Galactic Diplomat (32 page)

“I wouldn’t find it convenient to go to Alabaster. So just
hold your course for Jorgensen’s.”

“Not bloody likely.” The captain reached for the mike on his
desk, pressed the key. “Power Section, this is the captain,” he said. Retief
reached across the desk, gripped the captain’s wrist.

“Tell the mate to hold his present course,” he said softly.

“Let go my hand, Buster,” the captain snarled. With his eyes
on Retief’s, he eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief
kneed the drawer. The captain yelped, dropped the mike.

“You busted my wrist, you—”

“And one to go,” Retief said. “Tell him.”

“I’m an officer of the Merchant Service—”

“You’re a cheapjack who’s sold his bridge to a pack of
back-alley hoods.”

“You can’t put it over, hick. The landing—”

“Tell him.”

The captain groaned, keyed the mike.

“Captain to Power Section. Hold your present course until you
hear from me.” He dropped the mike, looked up at Retief. “It’s eighteen hours
yet before we pick up Jorgensen control; you going to sit here and bend my arm
the whole time?”

Retief released the captain’s wrist, turned to Chip. “Chip,
I’m locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what’s going on. Bring
me a pot of coffee every so often. I’m sitting up with a sick friend.”

“Right,
mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he’s slippery.”

“What are you going to do?” the captain demanded.

Retief settled himself in a chair.

“Instead
of strangling you, as you deserve, I’m going to stay here and help you hold
your course for Jorgensen’s Worlds.”

The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark. “Then
I’ll stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel like dozing off
some time during the next eighteen hours, don’t mind me.”

Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before
him.

“If anything happens that I don’t like,” he said, “I’ll wake
you up with this.”

“Why don’t you let me spell you, mister,” Chip said. “Four
hours to go yet; you’re gonna hafta be on yer toes to handle the landing.”

“I’ll be all right, Chip. You get some sleep.”

“Nope. Many’s the time I stood four, five watches runnin’,
back when I was yer age. I’ll make another round.”

Retief
stood up, stretched his legs, paced the floor, stared at the repeater
instruments on the wall. Things had gone quietly so far, but the landing would
be another m
atter. The captain’s absence
from the bridge during the
highly complex maneuvering would be difficult
to explain . . . 

The desk speaker crackled.

“Captain, Officer of the Watch here. Ain’t it about time you
was getting up here with the orbit figures?”

Retief nudged the captain. He awoke with a start, sat up.
“Whazzat?” He looked wild-eyed at Retief.

“Watch Officer wants orbit figures,” Retief said, nodding
toward the speaker.

The captain rubbed his eyes, shook his head, picked up the
mike. Retief released the safety on the needler with an audible click.

“Watch Officer,
I’ll . . . ah . . . get some figures
for you right away.
I’m . . . ah . . . busy right now.”

“What the hell you talking about, busy?” the speaker blared.
“You ain’t got the figures ready, you’ll have a hell of a hot time getting ’em
up in the next three minutes. You fergot your approach pattern or something?”

“I guess I overlooked it,” the captain said, looking sideways
at Retief. He smiled crookedly. “I’ve been busy.”

“One for your side,” Retief said. He reached for the captain.

“I’ll
make a deal,” the captain squalled. “Your life for—”

Retief took aim, slammed a hard right to the captain’s jaw.
He slumped to the floor.

Retief glanced around the room, yanked wires loose from a
motile lamp, trussed the man’s hands and feet, stuffed his mouth with paper and
taped it.

Chip tapped at the door. Retief opened it and the chef
stepped inside, looked at the man on the floor.

“The jasper tried somethin’, huh? Figured he would. What we
goin’ to do now?”

“The captain forgot to set up an approach, Chip. He out-foxed
me.”

“If we overrun our approach patterns,” Chip said, “we can’t
make orbit at Jorgensen’s on automatic, and a manual approach—”

“That’s out. But there’s another possibility.”

