Retief at Large (52 page)

            "No
good, Magnan," the Counselor for P R Affairs spoke up. "We don't want
to risk a charge of meddling. However," he added thoughtfully, "we
might just up the nomination fee to a figure sufficiently astronomical to keep
the trash out—that is, to discourage the weakly motivated."

            "I
don't know, Irving," the Econ Officer ran his fingers through his thinning
hair in a gesture of frustration. "What we really need is to prune the
ranks of the voters more drastically. Now, far be it from me to propose
strong-arm methods—but what if we tried out a modified Grandfather Rule?"

            "Say—a
touch of the traditional
might
be in order at that, Oscar," the
Political Officer agreed tentatively. "Just what did you have in
mind?"

            "Actually
I haven't worked out the details—but how about limiting the franchise to those
who have grandfathers? Or possibly grandchildren? Or even both?"

            "Gentlemen!"
Ambassador Clawhammer cut short the debate. "We must open our sights. The
election promises to degenerate into a debacle of ruinous proportions,
career-wise, unless we break through with a truly fresh approach." He
paused impressively. "Fortunately," he continued in the modest tones
of Caesar accepting the crown, "I have evolved such an approach." He
raised a hand in kindly remonstrance at the chorus of congratulations that
broke out at his announcement.

            "It's
clear, gentlemen, that what is needed is the emergence of a political force
that will weld together the strands of Oberonian political coloration into a
unified party capable of seating handy majorities. A force conversant with the
multitudinous benefits which would stem from a sympathetic attitude toward
Terran interests in the Sector."

            "Yes,
Chief," an alert underling from the Admin Section took his cue. "But,
gosh, who could possibly produce such a miracle from the welter of divergent
political creeds here on Oberon? They're practically at swords' points with
each other over each and every question of policy, both foreign and
domestic."

            Clawhammer
nodded acknowledgment. "Your question is an acute one, Dimplick. Happily,
the answer is at hand. I have made contact, through confidential channels, with
a native leader of vast spiritual influence, who bids fair to fulfill the role
to perfection." He paused to allow the staff to voice spontaneous
expressions of admiration, then raised a palm for silence.

            "While
'Golly!' and 'Wow!' are perhaps less elegant effusions than one might logically
expect from an assemblage of senior career diplomats," he said sternly,
but with a redeeming twinkle in his small, red-rimmed eyes, "I'll overlook
the lapse this time on the basis of your obvious shock at receiving such glad
tidings after your own abysmal failures to produce any discernible
progress."

            "Sir,
may we know the name of this messiah?" Magnan chirped. "When do we get
to meet him?"

            "Curious
that you should employ that particular term with reference to Hoobrik,"
Clawhammer said complacently. "At this moment, the guru is meditating in
the mountains, surrounded by his chelas, or disciples, known as Tsuggs in the
local patois."

            "Did
you say—Hoobrik?" Magnan queried uncertainly. "Goodness, what a
coincidence that he should have the same name as that ruffian of a bandit chief
who had the unmitigated effrontery to send one of his strong-arm men to
threaten your Excellency!"

            Clawhammer's
pink features deepened to a dull magenta which clashed sharply with his
lime-green seersucker suit.

            "I
fear, Magnan," he said in a tone like a tire-iron striking flesh,
"that you've absorbed a number of erroneous impressions. His Truculence,
Spiritual Leader Hoobrik, dispatched an emissary, it's true, to propose certain
accommodations sphere-of-influence-wise; but to proceed from that circumstance
to an inference that I have yielded to undue pressures is an unwarranted
speculative leap!"

            "Possibly
I just misinterpreted his messenger's phraseology, sir," Magnan said with
a tight little smile. "It didn't seem to me that 'foreign bloodsuckers'
and 'craven paper-pushers' sounded all that friendly."

            "
'IPBM's may fry our skins, but words will never hurt us,' eh, sir?" the
Econ Officer piped brightly, netting himself a stab of the Ambassadorial eye.

            "Still,
it's rather strong language," Colonel Saddle-sore spoke up to fill the
conversational gap. "But I daresay you put the fellow in his place, eh,
Mr. Ambassador?"  .

            "Why,
as to that, I've been pondering the precisely correct posture to adopt
vis-a-vis the Tsuggs, protocol-wise. I confess for a few moments I toyed with
the idea of a beefed-up 804-B: Massive Dignity, with overtones of Leashed Ire;
but cooler counsels soon prevailed."

            "How
about a 764, sir?" the Econ Officer essayed. "Amused Contempt, with
just a hint of Unpleasant Surprise in the Offing?"

            "Too
subtle," Colonel Saddlesore grunted. "What about the old standby,
26-A?"

            "Oh,
the old 'Threat to Break Off Talks' ploy, eh? Embellished with a side-issue of
Table-Shape Dispute, I assume?"

            "Gentlemen!"
Clawhammer called the conference to heel. "You forget that the date of the
elections is rushing toward us! We've no time for traditional ploys. The
problem is simple: how best to arrive at a meeting of the minds with the
guru."

            "Why
not just call him in and offer to back him in a takeover, provided he plays
ball?" the PR Chief proposed bluntly.

            "I
assume, Irving," Clawhammer said into the shocked silence, "that what
you actually meant to suggest was that we give His Truculence assurances of
Corps support in his efforts to promote Oberonian welfare—in the event of his
securing the confidence of the electorate, as evinced by victory at the polls,
of course."

            "Yeah,
something like that," Irving muttered, sliding down in his chair.

