A tall figure climbed through the flapping door hanging, crouched on the sloping floor, braced by one hand. The other held a power pistol, aimed at Retief.
“Just stay where you are, bright boy,” Klamper called over the screech of the wind. “Don’t bother untying him. My errand won’t take but a minute.”
He half-slid, half-crawled to the filing cabinet, keeping both eyes on Retief, fumbled a key from a pocket. He opened the top drawer, then the next, rummaged, tried the last drawer, then turned on Retief, showing even white teeth in an expression that was not a smile.
“I ought to have my head examined. I let those two light-weights sell me a story. What an act; Wimperton gobbled like a turkey when he opened up that phoney cover and got a load of the funnybooks inside. So I let ’em sucker me into a goose-chase—unless you’ve got it?” He came closer. “Turn out your pockets, hot-shot.”
Retief shook his head. “If you’re looking for the papers, forget it. I left them in my other suit.”
“You loused up six months’ work, greenhorn. But I’ll be back to fill out some fresh forms. Too bad you won’t be here to watch.”
He raised the power pistol; behind him, Dools lunged for the Patrolman’s ankle. A bolt of blue fire crackled harmlessly past Retief’s ear as he leaned aside, chopped at Klamper’s gun hand, followed up with a knee to the face. Klamper rolled with the blow, scrambled over a sagging desk, and dived for the doorway. Dools grabbed up the gun, started after him.
“Let him go, Mr. Dools,” Retief said. “I think I know where he’s headed. Now let’s get out of here before we get our clothes pressed with us in ’em.”
* * *
At the Public Entry Well, Yum and a group of well-muscled locals met Retief.
“Our man was here about ten minutes ago,” Yum said blandly. “Big fellow, in a hurry.”
“You let him through?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you warned the boys at the boat to stop him . . . ?”
“Well, no, Retief. I told them to let him go. As you pointed out, he had a blaster . . . He’s several hundred miles out by now . . .”
Retief folded his arms. “There’s something funny going on here, Yum. What about the bomb? It’s probably timed to go off at the height of the storm—say in another ten minutes.”
“Oh, that. I found it. It’s taken care of.”
“Found it where? And how do you take care of a sealed titanite charge . . . ?”
“It was aboard the boat. You were right about that—”
“Come on, Yum. Give!”
“Well, Retief, I was a little curious; you can’t blame me, after meeting you under such—unusual circumstances. I took a look through your clothes. I found this . . .” He held up the document Retief had extracted from the consulate files. “A fancy piece of paper laying claim to the whole damned planet of Poon—which it states is uninhabited—which it would have been if the bomb idea had worked out. The Mat would have broken up in the wind, and when the sky cleared, it would look like just another natural disaster. And in a few months, all five continents would be one big gold mine.”
“So?”
“So I held out on you. Our slumbering pal had keys, all right. I went back and opened up the boat. There sat the bomb—a nice little ten-kilo charge of titanite, all labeled and ready to go—”
“Except for the detonator; that was wired to the root—”
“Uh-huh. A safety precaution. But I found another one. It wasn’t hard to install. I had an idea the owner would be along to see about it before zero hour; but I didn’t like the sight of the thing sitting out in the middle of the floor, so I tucked it away.”
“Where?”
“In the chart storage bin.”
Retief whirled to the discarded Terran uniform, jerked the communicator from the lapel clip, keyed it on the official frequency.
“Klamper, if you can hear me, answer—fast!”
After a moment, Klamper’s voice came back, a thin piping in the miniature ear-phone. Yum and Dools leaned close.
“Klamper here. Who’re you?”
“This is Retief, Klamper—”
“Oh, yeah, the bright young official. Well, I predict a big change in the near future for you. In about thirty seconds, to be exact.”
“Klamper, there’s a bomb—”
“Well, well, so you found out about that, too. Sorry I can’t help you. So long, su—” The earphones went dead.
“Klamper!”
