PART IV: THE GROACI APPEAR . . .
Editor’s Note: A multitude of alien species appear in the Retief stories. Some of them, such as the Yill and the Soetti, are referred to on several occasions. As a general rule, however, the aliens whom Retief deals with change from one story to the next. Only the Groaci emerge as the ongoing “great opponent” of the Terran Concordiat, beginning with the story “Policy.”
As delightful as the Groaci are, however, the aliens who are my personal favorites are the Quopp. They are featured in Laumer’s first Retief novel, Retief’s War, which is included in this section of the volume.
POLICY
. . . No jackstraws to be swayed by superficial appearances, dedicated career field personnel of the Corps unflaggingly administered the enlightened concepts evolved at Corps HQ by high-level deep-think teams toiling unceasingly in underground caverns to weld the spirit of Inter-Being amity. Never has the efficacy of close cultural rapport, coupled with Mission teamwork, been better displayed than in the loyal performance of Administrative Assistant Yolanda Meuhl, Acting Consul at Groac, in maintaining the Corps posture laid down by her predecessor, Consul Whaffle . . .
—Vol VII, reel 98. 488 A. E. (AD 2949)
“The Consul for the Terrestrial States,” Retief said, “presents his compliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the Groacian Autonomy, and, with reference to the Ministry’s invitation to attend a recital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret that he will be unable—”
“You can’t turn down this invitation,” Administrative Assistant Meuhl said flatly. “I’ll make that `accepts with pleasure.’ ”
Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.
“Miss Meuhl,” he said, “in the past couple of weeks I’ve sat through six light concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and God knows how many assorted folk-art festivals. I’ve been tied up every off-duty hour since I got here.”
“You can’t offend the Groaci,” Miss Meuhl said sharply. “Consul Whaffle would never have—”
“Whaffle left here three months ago,” Retief said, “leaving me in charge.”
“Well,” Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. “I’m sure I don’t know what excuse I can give the Minister.”
“Never mind the excuses. Just tell him I won’t be there.” He stood up.
“Are you leaving the office?” Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. “I have some important letters here for your signature.”
“I don’t recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl,” Retief said, pulling on a light cape.
“I wrote them for you. They’re just as Consul Whaffle would have wanted them.”
“Did you write all Whaffle’s letters for him, Miss Meuhl?”
“Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man,” Miss Meuhl said stiffly. “He had complete confidence in me.”
“Since I’m cutting out the culture from now on, I won’t be so busy.”
“Well! May I ask where you’ll be if something comes up?”
“I’m going over to the Foreign Office Archives.”
Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. “Whatever for?”
Retief looked at her thoughtfully. “You’ve been here on Groac for four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d’etat that put the present government in power?”
“I’m sure I haven’t pried into—”
“What about that Terrestrial cruiser, the one that disappeared out this way about ten years back?”
“Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we avoid with the Groaci. I certainly hope you’re not thinking of openly intruding—”
“Why?”
“The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don’t welcome outworlders raking up things. They’ve been gracious enough to let us live down the fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on one occasion.”
“You mean when we came looking for the cruiser?”
“I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed, grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We try never to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief.”
“They never found the cruiser, did they?”
“Certainly not on Groac.”
Retief nodded. “Thanks, Miss Meuhl,” he said. “I’ll be back before you close the office.” Miss Meuhl’s thin face was set in lines of grim disapproval as he closed the door.
* * *
Peering through the small grilled window, the pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressed bleat.
“Not to enter the Archives,” he said in his faint voice. “The denial of permission. The deep regret of the Archivist.”
“The importance of my task here,” Retief said, enunciating the glottal language with difficulty. “My interest in local history.”
“The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly.”
“The necessity that I enter.”
“The specific instructions of the Archivist.” The Groacian’s voice rose to a whisper. “To insist no longer. To give up this idea!”
“Okay, skinny, I know when I’m licked,” Retief said in Terran. “To keep your nose clean.”
Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carved windowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in the direction of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians on the street eyed him furtively, and veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsy high-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement. The air was clean and cool. At the office Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list of complaints. Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street. An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate the Groacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in.
A Groacian bartender dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink from the bar-pit at the center of the room looked at Retief, then froze in mid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.
“A cooling drink,” Retief said in Groacian, squatting down at the edge of the pit. “To sample a true Groacian beverage.”
“Not to enjoy my poor offerings,” the Groacian mumbled. “A pain in the digestive sacs. To express regret.”
“Not to worry,” Retief replied. “To pour it out and let me decide whether I like it.”
“To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of . . . foreigners.” The barkeep looked around for support, but found none. The Groaci customers, eyes elsewhere, were drifting out.
“To get the lead out,” Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in the dish provided. “To shake a tentacle.”
“To procure a cage,” a thin voice called from the sidelines. “To display the freak.”
Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gesture of contempt. From his bluish throat coloration it was apparent the creature was drunk.
“To choke in your upper sac,” the bartender hissed, extending his eyes toward the drunk. “To keep silent, littermate of drones.”
“To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness,” the drunk whispered. “To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece.” He wavered toward Retief. “To show this one in the streets, like all freaks.”
“Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you?” Retief asked interestedly.
“To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder,” the drunk said. The barkeep whispered something and two customers came up to the drunk, took his arms, and helped him to the door.
“To get a cage,” the drunk shrilled. “To keep the animals in their place . . .”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Retief said to the bartender. “To be grateful as hell, but to have to hurry off now.” He followed the drunk out the door. The other Groaci, releasing the heckler, hurried back inside. Retief looked at the weaving creature.
“To begone, freak,” the Groacian whispered.
“To be pals,” Retief said. “To be kind to dumb animals.”
“To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock.”
“Not to be angry, fragrant native,” Retief said. “To permit me to chum with you.”
“To flee before I take a cane to you!”
“To have a drink together.”
“Not to endure such insolence.” The Groacian advanced toward Retief. Retief backed away.
“To hold hands,” he said. “To be buddies—”
The Groacian reached for him, but missed. A passer-by stepped around him, head down, and scuttled away. Retief, backing into the opening to a narrow cross-way, offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local, who followed, furious. Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacian fell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half rose; Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed.
“Not to be going anywhere for a few minutes,” he said. “To stay right here and have a nice long talk.”
* * *
“There you are!” Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. “There are two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen.”
“Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast.” Retief pulled off his cape. “This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the Foreign Ministry.”
“What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don’t mind telling you.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Come along—and bring an official recorder.”
Two Groaci, wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornaments indicative of rank, rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered a courteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted; they were mad, all right.