Retief and the PanGalactic Pageant of Pulchritude (10 page)

            "How
about a squadron of Peace Enforcers, Mr. Ambassador," Retief suggested
urbanely.

            "And
where, sir, do you intend to find this miraculous deliverance?"
Grossblunder choked.

            "How
about right over there?" Retief suggested, pointing.

            "And
there!" Someone added, pointing in another direction. "And
there!"

            "Ah,
right on schedule, just as I'd planned," Grossblunder commented cooly.
"Now on to the main business of the day: the defense of Terra's womanhood
from unfair competition by peacocks and snakes and what have you. Peaches, my
dear," he called. "Do let's be off! The judges are waiting!"

            Peaches,
slim and perfumed, linked arms with her sponsor and they went to the ENTER end
of the walkway before the stand and, waiting a moment for the exit of a silken
butterfly-like being from remote Gulberkian, proceeded, arm in arm under the
critical scrutiny of the variegated judges.

            Half
an hour later, relaxing in the lounge aboard-ship, Grossblunder told the
visiting fleet officers:

            "Lucky
you chaps happened along. I suppose Admiral Zinsh surrendered without firing a
shot when he realized he'd been outmaneuvered."

            "Not
quite, Mr. Ambassador," a lean gray-haired Rear Admiral demurred.
"Their main force was standing by off-planet in battle array. I got my
units around his flanks without being noticed, and when he sent his armed
scouts down to make the grandstand play, I put one across the bows of his flagship."

            "Neatly
done," Grossblunder commented. "I wonder where Jerry is with the
announcement—not that I'm worried: the ovation they gave Miss Ripetree was
sufficient evidence. Even the Glorbian judges showed some enthusiasm for the
first time." He fingered a prominent wart on his chin with one hand and
drummed the squarish fingers of the other on the polished surface of an end
table. Then he paused, sat erect and said:

            "Hark!
I think I hear Jerry coming now." Even as he spoke, the excited lad burst
into the long low-ceilinged room and without pause sang out:

            "Terra
wins, Mr. A! And—I mean, but—holy macaroni, the Chief Adjudicator is here, he
insisted, so I brought him up to make the presentation personally." He
turned, made ushering motions to the open door behind him, and a short, stubby
grayish figure wrapped in a formal toga stumped in, almost buried under a vast
horseshoe of pink and white blossoms.

            "Wait!
I'll get Peaches at once!" Grossblunder offered, rising as if to avoid the
cameras busily clicking behind the Adjudicator.

            "Pray
don't bother," the Glorb official grated. "You don't want any
peripheral personnel to share the spotlight, nor do we, dear sir or madam as
the case may be."

            "Of
course! I mean, of course not!" Grossblunder babbled, attempting to skirt
the importunate Glorb. "I'll just—" he ducked, but not in time. The
vast floral arrangement descended about his neck, nearly felling him.

            "But—but—I
don't understand!" he yelped, brushing a dangling Barrovian jelly-blossom
from before his mottled face.

           
"Too
charming!" Adjudicator Blug cooed. "Just a few more, fellows,
close up," he commanded the photographers and trideo crews over his
shoulder, before moving in to place a square gray hand on Grossblunder's
shoulder. "You were the
only
entrant we even considered," he
told Grossblunder in a confidential tone. "We all admired your shapely
bulk, of course, and the delicate tints of your complexion, but, candidly, it
was the subtlety of your wart distribution pattern that swayed old Fug to cast
the deciding ballot. Congratulations, Your Excellency! Now all the Galaxy will
applaud Glorb aesthetic sensibility and taste displayed for all to see, putting
an end, one hopes, to the nasty talk, of which I've had report, of Glorb
insensitivity and preoccupation with the crass."

            "No
doubt, my dear Mr. Adjudicator," Gross-blunder burbled. "But I
still—I mean, Miss Ripetree expects. How about it I quietly pass the word on to
her, on the Q.T. She'd appreciate it a lot, I know, and my duties, that is, if
Sector gets a good look—see here, you confounded idiot, I didn't let Miss
Ripetree parade naked in front of thousands just for nothing! I must refuse the
honor, though I
do
appreciate it. Don't think me unaware of the honor.
But after all, it is to Terra that the crown truly belongs—" Grossblunder
paused to extricate his ear from the questing tendrils of a Squamese tickler
vine—"so, if you'll allow me, I shall appoint Miss Ripetree as my
representative to accept the accolades and all, while I get on with my paperwork."
So saying, the Ambassador managed to free himself from the hundred pound
horseshoe and duck aside from Fug's embrace. He grabbed a half-full champagne
glass from the nearest table and yelled:

            "Gentlemen,
a toast! To Terra in her hour of victory! Now, Ben, go get Peaches—quietly, you
understand! Not a hint of the trifling misunderstanding." He broke off to
drink deeply as did they all.