Yum looked at his watch. “Right on the button,” he said.
“At least,” Dools said, “he lived long enough to exonerate Mr. Retief . . .”
There was a patter of hurried footsteps. Retief and Yum turned. In the door, Wimperton and Pird stood like ruffled birds, staring.
“I’m afraid you lads missed the boat,” Retief called. Yum signaled with his hand. Half a dozen local citizens fanned out to hem in the newcomers.
“Ah, why, Mr. Retief . . . what are you doing out of bed?” Pird squeaked.
“Oh, I just dropped down to offer you boys a crack at a peachy new opportunity in the Achievement Corps. Consul-General Dools here has need of two volunteers to man the new wildlife census stations over on continents One and Two. I’m going to give you first grabs at it. We’ll go over to the Shelter and type out your resignations from the CDT, and a couple of five-year enlistment contracts in the A.C.—on a non-compensatory basis, of course.”
Wimperton’s mouth sagged open.
“And I have a number of micro-tape recordings I’ll contribute,” Dools said. “They’re quite exciting—all about bombs and land claims and gold mines. You can play them over during your leisure time—during sandstorms, perhaps.”
“But—Mr. Retief,” Pird cried. “We—we’ve found conditions here somewhat less than congenial . . .”
“What if—if we refuse?” Wimperton gulped.
“In that case, Yum and his associates would like to interview you on the subject of homesteading . . .”
“Your pen or mine?” Pird said hastily.
“I’ll ask a couple of the boys to help these two philanthropists over to the consulate,” Yum said. “Let the business wait till morning. You and I have a bottle of yiquil to finish, Retief.”
“Show Mr. Dools a few of those pearls we netted, Yum.”
Yum fished out the stones, handed them to Dools, who canted two pairs of eye-stalks at the lustrous one-inch spheres.
“Gentlemen—this is precisely the product I need to qualify Poon as a Class One commercial world! Can these be supplied in any volume? Say, a dozen a month?”
“I think it could be arranged,” Yum said in heavily accented Terran. “Why don’t you join Retief and the boys and me in a snort?”
“Well, I really don’t think . . .”
“I know a barman who can concoct a suitable booze for any metabolism,” Yum urged. “And a hangover cure afterward.”
Retief linked arms with the slender Groaci. “Come along, Mr. Consul-General,” he said. “We won’t take no for an answer.”
PART V: MAGNAN MAKES GOOD!
Editor’s Note: All of the stories contained in this volume were written by Laumer in the early ’60s. He would continue to write Retief stories for many years thereafter, but even by the end of this first period the true hero of the series has emerged triumphant:
Magnan, of course—who ends this volume having achieved the august status of Ambassador himself.
COURIER
“Ever mindful of its lofty mission as guardian of the territorial integrity of Terrestrial-settled worlds against forays by non-social-minded alien groups, the Corps, in time of need, dispatched inobtrusive representatives to threatened areas, thus dynamically reaffirming hallowed Corps principles of Terrestrial solidarity. The unflinching support tendered by Deputy Ass’t Under-Secretary Magnan to Jorgensen’s Worlds in their hour of crisis added a proud page to Corps history . . .”
—Vol. X, Reel 9, 493 AE (AD 2954)
“It is rather unusual, Retief,” Deputy Assistant Under-Secretary Magnan said, “to assign an officer of your rank to courier duty; but this is an unusual mission.”
Retief drew on his cigar and said nothing. Just before the silence grew awkward, Magnan went on.
“There are four planets in the group,” he said. “Two double planets, all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 814369. They’re called Jorgensen’s Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti have been penetrating.
“Now,” Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice, “we have learned that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. They’ve been quietly occupying non-settled worlds. Since they’ve met no opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they intend to seize Jorgensen’s Worlds by force.”
Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief’s reaction. Retief drew carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.
“This is open aggression, Retief, in case I haven’t made myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien species. Obviously, we can’t allow it.” He drew a large folder from his desk.