Norton, Andre - Anthology (32 page)

"Qorn, you seem to be the
firebrand here," Retief said. "I think the rest of the boys would
listen to reason—"

"Over my
dead body!"

"My idea exactly," Retief
said. "You claim you can lick any man in the house. Unwind yourself from
your ribbons and step out here on the floor, and we'll see how good you are at
backing up your conversation."

* * *

Magnan hovered at Retief's side.
"Twelve feet tall," he moaned. "And did you notice the size of
those hands?"

Retief watched as Qorn's aides
helped him out of his formal trappings. "I wouldn't worry too much, Mr.
Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. I doubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more
than two-fifty standard pounds here."

"But that phenomenal
reach—"

"I'll peck away at him at knee
level; when he bends over to swat me, I'll get a crack at him."

Across the cleared floor, Qorn
shook off his helpers with a snort.

"Enough! Let me at the
upstart!"

Retief moved out to meet him,
watching the upraised backward-jointed arms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean
legs bent, long horny feet clacking against the polished floor. The other
aliens—both servitors and bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes
unwaveringly on the combatants.

Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm
flashing down in a vicious cut at Retief, who leaned aside, caught a lean shank
below the knee. Qorn bent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a
haymaker took him just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as
Retief leaped clear.

Qorn hissed and charged. Retief
whirled aside,
then
struck the alien's off-leg in a
flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed to the floor. Retief
whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behind the narrow back, seized
Qorn's neck in a stranglehold, and threw his weight backward. Qorn fell on his
back,
his legs squatted out at an awkward angle. He
squawked,
beat his free arm on the floor, reaching in vain
for Retief.

Zubb stepped forward, pistols
ready. Magnan stepped before him.

"Need I remind you, sir,"
he said icily, "that this is an official diplomatic function? I can brook no
interference from disinterested parties."

Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a
hand. "I must ask you to hand me your weapons, Zubb."

"Look here," Zubb began.

"I MAY lose my temper,"
Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passed them to Magnan. He thrust them
into his belt with a sour smile, turned back to watch the encounter.

Retief had thrown a turn of violet
silk around Qorn's left wrist, bound it to the alien's neck. Another wisp of
stuff floated from Qorn's shoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward
sprawl, wrapped it around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together.
Qorn flopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around his neck
jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly.

"If I were you, I'd
relax," Retief said, rising and releasing his grip. Qorn got a leg under
him. Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floor with a hollow clack. He
wilted,
an ungainly tangle of over-long limbs and gay silks.

Retief turned to the watching
crowd. "Next?" he called.

The blue and flame Qornt stepped
forward. "Maybe this would be a good time to elect a new leader," he
said. "Now, my qualifications—"

"Sit down," Retief said
loudly. He stepped to the head of the table, seated himself in Qorn's vacated
chair. "A couple of you finish trussing Qorn up; then stack him in the
corner—"

"But we must select a
leader!"

"That won't be necessary,
boys. I'm your new leader."

* * *

"As I see it," Retief
said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wine glass, "you Qornt like to
be warriors, but you don't particularly like to fight."

"We don't mind a little
fighting—within reason. And, of course, as Qornt, we're expected to die in
battle. But what I say is—why
rush
things?"

"I have a suggestion,"
Magnan said. "Why not turn the reins of government over to the Verpp? They
seem a level-headed group—"

"What good would that do?
Qornt are Qornt; and it seems there's always one among us who's a slave to
instinct—and, naturally, we have to follow him."

"Why?"

"Because that's the way it's
done."

"Why not do it another
way?" Magnan offered. "Now, I'd like to suggest Community
singing—"

"If we gave up fighting, we
might live too long; then what would happen?"

"Live too long . . ."
Magnan looked puzzled.

"When estivating time comes,
there'd be no burrows for us; and anyway, with the new Qornt stepping in next
Awakening—"

"I've lost the thread,"
Magnan said. "Who are the new Qornt?"

"After estivating, the Verpp
moult, and then they're Qornt, of course. The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become
Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosize into Verpp—"

"You mean Slun and Zubb—the
mild-mannered naturalists—will become warmongers like Qorn?"

"Very
likely; `the milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qornt,' as the old saying
goes."

"What do Qornt turn
into?" Retief asked.

"Hmmmm.
That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood."

"Have you thought of forsaking
your warlike ways?" Magnan asked. "What about taking up sheepherding
and regular church attendance—"

"Don't mistake me. We Qornt
like a military life. It's great sport to sit around roaring fires and drink
and tell lies and then go dashing off to enjoy a brisk affray and some
leisurely looting afterward. But we prefer a nice numerical advantage.
Now, this business of tackling you Terrestrials over on Guzzum—that
was a mad notion.
We had no idea what your strength was—"

"But now that's all off, of
course," Magnan chirped. "Now that we've had diplomatic relations and
all—"

"Oh, by no means. The fleet
lifts in thirty days; after all, we're Qornt; we have to satisfy our drive to
action."

"But Mr. Retief is your
leader, now. He won't let you . . ."

"Only a dead Qornt stays home
when Attack Day comes. And even if he orders us all to cut our own throats,
there are still the other Centers—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen,
the invasion is definitely on."

"Why don't you go invade
somebody else?" Magnan suggested. "Now, I could name some very
attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course."

"Hold everything," Retief
said. "I think we've got the basis of a deal here . . ."

* * *

At the head of a double column of
gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retief and Magnan strolled across the ramp toward
the bright tower of the CDT Sector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps
limousine emerged, flying an Ambassadorial flag below a plain white banner.

"Curious," Magnan
commented. "I wonder what the significance of the white ensign might
be?
"

Retief raised a hand. The column
halted with a clash of accoutrements, a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back
along the line. The high white sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles,
deep-dyed plumes, ceremonial swords, the polished butts of pistols,
the
soft gleam of leather.

