Retief and the Rascals (17 page)

            "Par' me, sir," the lad addressed
Retief. "Can't do no salute whilst I got this here feller. What should I
do with him?"

            "First," Retief decreed, "let him
go, then salute him, and offer your apology for not observing the military
courtesies."

            "Jeez," O'Rourke grunted, noticing the
not-yet-removed colonel's eagles. "A full bird, huh? Well, par' me,
Colonel, sir; I thought you were just drunk."

            Smank twisted free of O'Rourke's relaxed grip
and snarled. Muldoon grabbed him by the lapel and snarled back: "Let's
watch yer language, Mister. Colonel or no colonel, yer my prisoner! Right, Mr.
Retief?" He glanced up hopefully.

            "Exactly right," Retief confirmed.
"Colonel Smank is a smart fellow; he won't give you any more trouble.
Anyway, he's a private now."

            "Now, Private," Retief addressed the
crestfallen captive. "The horsing around is over. It's up to you— by the
way, Randy, it's 'Sergeant Field-Marshal O'Rourke' now. An appointment in the
Groaci Military Auxiliary, right, Hish?"

            "To handle the paperwork ASAP," Hish
gulped. "I'll see to it the marshal's baton is delivered via my next
packet-boat."

            "I don't get it, Mr. Retief," Randy
told the Third Secretary of Embassy of Terra. "How's come all these here
militia types are deployed in a Barnum around the port? And what about the
armed mob headed this way from town? We hadda persuade a few of them boys we
had the right-of-way." He rubbed his knuckles reflectively.

            "Just a little off-letting of steam,"
Retief assured the youthful field-marshal. You lucked into a big promo, Randy.
It's legit: the Corps will have to recognize the rank and will probably bump
you to Senior Master."

        "Nice pay
increase," O'Rourke commented.

            "That's not all," Retief told him.
"A Groaci F-M gets a hundred thousand guck per annum, in your case
retroactive to your date of rank in the Corps. That's about half a
million—cash. Don't spend it all in one place."

            "To make payment in full so soon as the
Embassy Budget and Fiscal Officer can be apprised," Hish stated as one
dealing with trifles.

            "What do I have to do for it?"
O'Rourke wanted to know.

            "Just take the ex-colonel in hand and tell
him what to do," Retief advised. "Better snap to it; I see the eager
beavers of the mob are breaking down the perimeter fence now."

            "All right, Corporal, or whatever you
are," Hish said roughly to O'Rourke. "You can walk on my left and
slightly to the rear, and I'll let you know when to speak."

            "You were very big on the military
courtesies a few seconds ago, Hish," Retief put in. "Better remember
them now."

            "Ah, to be sure," Hish waffled.
"If the Field Marshal pleases, my, that is, your company-graders are even
now assembling for further orders." Hish did an elaborate seven-grade
knee-salute and stepped aside while Randy inspected his new command, and
appointed his Marines as Company officers. O'Rourke returned a Groaci major's
casual hand-salute and went over to the cluster of uncouth-looking non-coms of
the Interplanetary Brigade, which he had ordered to fall in offside.

            "Hold your fire, gents," he commanded
after returning their ragged salutes with a snappy Corps one-two. An
exceptionally tall, green-furred Hondu staff sergeant pushed past his fellows
and planted himself before Randy.

            "I never heard about no Terry taking
command of the Indestructibles," he mumbled. "Lessee some ID,
OK?"

            Twenty feet away, Retief cleared his throat. The
Hondu looked at him. "Oh, I didn't see you, Retief," he mumbled.
"Now, maybe we better get down to cases, eh, sir?" he said to
O'Rourke.

            "At ease, Captain," the Field Marshal
ordered easily. "I don't want any unnecessary bloodshed. So keep your
troops on a tight leash. I'm going over to talk to these civilians." He
walked off toward the leaders of the oncoming mob.

            "Oh, dear, Magnan whimpered. "I fear
the lad will come to grief. Wim Dit is in no mood to parley."

            "He's subject to mood swings," Retief
said. "I think Randy will do OK."

