Retief at Large (26 page)

            "Chusd
pedween uz men of the worlt," he said hoarsely, "do you zubboze thad
phenomenon haz any sbezial zigniviganze?"

            "1
think if I were you, Your Arrogance, I'd watch my step," Jackspurt said in
an awed tone. "And, uh, by the way, on behalf of the Spisms, I'd like to
make a contribution to the Episcopal treasury."

            "Hmmm.
Have you ever thought aboud tagink in-zdruction?" the Bishop inquired.
"I'm sure it could be arranged, and as for the little contribution you
sboge of, dwenty bercend of the take would zuvvice."

            They
strolled off along the corridor, deep in conversation. Ambassador Straphanger
hurried away to prepare his dispatches to Sector HQ, Magnan at his heels.

            Retief
stepped back out onto the terrace and lit up a dope-stick. Far away,
Uk-Ruppa-Tooty loomed, solemnly thumbing his nose at the Episcopal Palace.

            Cheerfully,
Retief returned the salute.

-

            "TWENTY
THOUSAND years ago," said Cultural Attache Pennyfool, "this, unless I
miss my guess, was the capital city of a thriving alien culture."

            The
half dozen Terrans—members of a Field Expeditionary Group of the Corps
Diplomatique Terrestrienne—stood in the center of a narrow strip of
turquoise-colored sward that wound between weathered slabs of porous, orange
masonry, rusting spires of twisted metal to which a few bits of colored tile
still clung, and anonymous mounds in which wildflowers nodded alien petals
under the light of a swollen orange sun.

            "Imagine,"
Consul Magnan said in an awed tone, as the party strolled on through a
crumbling arcade and across a sand-drifted square. "At a time when we were
still living in caves, these creatures had already developed automats and
traffic jams." He sighed. "And now they're utterly extinct. The
survey's life detectors didn't so much as quiver."

            "They
seem to have progressed from neon to nuclear annihilation in record time."
Second Secretary Retief commented. "But I think we have a good chance of
bettering their track record."

            "Think
of it, gentlemen," Pennyfool called, pausing at the base of a capless
pylon and rubbing his hands together with a sound like a cicada grooming its
wing-cases. "An entire city in pristine condition—nay, more, a whole
continent, a complete planet! It's an archeologist's dream come true! Picture
the treasures to be found: the stone axes and telly sets, the implements of
bone and plastic, the artifacts of home, school and office, the tin cans, the
beer bottles, the bones—oh, my, the bones, gentlemen! Emerging into the light
of day after all these centuries to tell us their tales of the life and death
of a culture!"

            "If
they've been dead for twenty thousand years, what's the point in digging around
in their garbage dumps?" an assistant Military Attache inquired
sotto
voce. "I
 say Corps funds would be better spent running a little
nose-to-ground reconnaissance of Boge, or keeping an eye on the Groaci."

            "Tsk,
Major," Magnan said. "Such comments merely serve to reinforce the
popular stereotype of the crassness of the military mind."

            "What's
so crass about keeping abreast of the opposition?" the officer protested.
"It might be a nice change if we hit them first, for once, instead of
getting clobbered on the ground."

            "Sir!"
Magnan tugged at the iridium-braided lapels of his liver colored informal field
coverall. "Would you fly in the face of six hundred years of
tradition?"

            "Now,
gentlemen," Pennyfool was saying, "we're not here to carry out a
full-scale dig,of course, merely to conduct a preliminary survey. But I see no
reason why we should not wet a line, so to speak. Magnan, suppose you just take
one of these spades and we'll poke about a bit. But carefully, mind you. We
wouldn't want to damage an irreplaceable art treasure."

            "Heavens,
I'd love to," Magnan said as his superior offered him the shovel.
"What perfectly vile luck that I happen to have a rare joint condition
known as Motor-man's Arm—"

            "A
diplomat who can't bend his elbow?" the other replied briskly.
"Nonsense." He thrust the implement at Magnan.

            "Outrageous,"
the latter muttered as his superior moved out of earshot, scanning the area for
a likely spot to commence. "I thought I was volunteering for a relaxing
junket, not being dragooned to serve as a navvy."

            "Your
experience in digging through Central Files should serve you in good stead, Mr.
Magnan," Second Secretary Retief said. "Let's just pretend we're
after evidence of a political prediction that didn't pan out by someone just
above you on the promotion list."

            "I
resent the implication that I would stoop to such tactics," Magnan said
loftily. "In any case, only an idiot would go on record with
guesswork." He eyed Retief obliquely. "I, ah, don't suppose you
know
of any such idiot?"

            "I
did," Retief said. "But he just made Ambassador."

            "Aha!"
Pennyfool caroled from a heavily silted doorway flanked by a pair of glassless
openings. "A well-nigh intact structure, quite possibly a museum. Suppose
we just take a peek." The diplomats trailed their enthusiastic leader as
he scrambled through into a roofless chamber with an uneven, dirt-drifted floor
and bare walls from which the plaster had long since disappeared. Along one
side of the room a flat-topped ridge projected a foot above the ground.
Pennyfool poked a finger at a small mound atop it, exposing a lumpy object.

