“They’re tough people, Chip.”
“Funny how it sneaks up on you, ain’t it, mister? Few minutes ago we was eatin’ high on the hog; now we’re right close to bein’ dead men.”
“They want us alive.”
“It’ll be a hairy deal. But t’hell with it. If it works, it works.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“I hope I got them fields o’ fire right—”
“Don’t worry; I’ll bet a barrel of beer we make it.”
“We’ll find out in about ten seconds,” Chip said. “Here we go . . .”
As they reached the tank the two men broke stride and jumped. Retief leaped for the gun barrel, swung up astride it, ripped off the fur-lined leather cap he wore, and, leaning forward, jammed it into the bore of the cannon. The chef sprang for a perch above the fore scanner antenna. With an angry whuff! anti-personnel charges slammed from apertures low on the sides of the vehicle. Retief swung around, pulled himself up on the hull.
“Okay, mister,” Chip called. “I’m goin’ under.” He slipped down the front of the tank, disappeared between the treads. Retief clambered up, took a position behind the turret, lay flat as it whirled angrily, sonar eyes searching for the tank’s tormentors. The vehicle shuddered, backed, stopped, moved forward, pivoted.
Chip reappeared at the front of the tank.
“It’s stuck,” he called. He stopped to breathe hard, clung as the machine lurched forward, spun to the right, stopped, rocking slightly.
“Take over here,” Retief said. He crawled forward, watched as the chef pulled himself up, slipped down past him, feeling for the footholds between the treads. He reached the ground, dropped on his back, hitching himself under the dark belly of the tank. He groped, found the handholds, probed with a foot for the tread-jack lever.
The tank rumbled, backed quickly, turned left and right in a sine curve. Retief clung grimly, inches from the clashing treads. He found the lever, braced his back, pushed. The lever seemed to give minutely. He set himself again, put both feet against the frozen bar, and heaved. With a dry rasp it slid back. Immediately, two rods extended themselves, slid down to grate against the pavement, drove on irresistibly. The left track raced as the weight went off it. Retief grabbed for a hold as the right tread clashed, heaving the fifty-ton machine forward, jacks screeching as they scored the tarmac. The tank pivoted, chips of pavement flying. The jacks lifted the clattering left track clear of the surface and the tank spun like a hamstrung buffalo.
The tank stopped, sat silent, canted now on the extended jacks. Retief emerged from under the machine, jumped, pulled himself above the anti-personnel apertures as another charge rocked the tank. He clambered to the turret, crouched beside Chip. They waited, watching the entry hatch.
Five minutes passed.
“I’ll bet old Tony’s givin’ the chauffeur hell,” Chip said.
The hatch moved, cycled open. A head came cautiously into view in time to see the needler in Retief’s hand.
“Come on out,” Retief said.
The head dropped, and Chip snaked forward, rammed the iron rod under the hatch near the hinge. The hatch began to cycle shut, groaned, stopped. There was a sound of metal failing, and the hatch, popped, stood open. Retief half rose, aimed the needler. The walls of the tank rang as the metal splinters ricocheted inside.
“That’s one keg o’ beer I owe you, mister,” Chip said. “Now let’s git outa here before the ship lifts and fries us.”
* * *
“The biggest problem the Jorgensen’s people will have is decontaminating the wreckage,” Retief said.
Magnan leaned forward. “Amazing,” he said. “They just kept coming, did they? Had they no inter-ship communication?”
“They had their orders. And their attack plan. They followed it.”
“What a spectacle! Over a thousand ships, plunging out of control one by one as they entered the stress-field.”
“Not much of a spectacle. You couldn’t see them; too far away. They all crashed back in the mountains.”
“Oh.” Magnan’s face fell. “But it’s as well they did; the bacterial bombs—”
“Too cold for bacteria. They won’t spread.”
“Nor will the Soetti,” Magnan said smugly, “thanks to the promptness with which I acted in dispatching you with the requisite data.” He looked narrowly at Retief. “By the way, you’re sure no . . . ah . . . message reached you after your arrival?”
“I got something,” Retief said, looking Magnan in the eye. “It must have been a garbled transmission. It didn’t make sense.”
Magnan coughed, shuffled papers. “This information you’ve reported,” he said hurriedly. “This rather fantastic story that the Soetti originated in the Cloud, that they’re seeking a foothold in the main galaxy because they’ve literally eaten themselves out of subsistence; how did you get it? The one of two Soetti we attempted to question . . . ah,” Magnan coughed again. “There was an accident,” he finished. “We got nothing from them.”
“The Jorgensens took a Soetti from a wreck, still alive but unconscious. They managed to get the story from him.”
“It’s immaterial, actually,” Magnan said. “The Soetti violated their treaty with us the day after it was signed. Had no intention of fair play. Far from evacuating the agreed areas, they had actually occupied half a dozen additional minor bodies in the Whate system.”
Retief clucked sympathetically. “You don’t know who to trust, these days,” he said. Magnan looked at him coldly.
“Spare me your sarcasm, Retief.” He picked up a folder from his desk, opened it. “While you’re out that way, I have another little task for you. We haven’t had a comprehensive wildlife census report from Brimstone lately—”
“Sorry,” Retief said. “I’ll be tied up. I’m taking a month off. Maybe more.”
“What’s that?” Magnan’s head came up. “You seem to forget—”
“I’m trying, Mr. Secretary. Goodbye now.” Retief reached out and flipped the key. Magnan’s face faded from the screen. Retief stood up.
“Chip, we’ll crack that keg when I get back.” He turned to Freya.
“Freya,” he said, “do you think you could teach me to ski by moonlight?”
PROTEST NOTE
“For all its spirit of detachment from petty local issues, the Corps was never slow to interpose its majestic presence in the path of injustice. Under-Secretary Sternwheeler’s classic approach to the problem of Aga Kagan aggression at Flamme testified to the efficacy of tried diplomatic procedures backed by the profound prestige of the Corps . . .”
—Vol. XV, Reel 3, 494 AE (AD 2955)
“I’m not at all sure,” Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, “that I fully understand the necessity of your absenting yourself from your post of duty at this time, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealt with in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary.”
“I had a sharp attack of writer’s cramp, Mr. Secretary,” Retief said. “So I thought I’d better come along in person—just to be sure of making my point.”
“I seem to recall seeing a dispatch or two on the subject,” Deputy Under-Secretary Magnan put in. “Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time, we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports, reports—”
“Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan?” the Under-Secretary barked.
“Gracious, no. I love reports—”
“It seems nobody’s told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years,” Retief said. “They’re going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing on Flamme. So far, I’ve persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for the Corps, and not to take matters into their own hands.”
The Under-Secretary nodded. “Quite right. Carry on along the same lines. Now, if there’s nothing further—”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” Magnan said, rising. “We certainly appreciate your guidance—”
“There is a little something further,” said Retief, sitting solidly in his chair. “What’s the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans?”
The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. “As Minister to Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomatic representative is merely to . . . what shall I say . . . ?”
“String them along?” Magnan suggested.
“An unfortunate choice of phrase,” the Under-Secretary said.
“However, it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps must concern itself with matters of broad policy—”
“Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settle Flamme,” Retief said. “They were assured of Corps support.”
“I don’t believe you’ll find that in writing,” said the Under-Secretary blandly. “In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time a foothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Now the situation has changed.”
“The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme,” Retief said. “They’re cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set out forests. They’ve just about reached the point where they can begin to enjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in. They’ve landed thirty detachments of `fishermen’—complete with armored trawlers mounting 40mm infinite repeaters—and two dozen parties of `homesteaders’—all male and toting rocket launchers.”