            Retief watched from a distance as O'Rourke
confronted Wim Dit at the head of his mob, and promptly sent the rabble
packing. The Marine returned to report to Retief.

            "Now, Randy," Retief said. "Get
the Indestructibles sorted out, and see to it they understand your gyrenes are
their new company-grade officers. You'd better keep the field-graders on the
job for the present. Colonel Smank here wants to help out."

        "Right, sir!"
the Clunchan officer agreed eagerly.

            "Vessel number three is on final
approach," Retief continued. "Flag her in, and have your
double-battalion ready to reorient the ship's complement one by one, as they
debark. Then use the recruits to take the next, and so on, until the whole
squadron is on the ramp, and the whole brigade is formed up to Pass in Review.
Post a three-man guard on each ship: the Groaci task force is still standing by
off-planet, waiting for landing orders. We'll think of some. Right, General
Hish?"

The Groaci, who had sidled close so as to eavesdrop, leaped
as if goosed by a Glavian unicorn and agreed volubly. "Better to get those
boys down right away," he hissed. "They've been in orbit for three
weeks now. By the way, they're a penal battalion, and don't take kindly to discipline."

            "Just be careful to explain to them,"
Retief cautioned the general, "that we're all one big happy family here;
no hostilities."

            "To be sure," Hish agreed, eyeing the
rank on rank of Interplanetary Irregulars eagerly awaiting the command to attack.

            Three hours later, back at the Terran Embassy,
Magnan was completing his explanation to Ambassador Swinepearl.

            "... so you see, sir, the whole flink-hide
scam was just a cover-up for the arms smuggling scheme, and now that the arms—plus
the mercenaries—are safely tucked away aboard the prison hulks, with the
hatches welded shut, you've not only neutralized the threat to Galactic peace,
you've acquired a handy strike-force ready for whatever use your Excellency may
choose." Magnan sat back, glowing inwardly with rosy visions of massive
promotion and an ER which would serve as an exemplar toward which lesser
diplomats would aspire in vain.

            "What the devil are you smirking at,
Ben?" the Ambassador snapped as he discarded his scribble-pad and
unwrapped a new one. "You propose to burden me with the administration of
a prison fleet, and simultaneously, you expect me to assume command of the most
boisterous gang of misfits in the Arm! What am I to do? Abandon my post to
launch an attack on that secret Groaci installation on Doldrum II? Sit idle,
entoiled in administrative detail, while the situation here on Bloor goes from
bad to worse? What?"

            As his Ex's never soothing voice rose to a
bellow, Magnan shifted nervously in his chair and cleared his throat
tentatively. "Well, sir, Mr. Ambassador, I mean—"

            "Speak up, dammit!" Swinepearl roared,
turning on Magnan, thus effectively paralyzing his subordinate's vocal
apparatus. Then His Ex resumed his hip-u-matic chair and stubbed the talk key on
his direct-line to Sector.

            "Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister
Plenipotentiary Samuel X. Swinepearl here, on the job at Bloor!" he
yelled. "Get me Admiral-General Promo at once!"

            "OK, Sammy, I'm here," a drawling
voice came back. "What's up?"

            "You may well ask!" His Ex snarled.
"I've some sixteen hundred dacoits on my hands, duly disarmed and locked
up aboard their own vessels. I suppose that in deep-space mode, the ship's
systems will sustain them for some months, but thereafter, I shall be obliged
to open up and see to their needs! Otherwise, they'd starve to death, and that
wouldn't look at all well in the Empathy with Inferiors column on my next ER!
I'll need a battle group at minimum to control the riffraff! Meanwhile, I have
a heavy squadron of armed warships piling up demurrage at an alarming rate! I
disclaim further responsibility, Rex!
Do
something!"

            "What do you have in mind, Sammy?"
Promo inquired, sounding wily. "I hope you're using a tight beam. This
stuff could be misinterpreted."

            "Certainly, it's tight!" Swinepearl
confirmed angrily. "Do you take me for a neophyte?"

            "A being's sexual preferences are no
concern of mine as long as it gets the job done," Rex stated flatly.
"OK, what's the plan? A sneak strike on that Glavian mining property out
your way sound OK? We could sell to GenMines through a dummy corporation for
enough to balance the planetary budget, and cover it as a legal preempt under
Paragraph IX."

