Norton, Andre - Anthology (30 page)

           
 
The Plugger couldn't expand completely into
Casker's room!

 
          
 
Or could it?

 
          
 
The wedge-shaped rooms, each a segment of a
circle, seemed to stretch before him forever, a jumbled montage of locked
doors, alien goods, more doors, more goods. Hell-man fell over a crate, got to
his feet, and fell again. He had reached the limit of his strength and passed
it. But Casker was his friend.

 
          
 
Besides, without a pilot, he'd never get off
the place.

 
          
 
Hellman struggled through two more rooms on
trembling legs and then collapsed in front of a third.

 
          
 
"Is that you, Hellman?" he heard
Casker ask, from the other side of the door.

 
          
 
"You all right?"
Hellman managed to gasp.

 
          
 
"Haven't much room in here," Casker
said, "but the Plugger's stopped growing. Hellman, get me out of
here!"

 
          
 
Hellman lay on the floor panting.
"Moment," he said.

 
          
 
"Moment, hell!"
Casker shouted. "Get me out. I've found water!"

 
          
 
"What?
How?"

 
          
 
"Get me out of here!"

 
          
 
Hellman tried to stand up, but his legs
weren't cooperating. "What happened?" he asked.

 
          
 
"When I saw that glob filling the room, I
figured I'd try to start up the Custom Super Transport. Thought maybe it could
knock down the door and get me out. So I pumped it full of high-gain Integor
fuel."

 
          
 
"Yes?" Hellman said, still trying to
get his legs under control.

 
          
 
"That Super Custom Transport is an
animal, Hellman! And the Integor fuel is water! Now get me out!"

 
          
 
Hellman lay back with a contented sigh. If he
had had a little more time, he would have worked out the whole thing himself,
by pure logic. But it was all very apparent now. The most efficient machine to
go over those vertical, razor-sharp mountains would be an animal, probably with
retractable suckers. It was kept in hibernation between trips; and if it drank
water, the other products designed for it would be palatable, too. Of course,
they still didn't know much about the late inhabitants, but
undoubtedly
..
.

 
          
 
"Burn down that door!" Casker
shrieked,
his voice breaking.

 
          
 
Hellman was pondering the irony of it all. If
one man's meat— and his poison—are
your
poison, then
try eating something else.
So simple, really.

 
          
 
But there was one thing that still bothered
him.

 
          
 
"How did you know it was an Earth-type
animal?" he asked.

 
          
 
"It's breath, stupid! It inhales and
exhales and smells as if it's eaten onions!" There was a sound of cans
falling and bottles shattering. "Now hurry!"

 
          
 
"What's wrong?" Hellman asked,
finally getting to his feet and poising the burner.

 
          
 
"The Custom Super
Transport.
It's got me cornered behind a pile of cases. Hellman, it
seems to think that I'm its meat!"

 
          
 
Our modern diplomats have their burden of
problems no one seems able to solve, their misunderstandings, as well as their
only too well known understandings. But what if they had to deal not with their
own species but rather with an alien? Will the misunderstandings then lead to
an error compounded past any hope of solution? Or will the diplomats in
question perceive that the pompous red tape of their own chain-oj-command is
the real enemy? In this story by an author who has, in a number of amusing
novels and short stories, made the future Corps Diplomatique his own special
field, one solution is offered.

" .
.
. into the chaotic Galactic political scene of the post-Concordiat era, the CDT
emerged to carry forward the ancient diplomatic tradition as a great
supranational organization dedicated to the contravention of war. As mediators
of disputes among Terrestrial-settled worlds and advocates of Terrestrial
interests in contacts with alien cultures, Corps diplomats, trained in the
chanceries of innumerable defunct bureaucracies, displayed an encyclopedic
grasp of the nuances of Estra-Terrestrial mores as set against the labyrinthine
socio-politico-economic Galactic context. Ever-zealous in its enforcement of
peace, the Corps traditionally has functioned at its most scintillating level
under the threat of imminent annihilation. Facing overwhelming forces at Roolit
I, steely-eyed Ambassador Nitworth met the challenge unflinchingly, coolly
planning his coup . . ."

—extract from the Official History
of the Corps Diplomatique, Vol I,
Reel
2. Solarian
Press,
New York
, 479 A. E. (AD
2940)

Ambassador Nitworth glowered across
his mirror-polished, nine-foot platinum desk at his assembled staff.

"Gentlemen, are any of your
familiar with a race known as the Qornt?"

There was a moment of profound
silence. Nitworth nodded portentously.

"They were a warlike race,
known in this sector back in Corcordiat times—perhaps two hundred years ago.
They vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. There was no record of where they
went." He paused for effect.

"They have now
reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system!"

"But, sir," Second
Secretary Magnan offered. "That's uninhabited Terrestrial territory . .
."

