Retief's Ransom, page 1
part #7 of Retief Series
Retief's Ransom
* * *
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
Retief's Ransom
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
End
1
"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.
"Maybe we'd better start back," Retief said, "unless we want to get a closer view of the Saturday riot than usual."
"Ridiculous, Retief," the first secretary said a trifle uneasily. "Merely a display of high spirits. My analysis of the trends, local unrestwise, indicates today will be utterly peaceful."
Retief glanced across the cobbles toward the low, irregular buildings at the far side of the plaza, between which greenish sunlight glinted on a stretch of open sea dotted with sails, and gleamed chartreuse and orange on the adjacent island of the equatorial archipelago which constituted the sole land masses of the world.
"You may be right," he said, "but there seem to be a remarkable number of spears, spikes, pitchforks, swords, and carving knives in evidence."
"Purely decorative, Retief. In spite of splendid progress toward civilization, the locals seem to feel more comfy with a symbolic weapon in hand."
"No doubt—but there's a note in the crowd noises that reminds me of a beehive just after it's been poked with a stick."
"They're merely taking a childlike pleasure in their bargaining, Retief. Heavens, I've heard shriller haggling in Macy's." Magnan glanced up severely at his junior. "It's hardly like you to display such timidity, Retief. I suggest you buck up now; I don't intend to return until I've secured the beaded tea cozy I promised Aunt Ninny—"
"Duck!" Retief snapped, and swept Magnan aside as a broad-headed assegai clanged against the rough-hewn stone wall behind them. He caught it on the rebound, grabbed Magnan's arm and thrust him into a doorway as, with a mass screech, the mob surging through the narrow way erupted into violence. Robed locals of wildly varied skin coloration and wart distribution brandished suddenly produced weapons in hands numbering from one to six, and charged each other with bloodcurdling yells. Glass shattered nearby; smoke boiled from an overturned toasted-nidnut cart. A tall, blue-faced Lumbagan with four staring eyes, three pendulous ears, and a mouth capable of encompassing a tripleburger in one gulp rushed toward the Terrans, swinging up a five-foot steelwood cutlass edged with broken glass. Retief dropped the spearpoint to chest level and grounded the butt against the plank door behind him. The alien braked, too late; the spearhead took him square in the midriff. Magnan made a squeaking noise as the victim dropped his sword and grasped the shaft of the spear with three or four hands, and with a powerful surge, withdrew it.
"Hey, you loused up a perfectly good duodenum that time or I miss my guess, Terry," the warty local said in a rather barbaric dialect of the local tongue, fingering the bloodless point of entry. "What's the idea? The word was, you Terries don't fight back."
"Sorry, fellow," Retief said. "Sometimes the word gets distorted in transmission. How about passing the new version along to your compatriots; it may save wear and tear all around."
"Yeah, I'll do that." The alien turned and was swept away by the crowd.
"I can't think what went wrong with my analysis," Magnan wailed as a brass-tipped arrow chipped the lintel above him. "I must have misjudged the intensity of the xenophobic coefficient—or possibly read the seasonal hostility index from the wrong column!"
"Get the door open!" Warbutton yelled behind Retief as he parried a thrust by a passerby pausing to take a slash at the target of opportunity.
"But that would be illegal entry!"
"Getting killed in public without a death permit is a felony punishable by decapitation plus a year in the local Bastille, according to the local penal code," Retief pointed out. "Take your choice."
There were rattling sounds behind Retief, followed by the creak of rusty hinges. At that moment, a large Lumbagan burst from the crowd, whipped a rusty but effective-looking power gun from under his doublet, took aim at Retief's head—
A small local sprang at the gunner, entangling the latter's legs in several of his own, and with a hearty shove sent him sprawling while the shot burned harmlessly across the pavement. With a yell of fury, the fallen assassin leaped up. Retief felt the draft on his back from the open door behind him.
"This way," he called in the local patois; the diminutive Lumbagan dived past him through the opening; Retief jumped through behind him, slammed the heavy panel. Missiles clattered against it as he shot the massive bolt. Angry fists hammered, angry voices screeched threats. Magnan uttered a yelp as he noted the presence of the alien.
