t get ’em while there’s a man alive.”

  “The whole system needs the food we can raise,” Bert said. “These farms we’re trying to start won’t be enough but they’ll help.”

  “We been yellin’ for help to the CDT, over on Ivory,” said Potter. “But you know these Embassy stooges.”

  “We heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tell us to get out and give the oases to the Flap-jacks,” said Swazey. He tightened his mouth. “We’re waitin’ for him….”

  “Meanwhile we got reinforcements comin’ up, eh, boys?” Bert winked at Retief. “We put out the word back home. We all got relatives on Ivory and Verde.”

  “Shut up, you damn fool!” a deep voice grated.

  “Lemuel!” Potter said. “Nobody else could sneak up on us like that.”

  “If I’d a been a Flap-jack; I’d of et you alive,” the newcomer said, moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather. He eyed Retief.

  “Who’s that?”

  “What do ya mean?” Potter spoke in the silence. “He’s your cousin….”

  “He ain’t no cousin of mine,” Lemuel said slowly. He stepped to Retief.

  “Who you spyin’ for, stranger?” he rasped.

  Retief got to his feet. “I think I should explain—”

  A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel’s hand, a clashing note against his fringed buckskins.

  “Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one.”

  “Just for a change, I’d like to finish a sentence,” said Retief. “And I suggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you.”

  “You talk too damned fancy to suit me.”

  “Maybe. But I’m talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put it away.”

  Lemuel stared at Retief. “You givin’ me orders…?”

  Retief’s left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel’s face dead center. He stumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into the dirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief…and met a straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold.

  “Wow!” said Potter. “The stranger took Lem…in two punches!”

  “One,” said Swazey. “That first one was just a love tap.”

  Bert froze. “Hark, boys,” he whispered. In the sudden silence a night lizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes, peered past the fire—

  With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed it over the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt a split second behind him.

  “You move fast for a city man,” breathed Swazey beside him. “You see pretty good too. We’ll split and take ’em from two sides. You and Bert from the left, me and Potter from the right.”

  “No,” said Retief. “You wait here. I’m going out alone.”

  “What’s the idea…?”

  “Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open.�
� Retief took a bearing on a treetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward.

  * * * *

  Five minutes’ stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground. With infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over an out-cropping of rock.

  The stunted trees ended just ahead. Beyond, he could make out the dim contour of rolling desert. Flap-jack country. He got to his feet, clambered over the stone—still hot after a day of tropical heat—and moved forward twenty yards. Around him he saw nothing but drifted sand, palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of jutting shale slabs. Behind him the jungle was still.

  He sat down on the ground to wait.

  It was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. Something had separated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yards of open ground to another shelter. Retief watched. Minutes passed. The shape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. Retief felt the butt of the power pistol with his elbow. His guess had better be right this time….

  There was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry of sand as the Flap-jack charged.

  Retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the flopping Flap-jack—a yard square, three inches thick at the center and all muscle. The ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edge rippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter. It scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on Retief’s shoulders. He wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to his feet. The thing was heavy. A hundred pounds at least. Fighting as it was, it seemed more like five hundred.

  The Flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. Retief grabbed, felt a thumb slip into an orifice—

  The alien went wild. Retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper.

  “Sorry, fellow,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “Eye-gouging isn’t gentlemanly, but it’s effective….”

  The Flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. Retief relaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; the thumb dug in.

  The alien went limp again, waiting.

  “Now we understand each other,” said Retief. “Take me to your leader.”