            Three
hours before ETA Sector, Retief tapped and entered Magnan's spartan but
immaculate quarters, holding in his hands a pink-and-yellow spotted kitten the
size of a full-grown bobcat, with green stripes across its back.

            "Gertie's
fine," Retief said. "So are all nine of her family," he added.

            Magnan
gaped, then grinned and reached out gingerly to take the cuddly baby.

            "Good
lord!" he muttered. "And we thought they were fighting!"

Version History

RETIEF'S RANSOM

The Seventh in the Retief Series

By Keith Laumer

G. P. Putnam's Sons

New York

COPYRIGHT © 1971 by Keith Laumer

All rights reserved. This book, or
parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission. Published
simultaneously in Canada by Longmans Canada Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card
Number: 74-154789

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA

Contents

Back to Book One

Retief's Ransom

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End

"Monsters?"
said First Secretary
Magnan of the Terrestrial delegation to the planetary Peace Conference at
Lumbaga. "Where?" He gazed searchingly around the crowded bazaar,
thronged with gaily garbed pedestrians. A nine-foot, orange-skinned local
jostled past, humming a tune through a nose set in the middle of his forehead;
a three-legged native with pink and purple spots haggled vigorously with a
stallkeeper distinguished by a red- and green-striped epidermis, seven eyes
arranged in random fashion on a lumpy head further adorned with a handsome
spread of mismatched antlers.

"I see
no monsters," Magnan said stuffily. "Only ordinary Lumbagans. I fear
you've been listening to rumors, my dear colonel."

"I'm
not talking about these fellows," the military attaché muttered. "I'm
referring to the recurring reports of meat-eating magicians, carnivorous
cadavers, and ferocious freaks swarming from the swamps."

"Nonsense."
Magnan dismissed the thought, pausing to admire a merchant's display of chest
wigs, plastic trideos tuned loudly to competing channels, prosthetic tentacles
(the all-purpose appendage, suitable for sports or formal wear), native
mudwork, and murky carboys of mummified glimp eggs for the luxury trade.
"I concede that only six years ago the locals were little better than
Neolithic savages; but today, thanks to the enlightened policies of the
Corps
diplomatique terrestrienne
, they're already well into their Medieval
period."

"An
acute observation," Second Secretary Retief acknowledged. "Too bad
it's so hard to distinguish between Neolithic savagery and the Medieval
variety."

"The
problem," Colonel Warbutton said, "is that no two of these ruddy
natives look alike! Everyone on the planet's a member of a minority of one—and
none of the minorities can stand the sight of another!"

"Pish-tush,
Colonel," Magnan chided. "I confess that what with the multiplicity
of native racial strains the problem of prejudice does pose something of a
riddle for our Togetherness Teams, but I'm sure we'll soon turn up a solution
satisfactory to Sector HQ."

"I'm
hardly the chap to spook easily," Colonel Warbutton persisted. "A few
riots in front of the embassy are nothing to get excited about, and the
mud-and-ragweeding of the odd diplomat is par for the course. But when they run
ads in the daily paper offering bounties for alien heads in good condition,
it's time to start barricading the chancery."

"Mere
campaign rhetoric," Magnan dismissed the objection. "After all, when
a people as diverse as the Lumbagans—with their hallowed traditions of mutual
genocide—set out to choose a ruler acceptable to all, there's bound to be a
modicum of unrest among dissident elements."

"Especially
when the dissident elements outnumber the population," Retief agreed.
"I have a feeling that Ambassador Pouncetrifle's decision to sponsor a
planetary government was a trifle overzealous."

"A
gross understatement," Colonel Warbutton grunted.

"Inasmuch
as no two Lumbagans can agree on so much as the correct time, I suspect they'll
have some difficulty in agreeing on who's going to tell them what to do."

"Your
remarks reflect scant confidence in the process of democracy, as implemented by
Corps peace enforcers," Magnan said rather sharply. "You'd do well to
recall that firepower outweighs flowerpower, and a vote in the hand is worth
two in the offing."

"But
what more can we do?" the colonel inquired plaintively. "We've
already fired our big guns, pacificationwise: saturation leaflet bombing,
nonstop armistice proposals, uni-, bi-, and multilateral cease-fires,
interlocking demilitarized zones—the works. And they go right on headhunting—to
say nothing of leg-, arm-, and haunch-hunting!" Warbutton's remark was interrupted
by the impact of a clay pot against the wall three feet from his head,
accompanied by a sharp rise in the decibel output of the crowd.