“And we built our Brincible Kod oud of prass—imborted prass at thad,” the Pope said numbly.
“Too scared of a few Spisms to dig,” Jackspurt said in a stage whisper.
There was a flicker of lightning in the sky to the east. Thunder rolled. A large rain-drop spattered on Straphanger’s plate, followed by another.
“Oh-oh, we’d better head for cover,” Jackspurt said. “I know these flash squalls; lightning out the kazoo—”
A brilliant flash cast the looming figure of the god Uk-Ruppa-Tooty into vivid silhouette against a blue-black sky. Dishes rattled on the table as sound rumbled across the sky on wooden wheels. The Pope and his guests rose hastily, as a third jagged electrical discharge ripped across the sky—and struck the giant idol full on the shoulder. A shower of sparks flew; the mighty right arm, raised in the Hoogan gesture of salute, pivoted slowly at the elbow. The yards-wide hand, seen-edge-on with the fingers extended, swung slowly in a great arc, came to rest with the extended thumb resting firmly against the snub nose. Sparks flew as the digit was welded firmly in place.
The Pope stared, then tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, long and searchingly.
“Chusd pedween us men of the worlt,” he said hoarsely, “do you zubbose thad phenomenon has any sbezial zigniviganze?”
“I think if I were you, Your Arrogance, I’d watch my step,” Jackspurt said in an awed tone. “And, uh, by the way, on behalf of the Spisms, I’d like to make a contribution to the Papal treasury.”
“Hmmm. Have you ever thought aboud tagink inzdruction?” the Pope inquired. “I’m sure it could be arranged, and as for the little contribution you sboge of, dwenty bercend of the take would zuvvice . . .”
They strolled off along the corridor, deep in conversation. Ambassador Straphanger hurried away to prepare his dispatches to Sector HQ, Magnan at his heels. Retief stepped back out onto the terrace, lit up a dope-stick. Far away, Uk-Ruppa-Tooty loomed, solemnly thumbing his nose at the Papal Palace.
Cheerfully, Retief returned the salute.
SEALED ORDERS
. . . In the face of the multitudinous threats to the peace arising naturally from the complex Galactic situation, the polished techniques devised by Corps theoreticians proved their worth in a thousand difficult confrontations. Even anonymous junior officers, armed with briefcases containing detailed instructions, were able to soothe troubled waters with the skill of experienced negotiators. A case in point was Consul Passwyn’s incisive handling of the Jaq-Terrestrial contretemps at Adobe . . .
—Vol. II, reel 91 480 A. E. (AD 2941)
“It’s true,” Consul Passwyn said, “I requested assignment as Principle 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 for 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 disc representing the primary. Passwyn 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’s too late. I’m expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrial and Jaq 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. The Jaq are there.” 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 too. 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, and leaned close to the screen.
“They’s shootin’ goin’ on down there,” he said. “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 reached for the console and started punching keys. Retief reached out, catching his wrist.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said I’ve got to get down.”
The pilot plunged against the restraint and 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 mails must go through, you know.”
“I ain’t no consarned postman. If you’re so dead set on getting’ killed—take the skiff. I’ll tell ’em to pick up the remains next trip—if the shootin’s over.”
“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. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, and 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, his hands on the manual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty nine . . .
At five miles, Retief threw the light skiff into maximum deceleration. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen and corrected the course minutely. The planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed. Retief shook his head and kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Points of light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinary chemical weapons the skiff’s meteor screens should handle them. The screen on the instrument panel flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff leaped and flipped on its back; smoke filling the tiny compartment. There was a series of shocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by the ping of hot metal contracting.
Coughing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing, 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 forward and made the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewhere a song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life, and 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 and eased down behind a fallen log. A stocky man in a 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 man 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!”