"Help! One of them got in!"
"He's with us," Retief said. "Thanks for the assist, Mr....?"
"Ignarp's the handle. Glad to oblige, Terry. Some of the boys got no use for Terries, but what do those slobs know? A bunch of Blue-spots and Four-eyes and Shaggy-feet and Wart-heads—"
"Corps policy frowns on the use of racial epithets, Mr. Ignarp," Magnan remonstrated. "Besides which," he added surveying the Lumbagan,
"Oh, yeah; I forgot. I just picked those up on sale last week."
"It must be confusing," Magnan said sympathetically. "With so many minorities to choose from, I suppose one hardly knows whom to discriminate against."
"Yeah—you Terries have got the best system; just check a couple minor details like how many eyes or what color spots a guy's got, and you know who your friends are. A lot easier than trying to pick 'em one at a time."
"What made you pick us?" Retief asked.
"I got a soft spot in my head for foreigners," the local said. "Come on, I'll show you the way out of here." He waved them toward the dark, stone-floored passage leading back into the gloomy recesses of the monolithic structure.
"Well, how lucky you happened along, Mr. Ignarp," Colonel Warbutton said, falling in behind their guide. "By the way, where are we going?"
"You Terries are housed right in the Castle complex, along with the other foreigners, right? You're practically there now."
"Heavens, I hope we're not late for the Joint Staff meeting," Magnan said, glancing at his thumb watch. "Who'd have thought when we set out for a short constitutional we'd end threading a maze with a pack of rabid racists at our figurative heels?"
"Think of the impact on the ambassador when you give your eye-witness report," Retief encouraged his superior.
"That's a thought," Magnan agreed. "Ah—just what was it I eye-witnessed?"
"The initiation of the Spring Hostility Rites," the local called over his shoulder. "The boys certainly started things off with a bang."
"The spring rites?" Warbutton queried. "I was under the impression the Winter Mayhem Festival was still on."
"So it is; along with the Ritual of Revolution, the Symbolic Sacrament of Savagery, and o' course the Perennial Violence Cycle. With a crowded schedule, we get a certain amount of overlap."
"Why—the situation is deteriorating into total anarchy!" Magnan gasped.
"Not so, Terry," their guide demurred. "We got rules. Like we always give warning before we change sides."
"What sort of warning?" Magnan queried.
"Well, a kick in the right spot usually gets the message across," the Lumbagan confided. "But we're not particular. A sharp blow on the head will do in a pinch."
"Or a spear between the ankles?" Retief suggested.
"I hope Gumrong sees it that way. He's not a bad fellow; in fact he was my sidekick and loyal comrade-in-arms. But he holds a slot as my mortal hereditary enemy for the rites—so naturally when he jumped you Terries, I stepped in. Lucky you got that door open, or my component parts would be strewn all over the jungle by now, rooting for acorns."
"Which side are they on?" Warbutton inquired dazedly.
"Luckily, Lumbagan vegetable life is neutral," Retief said. "Otherwise the prospects for planetary pacification would be even dimmer than they are."
"They couldn't be," Magnan groaned. "How in the world are we going to bring racial tolerance to a world whose only recreation is mutual mass murder?"
"If you come up with the answer to that one, Mr. Magnan, I predict a sharp upward turn in your career prospects."
"Watch your step, gents," the Lumbagan said, indicating a narrow stone stair leading down into pitch darkness. "Just a little farther and there we are."
As Magnan hesitated, Retief stepped past him.
"You must be a little confused, Ignarp," he said. "Mr. Magnan doesn't have time right now to explore any abandoned mine shafts."
"Who's leading this parade, you or me, Terry?" the Lumbagan said truculently. "I'm the guy that just saved your necks, remember?"
"Just between us," Retief said, "why did you decoy us here?"
Magnan gasped.