Chip blinked. “Only one thing you could mean, mister. But cuttin’
out in a lifeboat in deep space is no picnic.”

“They’re on the port side, aft, right?”

Chip nodded. “Hot damn!” he said. “Who’s got the ’tater
salad?”

“We’d better tuck the skipper away out of sight.”

“In the locker.”

The two men carried the limp body to a deep storage chest,
dumped it in, closed the lid.

“He won’t suffercate; lid’s a lousy fit.”

Retief opened the door, went into the corridor, Chip behind
him.

“Shouldn’t oughta be nobody around now,” the chef said.
“Everybody’s mannin’ approach stations.”

At the D deck companionway Retief stopped suddenly.

“Listen.”

Chip cocked his head. “I don’t hear nothin’,” he whispered.

“Sounds like a sentry posted on the lifeboat deck,” Retief
said softly.

“Let’s take him, mister.”

“I’ll go down. Stand by, Chip.”

Retief started down the narrow steps, half stair, half
ladder. Halfway, he paused to listen. There was a sound of slow footsteps, then
silence. Retief palmed the needler, went down the last steps quickly, emerged
in the dim light of a low-ceilinged room. The stern of a five-man lifeboat
bulked before him.

“Freeze, you!” a cold voice snapped.

Retief dropped, rolled behind the shelter of the lifeboat as
the whine of a power pistol echoed off metal walls. A lunge, and he was under
the boat, on his feet. He jumped, caught the quick-access handle, hauled it
down. The lifeboat’s outer port cycled open.

Feet scrambled at the bow of the boat, and Retief whirled,
fired. The guard rounded into sight and fell headlong. Above, an alarm bell
jangled. Retief stepped on a stanchion, hauled himself into the open port. A
yell rang, then the clatter of feet on the stair.

“Don’t shoot, mister!” Chip shouted.

“All clear, Chip,” Retief called.

“Hang on; I’m comin’ with ya!”

Retief reached down, lifted the chef bodily through the port,
slammed the lever home. The outer door whooshed, clanged shut.

“Take number two, tie in! I’ll blast her off,” Chip said.
“Been through a hundred ’bandon ship drills . . .”

Retief watched as the chef flipped levers, pressed a fat red
button. The deck trembled under the lifeboat.

“Blew the bay doors,” Chip said, smiling happily. “That’ll
cool them jaspers down.” He punched a green button.

“Look out, Jorgensen’s . . .” With an
ear-splitting blast, the stern rockets fired, a sustained agony of pressure . . . 

Abruptly, there was silence, weightlessness. Contracting
metal pinged loudly. Chip’s breathing rasped in the stillness.

“Pulled nine Gs there for ten seconds,” he gasped. “I gave
her full emergency kick-off.”

“Any armament aboard our late host?”

“A pop-gun; time they get their wind, we’ll be clear. Now all
we got to do is set tight till we pick up a R and D from Svea Tower: maybe
four, five hours.”

“Chip, you’re a wonder,” Retief said. “This looks like a good
time to catch that nap.”

“Me too. Mighty peaceful here, ain’t it?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Durn!” Chip said softly.

Retief opened one eye. “Sorry you came, Chip?”

“Left my best carvin’ knife jammed up ’tween Marbles’ ribs,”
the chef said. “Comes o’ doin’ things in a hurry.”

*
* *

The blond girl brushed her hair from her eyes and smiled at
Retief.

“I’m the only one on duty,” she said. “I’m Freya Dahl.”

“It’s important that I talk to someone in your government,
miss,” Retief said.

The girl looked at Retief. “The men you want to see are Thor
Stahl and Bo Bergman. They will be at the lodge by nightfall.”

“Then it looks like we go to the lodge,” Retief said. “Lead
on, ma’am.”

“What about the boat?” Chip asked.

“I’ll send someone to see to it tomorrow,” the girl said.