            "Now,"
Clawhammer said, "the question remains, how best to tender my compliments
to His Truculence, isolated as he is in his remote fastness—"

            "Why,
simple enough, sir," Magnan said. "We just send a messenger along
with an invitation to tea. Something impressive in a gold-embossed, I'd suggest."

            "I
understand this fellow Hoobrik has ten thousand blood-thirsty cutthroats—ah,
that is, wisdom-hungry students—at his beck and call," the Econ Officer
contributed. "They say anybody who goes up there comes back with his tail
cropped."

            "Small
hazard, since we Terries have no tails," Magnan said.

            "I've
got a funny feeling they'd figure out something else to crop," Oscar
retorted sharply.

            "Am
I to infer, Magnan, you're volunteering to convey the bid?" Clawhammer
inquired blandly.

            "Me,
sir?" Magnan paled visibly. "Heavens, I'd love to—except that I'm
under observation for possible fourth-degree cocoa burns."

            "Fourth-degree
burns?" Colonel Saddlesore wondered aloud. "I'd like to see that.
I've heard of first, second, and third degree, but—"

            "The
symptoms are invisible to lay inspection," Magnan snapped.
"Additionally, my asthma is aggravated by high altitudes."

            "By
Gad," Colonel Saddlesore whispered to his neighbor, "
I'd
like
a chance to confront these fellows—"

            "Better
wear your armor, Wilbur," his confidant replied. "From all reports,
they weigh in at three hundred pounds and wear six-foot cutlasses with which
they lay about them freely when aroused. And they say the sight of a Terry
arouses them worse than anything."

            "—but,
as I was about to say, my duties require that I hole up in my office for the
forseeable future," the colonel finished.

            "Cutlasses,
you say?" the Econ Officer pricked up his ears. "Hmm. Might be a
market here for a few zillion up-to-date hand-weapons—for police use only, of
course."

            "Capital
notion, Depew," the Political Officer nodded approvingly. "Nothing
like a little firepower to bring out the natural peace-loving tendencies of the
people."

            "Now,
gentlemen—let us avoid giving voice to any illiberal doctrines,"
Clawhammer said sharply. "Our only motive, let us remember, is to bring
the liberated populace to terms with the political realities—in this case, the
obvious need for a man on horseback—or should I say a Tsugg on
Vornchback?" The Terran envoy smiled indulgently at his whimsy.

            "I
have a question, Mr. Ambassador," Retief said. "Since we're here to
supervise free elections, why don't we let the Oberonians work out their own
political realities?"

            Clawhammer
looked blank.

            "Just—ah—how
do you mean?" the Political Officer prompted uneasily.

            "Why
don't we let them nominate whomever they want, vote for any candidate they
like?" Retief explained.

            "I
suggest you forget these radical notions, young fellow," Clawhammer said
sternly. "These free elections will be conducted in the way that free
elections have always been conducted. And now that I've considered the matter,
it occurs to me it might be valuable experience for you to pay the proposed
call on His Truculence. It might serve to polish your grasp of protocol a
trifle."

            "But,
sir," Magnan spoke up. "I need Mr. Retief to help me do the
Consolidated Report of Delinquent Reports—"

            "You'll
have to manage alone, I fear, Magnan. And now, back to the ramparts of
democracy, gentlemen! As for you, Retief—" The Ambassador fixed Retief
with a sharp eye: "1 suggest you comport yourself with a becoming modesty
among the Tsugg. I should dislike to have to report any unfortunate
incident."

            "I'll
do my best to see that no such report reaches you, sir," Retief said
cheerfully.

           
The green morning sun of Oberon
shone down warmly as Retief, mounted on a wiry Struke, a slightly smaller and
more docile cousin of the fierce Vorch tamed by the Tsuggs, rode forth from the
city gates. Pink and yellow borms warbled in the tree tops; the elusive sprinch
darted from grass tuft to grass tuft. The rhythmic whistling of doody-bugs
crying to their young supplied a somnolent backdrop to the idyl.

            Retief
passed through a region of small, tidy farms, where sturdy Doob peasants gaped
from the furrows. The forest closed in as the path wound upward into the
foothills. In mid-afternoon he tethered the Struke and lunched beside a
waterfall on pate sandwiches and sparkling Bacchus Black from a coldflash. He
was just finishing off his
mousse éclaire
when a two-foot steel arrow
whistled past his ear to bury itself six inches in the dense blue wood of a
Nunu tree behind him.

            Retief
rose casually, yawned, stretched, took out a vanilla dope stick and puffed it
alight, at the same time scanning the underbrush. There was a quick movement
behind a clump of Foon bushes; a second bolt leaped past him, almost grazing
his shoulder, to rattle away in the brush. Appearing to notice nothing, Retief
took a leisurely step toward the Nunu tree, slipped suddenly behind it. With a
swift motion he grasped a small, limber branch growing out at waist height on
his side of the two-foot bole, bent it down and pegged the tip to the shaggy,
porous bark, using the match-sized dope stick to pin it in place. Then he moved
quickly away, keeping the tree between himself and the unseen archer, to the
concealment of a dense patch of shrubbery.

            A
minute passed; a twig popped. A bulky, tattooed Tsugg appeared, a vast, dumpy
figure clad in dirty silks, holding a short, thick, recurved bow clamped in one
boulder-like fist, a quarrel nocked, the string drawn. The dacoit tiptoed
forward, jumped suddenly around the tree. Finding his quarry fled, he turned,
stood with his back to the tree peering into the undergrowth.