"Wh—where'd you get an idea like that?" The Lumbagan edged sideways, but was restrained by Retief's quick grab. "Hey—leggo my neck," he yelped. "I already told you—" "Uh-huh. But I happen to know spring rites don't start for another two days. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to set up the whole charade, including the conveniently unlocked door. Why, Ignarp?"
"No fair, Retief," the local grunted. "I heard you Terries didn't know a mob killing from a quiet little domestic knifing—"
"Some of these impressions die hard." Retief gave the local's collar another half-twist. "Come on, give, Ignarp."
"Retief," Magnan demurred, "are you sure? After all, if anyone had wanted to do us an injury they could have done it as well in the street. ..."
"Wrong," the Lumbagan contradicted. "This was a hush-hush deal. And besides, the orders were to bring you in whole."
"You admit your duplicity?" Warbutton barked. "With your chum's knuckles digging into my medulla oblongata, I got no choice," Ignarp said aggrievedly. "Whose orders?"
"The ones that hired me," Ignarp muttered. "They wanted a Terry in good condition, that's all I can tell you. I'm just a legman—"
"Hold it," Retief said. From the dark stairwell came faint sounds as of stealthy feet approaching.
"We'll have to defer our talk until later, Ignarp," Retief said. "Lead the way out of here—and this time get it right."
"I might as well; if the boys see me with your thumb under my ear, my rep as a slick conniver is shot anyway. Come on . . . ." He led the Terrans back along the passage, took a branching corridor—hardly more than a damp-walled tunnel cut through the massive masonry pile—and in five minutes halted at the foot of a narrow stone stair leading upward.
"It comes out in the embassy commissary," he said glumly.
"Just don't let on I told you about the gap in your security. There's a couple dozen families living high on imported caviar and pate who'd hate to go back to pulverized nidnuts and dehydrated frinkfruit."
"Stealing from embassy stores?" Magnan gasped.
"Relax," the local advised. "It's costing you a lot less than if we applied for disaster-area status and welfare handouts. As we see it, a self-respecting life-form ought to make its own way."
"What shall we do with the beggar?" Warbutton said. "No good turning him over to the local constabulary. Pity we can't do him in out of hand, but that sort of tiling doesn't look at all good when the yellow press gets hold of it."
"Lemme go now, pal," Ignarp said. "I admit it was a lousy idea. And to clinch the deal, I'll throw in a tip for free: Look out when Summer Slaughter time comes rolling around. I'm assigned to a Terry-Go-Home team, and those babies play rough."
"Come along, Retief," Magnan said, starting up the stairs. "There's no point in escaping death at the hands of a mob only to face an irate chief of mission."
Retief released his grip on the Lumbagan. "We'll call it even for now, Ignarp. Go back and tell your employers that we Terries like a chance to RSVP our invitations."
"You foreigners are full of surprises," the local muttered, and darted away.
"Here, Retief," Warbutton remonstrated, "we should have held the blighter up by the heels until he'd divulged all the details of the conspiracy."
"I have a feeling he'll talk more freely on his home ground," Retief said, and glanced at the finger-marked card he had lifted from the Lumbagan's coat pocket. "The Stake and Kidney Tavern, number twelve Dacoit Street," he read.
"I know the spot," Warbutton said. "An unsavory dive across from the scalp fields where the hair is short."
"It's a date," Retief said.
2
Magnan and Retief were among the last to take seats at the long table in the conference room, netting a baleful glance from the protuberant eye of Ambassador Pouncetrifle, seated at the head of the table beside Jith, his diminutive Groacian opposite number and Joint Chairman of the Lumbagan Peace Commission.
"Now, if we're quite ready," His Excellency began in an ominous tone, "I—"
"A moment, if you please, Harvey," Jith spoke up in his breathy whisper. "It happens to be my turn to chair the meeting, so if you don't mind—"
"What's this, one of your little jokes?" Pouncetrifle barked. "Most amusing, Mr. Ambassador. Now, as I was saying—"
"Just hand me the gavel, there's a good chap, and we'll get on with the meeting." Jith plucked the microphone from before the Terran dignitary. "Fellow beings—" he started.