"Indeed, Mr. Magnan . .
." Nitworth smiled icily. "It appears the Qornt do not share that
opinion." He plucked a heavy parchment from a folder before him,
harrumphed and read aloud:

HIS SUPREME EXCELLENCY THE QORNT,
REGENT OF QORNT, OVERLORD OF THE GALACTIC DESTINY, GREETS THE TERRESTRIALS AND
WITH REFERENCE TO THE PRESENCE IN QORNT MANDATED TERRITORY OF TERRESTRIAL
SQUATTERS, HAS THE HONOR TO ADVISE THAT HE WILL REQUIRE THE USE OF HIS OUTER
WORLD ON THE THIRTIETH DAY: THEN WILL THE QUORT COME WITH STEEL AND FIRE,
RECEIVE, TERRESTRIALS, RENEWED ASSURANCES OF MY AWARENESS OF YOUR EXISTENCE,
AND LET THOSE WHO DARE GIRD FOR THE CONTEST.

"Frankly, I wouldn't call it
conciliatory," Magnan said.

Nitworth tapped the paper with a
finger.

"We have been served,
gentlemen, with nothing less than an ultimatum!"

"Well, we'll soon straighten
these fellows out—" the Military Attaché began.

"There happens to be more to
this piece of truculence than appears on the surface," the Ambassador cut
in. He paused, waiting for interested frowns to settle into place.

"Note, gentlemen, that these
invaders have appeared in force on Terrestrial-controlled soil—and without so
much as a flicker from the instruments of the Navigational Monitor
Service!"

The Military Attaché blinked.
"That's absurd," he said flatly. Nitworth slapped the table.

"We're up against something
new, gentlemen! I've considered every hypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to
time travel! The fact is—the Qornt fleets are indetectible!"

The Military Attaché pulled at his
lower lip. "In that case, we can't try conclusions with these fellows
until we have an indetectible drive of our own. I recommend a crash project; in
the meantime—"

"I'll have my boys start in to
crack this thing," Chief of the Confidential Terrestrial Source Section
spoke up. "I'll fit out a couple of volunteers with plastic beaks—"

"No cloak and dagger work,
gentlemen! Long range policy will be worked out by Deep-Think teams back at the
Department. Our role will be a holding action. Now, I want suggestions for a
comprehensive, well-rounded, and decisive course for meeting this threat.
Any recommendations?"

The Political Officer placed his
fingertips together. "What about a stiff Note demanding an extra week's
time?"

"No! No begging," the
Economic Officer objected. "I'd say a calm, dignified, aggressive
withdrawal—as soon as possible."

"We don't want to give them
the idea we spook easily," the Military Attaché said. "Let's delay
the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow."

"Early tomorrow," Magnan
said.
"Or maybe later today."

"Well, I see you're of a mind
with me," Nitworth commented, nodding. "Our plan of action is clear,
but it remains to be implemented. We have a population of over fifteen million
individuals to relocate." He eyed the Political Officer. "I want five
proposals for resettlement on my desk by oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow . .
." Nitworth rapped out instructions; harried-looking staff members arose
and hurried from the room. Magnan eased toward the door.

"Where are you going,
Magnan?" Nitworth snapped.

"Since you're so busy, I
thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. It was a most interesting
orientation lecture, Mr. Secretary. Be sure to let us know how it works
out—"

"Kindly return to your
chair," Nitworth said coldly. "A number of chores remain to be
assigned. I think you need a little field experience. I want you to get over to
Roolit I and take a look at these Qornt personally."

Magnan's mouth opened and closed
soundlessly.

"Not afraid of a few Qornt,
are you, Magnan?"

"Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha.
It's just that I'm afraid I may lose my head and do something rash."

"Nonsense!
A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along. No dawdling now! I
want you on the way in two hours. Notify the transport pool at once."

Magnan nodded unhappily and went
out into the hall.

"Oh, Retief," Nitworth said.
Retief turned.

"Try to restrain Mr. Magnan
from any impulsive moves—in any direction."

* * *

Retief and Magnan topped a ridge
and looked down across a slope of towering tree-shrubs and glossy
violet-stemmed palms set among flamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching
down to a strip of white beach with the blue sea beyond.

"A delightful vista,"
Magnan said, mopping at his face. "A pity we couldn't locate the Qornt.
We'll go back now and report—"

"I'm pretty sure the
settlement is off to the right," Retief said. "Why don't you head
back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I can
observe.
"

"Retief, we're engaged in a
serious mission. This is not a time to think of sight-seeing."

"I'd like to take a good look
at what we're giving away."

"See here, Retief! One might
almost receive the impression that you're questioning Corps policy."

"One might, at that. The Qornt
have made their play—but I think it might be valuable to take a look at their
cards before we fold. If I'm not back at the boat in an hour, lift without
me."

"You expect me to make my way
back alone?"

"It's directly
down-slope—" Retief broke off, listening. Magnan clutched at his arm.
There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafy branch swung
aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view; long, thin green-clad legs and
back-bending knees moved in quick, bird-like steps. A pair of immense
black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes set among bushy green hair above a
great bone-white beak. The crest bobbed as the creature cocked its head,
listening.

Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt
froze, head tilted, beak aimed directly at the spot where the Terrestrials
stood in the deep shade of a giant trunk.

"I'll go for help,"
Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leaps into the brush; a second great
green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun, darted to the left. The
first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to its narrow chest. Magnan yelled,
threshing and
kicking,
broke free, turned—and collided
with the nine-foot alien, coming in fast from the right. All three went down in
a tangle of limbs.