            "Eureka!"
he cried, brushing dirt away from his find. "You see, gentlemen? I've
already turned up a masterpiece of the Late Meretricious!"

            "I
say, sir," a plump Third Secretary addressed the expedition's leader.
"Since Verdigris is a virgin world, and we're the first beings to set foot
here since its discovery, how does it happen the era already has a name?"

            "Simple,
my boy," Pennyfool snapped. "I just named it."

            "Look
here, sir," an eager information Agency man who had been poking at the find
said, "I think there's been an error. This place isn't a museum, its a
lunch counter. And the masterpiece is a plate of petrified mashed potatoes and
mummified peas."

            "By
jove, I think you've got something there, Quagmire," a portly Admin
Officer said. "Looks just like the stuff they served at the Testimonial
Dinner for Ambassador Clawhammer—"

            "He's
right," Magnan announced from his position farther down the line.
"Here's a side-order of french fries."

            "Dunderheads!"
Pennyfool snapped. "I'm not in need of uninformed conjectures by amateurs
in order to properly classify priceless antiquities. Kindly leave such matters
to experts. Now come along. There seems to be an adjoining room with an intact
roof—a room unvisited for twenty centuries! I'll wager my fig-leaf cluster to
my
Grand Cordon
of the Legion d'Cosme that a thrilling discovery
awaits us there!" His staff followed him past the edge of a metal door
standing half open, into a dark chamber. The next moment, pale yellowish light
flooded the room.

            "To
stop where you are!" A weak voice hissed the words in a breathy alien
tongue from behind the delegation. "To raise your digital members above
your cephalic nodules or to be incinerated on the spot!"

            A
spindle-legged creature in a flaring helmet and sequinned greaves emerged from
the deep shadow of the door, aiming a scatter gun carelessly at Magnan's knees.

            "What's
this?" Pennyfool's voice cracked on the words. "Groaci? Here?"

            "Indeed,
Soft One," the alien confirmed. "To comply at once with my
instructions or to add your osseous components to those already interred
here!"

            Other
gun-toting creatures appeared from alcoves and behind columns, closed in,
clacking horny mandibles threateningly.

            "See
here, Captain," Pennyfool said in a high nervous voice to a larger than
average Groaci in jeweled eye-shields who carried no weapon but an ornamental
side arm. "What's the meaning of this unwarranted interference with a
peaceful party of duly authorized official personnel of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne?"

            "The
meaning, Mr. Pennyfool," the officer replied in accent-free Terran,
"is that you are anticipated, forestalled, preceded." He casually
waved a dope-stick in a foot-long ivory holder. "You are interlopers,
trespassers on Groacian real estate. You note that out of delicacy I refrain
from use of the term 'invaders'."

            "Invaders?
We're scientists! Artlovers! And—"

            "To
be sure," the captain cut him off curtly. "However, it will be
necessary for you to indulge these fancies elsewhere. Verdigris, as an
unoccupied planet, has been claimed by my government. Unfortunately, we are at
present unable to issue tourist visas to the curious. You will therefore repair
at once to your vessel, pay the accumulated landing fees, demurrage, fines for
illegal parking and lift-tax and be on your way."

            "This
is an outrage, you five-eyed bandit!" the assistant military attache
yelled, thrusting to the fore. "This planet was discovered by a Corps
scouting vessel! It belongs to us!"

            "I
shall overlook your tone, Major," the Groaci whispered acidly,
"induced no doubt by envy at my race's superior optical endowments and
simply inquire whether any Terran claim to the world was ever registered with
the appropriate tribunals?"

            "Of
course not," Pennyfool snapped. "We didn't want every claim-jumping
Tom, Dick and Irving in this end of the Ann swarming in here to see what they
could loot!"

            "An
unfortunate oversight."

            "But
the Survey boat planted a claim beacon. You must have seen it."

            "Dear
me, now that you mention it I seem to recall my chaps vaporizing some sort of
electronic noise-maker which was interfering with radio reception. Too bad that
not a trace remains."

            "That's
a gross violation of Interplanetary Rules!"

            "So?
Possession is nine points of the law, Mr. Pennyfool. But enough of these
pleasantries; at the moment, the matter of accounts receivable requires our
attention. I'm sure you're eager to clear up the trifling indebtedness and be
about your no doubt legitimate activities elsewhere."

            "How
... how much," Pennyfool asked, "is this going to cost us?"

            "If
one of you will hand over twenty-two thousand six hundred and four galactic
credits—cash, no checks, please—you can be on your way."

            "Twenty-two
thousand!" Pennyfool choked on the words. "That's highway
robbery!"

            "Plus
an additional thousand penalty fee for each insult," the captain added in
an ominous whisper. "And of course I need not remind you that the
demurrage charges are piling up minute by minute."

            "That's
out of the question," Pennyfool gasped. "I have no such amount in my
possession! We're a scientific expedition, not a party of bank
messengers!"

            "Too
bad," the captain whispered. "In that case ..."He made a curt
gesture; armed troops stepped forward, guns at the ready.

            "Stop!"
Magnan yelped. "You can't just shoot diplomats down in cold blood!"