            "Damn the planetary deficit!"
Swinepearl yelled. "It's Mrs. Swinepearl's boy Sam I'm concerned about! As
for Paragraph IX, it's well known that's a weasel-worded statute inserted in
the Law by reactionary elements intent on selfishly sequestering rights to
their own property. I rather favor Sub-Section 103—paragraphs V-XII, you know,
where it says about '... preemptive action and right of eminent domain' and
all, and some gobbledygook about protecting the moral purity of miners and
that—my legal boys can interpret that until we get a full Hail the Conquering
Hero reception, when we dock at Aldo with the loot all legally registered in
our own names—"

            "Easy, Sam," Promo cautioned.
"Let's not be
too
candid. Don't get me wrong: I'll go along,"
Promo reassured the AE and MP. "I've got to hand it to you, Sam: you can
make Regs sit up and talk—and say just what we want 'em to. That's a useful
skill, Sam, and I'm just the boy to help you cash in on it. Sixteen hundred
crack troops, you say? I heard about the Indestructibles being shipped out your
way—figured it was another foul-up, but I underestimated you, Sam! How in the
name of Good Government and Better Business did you manage to sew 'em up inside
their own destroyers?"

            "Oh, a trifling matter I handed to my
Political man, Ben Magnan. I commended him on his efficient handling of the
affair, of course."

            "You didn't cut
him
in on the
action, I hope," Promo yelped. "We can't pay off every Tom, Dick, and
Meyer in the Corps! This Magnan's a mere underling, just following orders! He's
got no claim—!"

            Quiet!" Swinepearl snapped. "He's
standing right here! Don't give him any ideas!"

            " 'Ideas'?" Magnan echoed in a tone of
Shock, Deep, at Implications (97-C). "Why, I wouldn't dream of employing a
captive battle group to pressure recalcitrant elements of the Galactic
community to pay a fleet-maintenance surtax, or anything like that!" he
protested, his voice flagging as the full scope of the concept became apparent.

        "Rex, are you still
there?" Swinepearl quavered.

            "Hell, no," the general came back
heartily. "I'm halfway to Budget and Fiscal to turn in an old satchel I
found in the closet, full of used currency. Want to hand it over to a few key
legislators, you understand, to restore it to its rightful owners. Ta!"

            "Look here, Benny," the Ambassador
wheedled, gazing at Magnan appealingly, an expression not unlike that of a
lovesick elk on spying its intended. "I do hope you won't misinterpret the
general's light-hearted jesting as serious proposals! He's bored, poor man:
sitting there at Sector with all the responsibilities of the CinC Strike
Command—the most powerful attack force ever assembled—and, due to envious
reactionaries on the Strategy Committee, powerless to hurl his seasoned troops
into action in defense of hallowed principles! You d go a little bonkers,
too."

            "I
heard
that, Sam!" Promo's
amplified voice burst out. "You've got a bad
on/off
switch on your talker— or else you forgot to shut it
down. I got that, and so did anybody else within two lights, I expect. What
about that Magnan fellow? Is he still hanging around? Hold everything, Sam:
Problem. You remember the Council's bagman, that sneaky little bird from
Lumbaga? That Colonel Bob Switchback? He dropped by just now and told me he
just got orders to put half my Strike Force on standby for Maneuvers in the
Goober Cluster. Threatened to throw 'em at HQ, and put me under arrest unless I
make him my adjutant in charge of collecting the loot after the strike! Lucky I
happened to have some dirt on him. But he's still complaining, the treacher!
Oh, hi, Bob, you still here? Hold on, Bob!"

            Swinepearl rolled a bleary eye at Magnan.
"Sit down, Ben," he suggested, almost gently. "You've heard too
much—you've doubtless gained an erroneous impression you're yearning to
communicate to Hy Felix, who'll relay the false impression to the Agency,
who'll spill the beans to the yellow press. We have to stop this miscarriage
of, ah, justice before it goes any further! What would you say to, er, five
points, eh?"