“You’re some gal,” Chip said admiringly. “Dern near six feet,
ain’t you? And built too, what I mean.”

They stepped out of the building into a whipping wind.

“Let’s go across to the equipment shed, and get parkas for
you,” Freya said. “It will be cold on the slopes.”

“Yeah,” Chip said, shivering. “I’ve heard you folks don’t
believe in ridin’ ever time you want to go a few miles uphill in a blizzard.”

“It will make us hungry,” Freya said.

Across the wind-scoured ramp abrupt peaks rose,
snow-blanketed. A faint trail led across white slopes, disappeared into low
clouds.

“The lodge is above the cloud layer,” Freya said. “Up there
the sky is always clear.”

It was three hours later, and the sun was burning the peaks
red, when Freya stopped, pulled off her woolen cap, and waved at the vista
below.

“There you see it. Our valley.”

“It’s a mighty perty sight,” Chip gasped. “Anything this
tough to get a look at ought to be.”

Freya pointed to where gaily painted houses nestled together,
a puddle of color in the bowl of the valley. “There,” she said. “The little red
house by itself; do you see it? It is my father’s home-acre.”

“I’d appreciate it a dern sight better if my feet were up to
that big fire you was talking about, Honey,” Chip said.

The climbed on, crossed a shoulder, a slope of broken rock,
reached the final slope. Above, the lodge sprawled, a long low structure of
heavy logs, outlined against the deep-blue twilight sky. Smoke billowed from
stone chimneys at either end, and yellow light gleamed from the narrow windows,
reflected on the snow. Men and women stood in groups of three or four, skis
over their shoulders. Their voices and laughter rang in the icy air.

Freya whistled shrilly. Someone waved.

“Come,” she said. “Meet all my friends.”

A man separated himself from the group, walked down the slope
to meet them. Freya introduced the guests.

“Welcome,” the man said heartily. “Come inside and be warm.”

They crossed the trampled snow to the lodge, pushed through a
heavy door into a vast low-beamed hall, crowded with people talking, singing, some
sitting at long plank tables, others ringed around an eight-foot fireplace at
the far side of the room. Freya led the way to a bench near the fire, made
introductions, found a stool to prop Chip’s feet on near the blaze. He looked
around.

“I never seen so many perty gals before,” he said delightedly.

A brunette with blue eyes raked a chestnut from the fire,
cracked it, and offered it to Retief. A tall man with arms like oak roots
passed heavy beer tankards to the two guests.

“Tell us about the places you’ve seen,” someone called. Chip
emerged from a long pull at the mug, heaved a sigh.

“Well,” he said. “I tell you I been in some
places . . .”

Music started up, ringing above the clamor of talk. Freya
rose. “Come,” she said to Retief. “Dance with me.”

When the music stopped, Retief rejoined Chip, who put down
his mug and sighed. “Derned if I ever felt right at home so quick before.” He
lowered his voice. “They’s some kind o’ trouble in the air, though. Some o’ the
remarks they passed sounds like they’re lookin’ to have some trouble with the
Sweaties. Don’t seem to worry ’em none, though.”

“Chip,” Retief said, “how much do these people know about the
Soetti?”

“Dunno. We useta touch down here regler, but I always jist
set in my galley and worked on ship models or somethin’. I hear the Sweaties
been nosin’ around here some, though.”

Two girls came up to Chip. “I gotta go now, mister,” he said.
“These gals got a idea I oughta take a hand in the kitchen.”

“Smart girls,” Retief said. He turned as Freya came up.

“Bo Bergman and Thor aren’t back yet,” she said. “They stayed
to ski after moonrise.”

“That moon is something. Almost like daylight.”

“They will come soon, now. Shall we go to see the moonlight
on the snow?”

Outside, long black shadows fell like ink in silver. The top
of the cloud layer below glared white under the immense moon.

“Our sister world, Göta,” Freya said. “Nearly as big as Svea.
I would like to visit it someday, although they say it’s all stone and ice.”