Retief Unbound (20 page)

With a movement too quick to
follow, Retief's hand chopped down across Zorn's wrist. The needier clattered
to the ground as Retief s hand clamped on Zorn's arm, whirling him around.

"In answer to your last
question," Retief said, "your neck."

"You haven't got a chance,
double-crosser," Zorn gasped.

"Shoke will be here in a
minute. Tell him it's all off."

"Twist harder, mister. Break
it off at the shoulder. I'm telling him nothing."

"The kidding's over, Zorn.
Call it off or I'll kill you."

"I believe you. But you won't
have long to remember it."

"All the killing will be for
nothing. You'll be dead and the Rotunes will step into the power vacuum."

"So what? When I die, the
world ends."

"Suppose I make you another
offer, Zorn?"

"Why would it be any better
than the last one?"

Retief released Zorn's arm, pushed
him away, stooped and picked up the needier.

"I could kill you, Zorn; you
know that"

"Go ahead."

Retief reversed the needier and
held it out.

"I'm a gambler too, Zorn. I'm
gambling you'll listen to what I have to say."

Zorn snatched the gun and stepped
back. He looked at Retief. "That wasn't the smartest bet you ever made,
but go ahead. You've got maybe ten seconds."

"Nobody double-crossed you,
Zorn. Magnan put his foot in it; too bad. Is that a reason to kill yourself and
a lot of other people who've bet their lives on you?"

"They gambled and lost.
Tough."

"Maybe they haven't lost
yet—if you don't quit."

"Get to the point."

Retief spoke earnestly for a minute
and a half. Zorn stood, gun aimed, listening. Then both men turned as footsteps
approached along the terrace. A fat man in a yellow sarong padded up to Zorn.

Zorn tucked the needier in his
waistband.

"Hold everything, Shoke,"
he said. "Tell the boys to put the knives away; spread the word fast: it's
all off."

"I want to commend you,
Retief," Ambassador Crodfoller said expansively. "You mixed very well
at last night's affair; actually, I was hardly aware of your presence."

"I've been studying Mr.
Magnan's work," Retief said.

"A good man, Magnan. In a
crowd, he's virtually invisible."

"He knows when to disappear,
all right."

"This has been in many ways a
model operation, Retief." The ambassador patted his paunch contentedly.
"By observing local social customs and blending harmoniously with the
court, I've succeeded in establishing a fine, friendly, working relationship
with the Potentate."

"I understand the agreement
has been postponed a few days."

The Ambassador chuckled. "The
Potentate's a crafty one.
Through ...
ah ...
a special study I have been conducting,
I learned last night that he had hoped to, shall I say, 'put one over' on the
Corps."

"Great Heavens," Retief
said.

"Naturally, this placed me in
a difficult position. It was my task to quash this gambit, without giving any
indication that I was aware of its existence."

"A hairy position
indeed."

"Quite casually, I informed
the Potentate that certain items which had been included in the terms of the
agreement had been deleted and others substituted. I admired
him
at that moment, Retief. He took it coolly— appearing
completely indifferent—perfectly dissembling his very serious disappointment.
Of course, he could hardly do otherwise without in effect admitting his
plot."

"I noticed him dancing with
three girls each wearing a bunch of grapes; he's very agile for a man of his
bulk."

"You mustn't discount the
Potentate. Remember, beneath that mask of frivolity, he had absorbed a bitter
blow."

"He had me fooled,"
Retief said.

"Don't feel badly; I confess
at first I, too, failed to sense his shrewdness." The ambassador nodded
and moved off along the corridor.

Retief turned and went into an
office. Magnan looked up from his desk.

"Ah, Retief," he said.
"I've been meaning to ask you. About the . . . ah . . . blasters; are
you—"

Retief leaned on Magnan's desk and
looked at him. "I thought that was to be our little secret."

"Well, naturally I—"
Magnan closed his mouth and swallowed. "How is it, Retief," he said
sharply, "that you were aware of this blaster business, when the
ambassador himself wasn't?"

"Easy," Retief said.
"I made it up."

"You what!" Magnan looked
wild. "But the agreement- it's been revised. Ambassador Crodfoller has gone
on record."

"Too bad. Glad I didn't tell
him about it."

Magnan leaned back and closed his
eyes.

"It was big of you to take all
the . . , blame," Retief said, "when the ambassador was talking about
knighting people."

Magnan opened his eyes. "What
about that gambler, Zorn? Won't he be upset when he learns the agreement is
off? After all, I . . . that is, we, or you, had more or less promised
him—"

"It's all right. I made
another arrangement. The business about making blasters out of common
components wasn't completely imaginary. You can actually do it, using parts
from an old-fashioned disposal unit."

"What good will that do
him?" Magnan whispered, looking nervous. "We're not shipping in any
old-fashioned disposal units."

"We don't need to. They're
already installed in the palace kitchen—and in a few thousand other places,
Zorn tells me."

"If this ever leaks . .
." Magnan put a hand to his forehead.

"I have his word on it that
the Nenni slaughter is out. This place is ripe for a change; maybe Zorn is what
it needs."

"But how can we know?"
Magnan said. "How can we be sure?"

"We can't. But it's not up to
the Corps to meddle in Petreac's internal affairs." He leaned over, picked
up Magnan's desk lighter, and lit a cigar. He blew a cloud of smoke toward the
ceiling.

"Right?" he said.

Magnan looked at him and nodded
weakly. "Right."

"I'd better be getting along
to my desk," Retief said. "Now that the ambassador feels that I'm
settling down at last."

"Retief," Magnan said,
"tonight, I implore you: stay out of the kitchen—no matter what."

Retief raised his eyebrows.

"I know," Magnan said.
"If you hadn't interfered, we'd all have had our throats cut. But at least
. . ." He paused, "we'd have died in accordance with
regulations."

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

"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."