Retief jumped forward, hauled
Magnan free, thrust him aside, and stopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt
lay groaning, moving feebly.

"Nice piece of work, Mr.
Magnan," Retief said. "You nailed both of them."

"Those, undoubtedly, are the
most blood-thirsty, aggressive, merciless countenances it has ever been my
misfortune to encounter," Magnan said. "It hardly seems fair; eight
feet tall AND faces like that . . ."

The smaller of the two captive
Qornt ran long, slender fingers over a bony shin from which he had turned back
the tight-fitting green trousers.

"It's not broken," he
whistled nasally in passable Terrestrial, eyeing Magnan through the heavy
goggles, now badly cracked. "Small thanks to you."

Magnan smiled loftily. "I
daresay you'll think twice before interfering with peaceable diplomats in
future."

"Diplomats?
Surely you jest."

"Never mind us," Retief
said. "It's you fellows we'd like to talk about. How many of you are
there?"

"Only Zubb and myself—"

"I mean altogether.
How many Qornt?"

The alien whistled shrilly.

"Here, no signaling!"
Magnan snapped, looking around.

"That was merely an expression
of amusement—"

"You find the situation
amusing? I assure you, sir, you are in perilous straits at the moment. I MAY
fly into another rage, you know."

"Please, restrain yourself. I
was merely somewhat astonished—" a small whistle escaped—"at being
taken for a Qornt."

"Aren't you a Qornt?"

"I? Great snail trails,
no!" More stifled whistles of amusement escaped the beaked face.
"Both Zubb and I are Verpp. Naturalists, as it happens."

"You certainly LOOK like
Qornt."

"Oh, not at all—except perhaps
to a Terrestrial. The Qornt are sturdily-built rascals, all over ten feet in
height. And, of course, they do nothing but quarrel.
A drone
caste, actually."

"A caste?
You mean they're biologically the same as you—"

"Not at all!
A Verpp wouldn't think of fertilizing a Qornt."

"I mean to say, you're of the
same basic stock—descended from a common ancestor, perhaps."

"We are all Pud's
creatures."

"What are the differences
between you and them?"

"Why, the Qornt are
argumentative, boastful, lacking in appreciation for the finer things of life.
One dreads to contemplate descending to their level."

"Do you know anything about a
Note passed to the Terrestrial Ambassador at Smørbrød?"

The beak twitched.
"Smørbrød?
I know of no place called Smørbrød."

"The outer
planet of this system."

"Oh, yes; we call it Guzzum. I
had heard that some sort of creatures had established a settlement there, but I
confess I pay little note to such matters."

"We're wasting time,
Retief," Magnan said. "We must truss these chaps up, hurry back to
the boat, and make our escape. You heard what they said—"

"Are there any Qornt down
there at the harbor, where the boats are?" Retief asked.

"At Tarroon, you mean? Oh,
yes. A large number; the Qornt are making ready for one of their
adventures."

"That would be the invasion of
Smørbrød," Magnan said. "And unless we hurry, Retief, we're likely to
be caught there with the last of the evacuees—"

"How many Qornt would you say
there are at Tarroon?"

"Oh, a very
large number.
Perhaps fifteen or twenty."

"Fifteen or
twenty what?"
Magnan looked perplexed.

"Fifteen or
twenty Qornt."

"You mean that there are only
fifteen or twenty individual Qornt in all?"

Another whistle.
"Not at all.
I was referring to the local Qornt
only. There are more at the other Centers, of course."

"And the Qornt are responsible
for the Ultimatum—unilaterally?"

"I suppose so; it sounds like
them. A truculent group, you know. And interplanetary relations are rather a
hobby of theirs."

Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up
slowly, rubbing his head. He spoke to his companion in a shrill alien clatter
of consonants.

"What did he say?"

"Poor Zubb.
He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea to gather you as
specimens."

"You should have known better
than to tackle that fierce-looking creature," Zubb said, pointing his beak
at Magnan.

"How does it happen that you
speak Terrestrial?" Retief asked.

"Oh, one picks up all sorts of
dialects."

"It's quite charming,
really," Magnan said.
"Such a quaint, archaic
accent."

"Suppose we went down to
Tarroon," Retief asked. "What kind of reception would we get?"

"That depends. I wouldn't
recommend interfering with the Gwil or the Rheuk; it's their nest-mending time,
you know. The Boog will be busy mating—such a tedious business—and of course
the Qornt are tied up with their ceremonial feasting. I'm afraid no one will
take any notice of you."

"Do you mean to say,"
Magnan demanded, "that these ferocious Qornt, who have issued an ultimatum
to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—who openly avow their intention to
invade a Terrestrial-occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in their
midst?"

"If at all
possible."

Retief got to his feet.

"I think our course is clear,
Mr. Magnan. It's up to us to go down and attract a little attention."

* * *

"I'm not at all sure we're
going about this in the right way," Magnan puffed, trotting at Retief's
side. "These fellows Zubb and Slun—oh, they seem affable enough—but how
can we be sure we're not being led into a trap?"