"A brave show indeed,"
Magnan commented approvingly. "I confess the idea has merit—"

The limousine pulled up with a
squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tired wheels, tyros humming softly. The
hatch popped up. A portly diplomat stepped out.

"Why, Ambassador
Nitworth," Magnan glowed. "This is very kind of you—"

"Keep cool, Magnan,"
Nitworth said in a strained voice. "We'll attempt to get you out of this .
. ." He stepped past Magnan's outstretched hand and looked hesitantly at
the ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond at the
eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnoughts.

"Good afternoon, sir . . . ah,
Your Excellency," Nitworth said, blinking up at the leading Qornt.
"You are Commander of the Strike Force, I assume?"

"Nope," the Qornt said
shortly.

"I . . . ah . . . wish to
request seventy-two hours in which to evacuate the Headquarters," Nitworth
plowed on.

"Mr. Ambassador," Retief
said. "This—"

"Don't panic, Retief. I'll
attempt to secure your release," Nitworth hissed over his shoulder.
"Now—"

"You will address our leader
with more respect!" the tall Qornt hooted, eyeing Nitworth ominously from
eleven feet up.

"Oh, yes indeed, sir . . .
Your Excellency . . . Commander. Now, about the invasion—"

"Mr. Secretary," Magnan
tugged at Nitworth's sleeve.

"In heaven's name, permit me
to negotiate in peace!" Nitworth snapped. He rearranged his features.
"Now, Your Excellency, we've arranged to evacuate Smørbrød, of course,
just as you requested—"

"Requested?" the Qornt
honked.

"Ah . . . demanded, that is.
Quite rightly of course.
Ordered.
Instructed.
And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to
follow any other instructions you might have—"

"You don't quite get the big
picture, Mr. Secretary," Retief said. "This isn't—"

"Silence, confound you!"
Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked at Retief. He nodded. Two bony hands
shot out, seized Nitworth, and stuffed a length of bright pink silk into his
mouth, then spun him around and held him facing Retief.

"If you don't mind my taking
this opportunity to brief you, Mr. Ambassador," Retief said blandly,
"I think I should mention that this isn't an invasion fleet. These are the
new recruits for the Peace Enforcement Corps."

Magnan stepped forward, glanced at
the gag in Ambassador Nitworth's mouth, hesitated,
then
cleared his throat. "We felt," he said, "that the establishment
of a Foreign Brigade with the P E Corps structure would provide the element of
novelty the Department has requested in our recruiting, and at the same time
would remove the stigma of Terrestrial chauvinism from future punitive
operations."

Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He
grunted, reaching for the gag, caught the Qornt's eye on him,
dropped
his hands to his sides.

"I suggest we get the troops
in out of the hot sun," Retief said. Magnan edged closer. "What about
the gag?" he whispered.

"Let's leave it where it is
for a while," Retief murmured. "It may save us a few concessions."

* * *

An hour later, Nitworth, breathing
freely again, glowered across his desk at Retief and Magnan.

"This entire affair," he
rumbled, "has made me appear to be a fool!"

"But we who are privileged to
serve on your staff already know just how clever you are," Magnan burbled.

Nitworth purpled. "You're
skirting insolence, Magnan," he roared. "Why was I not informed of
the arrangements? What was I to assume at the sight of eighty-five war vessels
over my headquarters, unannounced?"

"We tried to get through, but
our wave-lengths—"

"Bah! Sterner souls than I
would have quailed at the spectacle of those armed horrors advancing."

"Oh, you were perfectly
justified in panicking—"

"I did NOT panic!"
Nitworth bellowed. "I merely adjusted to the apparent circumstances. Now,
I'm of two minds as to the advisability of this foreign legion idea of yours.
Still, it may have merit. I believe the wisest course would be to dispatch them
on a long training cruise in an uninhabited sector of space—"

The office windows rattled.
"What the devil—!" Nitworth turned, stared out at the ramp where a
Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale blue light. The vibration increased
as a second ship lifted, then a third—

Nitworth whirled on Magnan.
"What's
this!
Who ordered these recruits to
embark without my permission?"

"I took the liberty of giving
them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary," Retief said. "There was that
little matter of the Groaci infiltrating the Sirenian System. I sent the boys
off to handle it."

"Call them back! Call them back
at once!"

"I'm afraid that won't be
possible. They're under orders to maintain total communications silence until
completion of the mission."

Nitworth drummed his fingers on the
desk top. Slowly, a thoughtful expression dawned. He nodded. "This may work
out," he said. "I should call them back, but since the fleet is out
of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus, I can hardly be held
responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising the Groaci." He closed
one eye in a broad wink at Magnan.

"Very well, gentlemen, I'll
overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it the Smørbrødian public
are notified they can remain where they are. And by the way, did you by any
chance discover the technique of the indetectible drive the Qornt use?"

"No, sir.
That is, yes, sir."

"Well? Well?"

"There isn't any. The Qornt
were there all the while. Underground."

"Underground? Doing
what?"

"Hibernating—for
two hundred years at a stretch."

Outside in the corridor, Magnan
came up to Retief, who stood talking to a tall man in a pilot's coverall.

"I'll be tied up, sending
through full details on my—our—your recruiting scheme, Retief," Magnan
said. "Suppose you run into the city to assist the new Verpp Consul in
settling in."

"I'll do that, Mr. Magnan.
Anything else?"

Magnan raised his eyebrows.
"You're remarkably compliant today, Retief. I'll arrange
transportation—"

"Don't bother, Mr. Magnan.
Cy
here will run me over. He was the pilot who ferried us
over to Roolit I, you recall."