Editor's Note: A multitude of alien species appear in the Retief stories. Some of them, such as the Yill and the Soetti, are referred to on several occasions. As a general rule, however, the aliens whom Retief deals with change from one story to the next. Only the Groaci emerge as the ongoing "great opponent" of the Terran Concordiat, beginning with the story "Policy."
As delightful as the Groaci are, however, the aliens who are my personal favorites are the Quopp. They are featured in Laumer's first Retief novel, Retief's War, which is included in this section of the volume.
. . . No jackstraws to be swayed by superficial appearances, dedicated career field personnel of the Corps unflaggingly administered the enlightened concepts evolved at Corps HQ by high-level deep-think teams toiling unceasingly in underground caverns to weld the spirit of Inter-Being amity. Never has the efficacy of close cultural rapport, coupled with Mission teamwork, been better displayed than in the loyal performance of Administrative Assistant Yolanda Meuhl, Acting Consul at Groac, in maintaining the Corps posture laid down by her predecessor, Consul Whaffle . . .
—Vol VII, reel 98. 488 A. E. (AD 2949)
"The Consul for the Terrestrial States," Retief said, "presents his compliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the Groacian Autonomy, and, with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend a recital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret that he will be unable—"
"You can't turn down this invitation," Administrative Assistant Meuhl said flatly. "I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure.' "
Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.
"Miss Meuhl," he said, "in the past couple of weeks I've sat through six light concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and God knows how many assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-duty hour since I got here."
"You can't offend the Groaci," Miss Meuhl said sharply. "Consul Whaffle would never have—"
"Whaffle left here three months ago," Retief said, "leaving me in charge."
"Well," Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. "I'm sure I don't know what excuse I can give the Minister."
"Never mind the excuses. Just tell him I won't be there." He stood up.
"Are you leaving the office?" Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. "I have some important letters here for your signature."
"I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl," Retief said, pulling on a light cape.
"I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wanted them."
"Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl?"
"Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man," Miss Meuhl said stiffly. "He had complete confidence in me."
"Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on, I won't be so busy."
"Well! May I ask where you'll be if something comes up?"
"I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives."
Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. "Whatever for?"
Retief looked at her thoughtfully. "You've been here on Groac for four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that put the present government in power?"
"I'm sure I haven't pried into—"
"What about that Terrestrial cruiser, the one that disappeared out this way about ten years back?"
"Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we avoid with the Groaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding—"
"Why?"
"The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworlders raking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live down the fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on one occasion."
"You mean when we came looking for the cruiser?"
"I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed, grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We try never to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief."
"They never found the cruiser, did they?"
"Certainly not on Groac."
Retief nodded. "Thanks, Miss Meuhl," he said. "I'll be back before you close the office." Miss Meuhl's thin face was set in lines of grim disapproval as he closed the door.
Peering through the small grilled window, the pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressed bleat.
"Not to enter the Archives," he said in his faint voice. "The denial of permission. The deep regret of the Archivist."
"The importance of my task here," Retief said, enunciating the glottal language with difficulty. "My interest in local history."
"The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly."
"The necessity that I enter."
"The specific instructions of the Archivist." The Groacian's voice rose to a whisper. "To insist no longer. To give up this idea!"
"Okay, skinny, I know when I'm licked," Retief said in Terran. "To keep your nose clean."
Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carved windowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in the direction of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians on the street eyed him furtively, and veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsy high-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement. The air was clean and cool. At the office Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list of complaints. Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street. An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate the Groacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in.
A Groacian bartender dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink from the bar-pit at the center of the room looked at Retief, then froze in mid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.
"A cooling drink," Retief said in Groacian, squatting down at the edge of the pit. "To sample a true Groacian beverage."
"Not to enjoy my poor offerings," the Groacian mumbled. "A pain in the digestive sacs. To express regret."
"Not to worry," Retief replied. "To pour it out and let me decide whether I like it."
"To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of . . . foreigners." The barkeep looked around for support, but found none. The Groaci customers, eyes elsewhere, were drifting out.
"To get the lead out," Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in the dish provided. "To shake a tentacle."
"To procure a cage," a thin voice called from the sidelines. "To display the freak."
Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gesture of contempt. From his bluish throat coloration it was apparent the creature was drunk.
"To choke in your upper sac," the bartender hissed, extending his eyes toward the drunk. "To keep silent, littermate of drones."
"To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness," the drunk whispered. "To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece." He wavered toward Retief. "To show this one in the streets, like all freaks."
"Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you?" Retief asked interestedly.
"To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder," the drunk said. The barkeep whispered something and two customers came up to the drunk, took his arms, and helped him to the door.
"To get a cage," the drunk shrilled. "To keep the animals in their place . . ."
"I've changed my mind," Retief said to the bartender. "To be grateful as hell, but to have to hurry off now." He followed the drunk out the door. The other Groaci, releasing the heckler, hurried back inside. Retief looked at the weaving creature.
"To begone, freak," the Groacian whispered.
"To be pals," Retief said. "To be kind to dumb animals."
"To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock."
"Not to be angry, fragrant native," Retief said. "To permit me to chum with you."
"To flee before I take a cane to you!"
"To have a drink together."
"Not to endure such insolence." The Groacian advanced toward Retief. Retief backed away.
"To hold hands," he said. "To be buddies—"
The Groacian reached for him, but missed. A passer-by stepped around him, head down, and scuttled away. Retief, backing into the opening to a narrow cross-way, offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local, who followed, furious. Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacian fell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half rose; Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed.
"Not to be going anywhere for a few minutes," he said. "To stay right here and have a nice long talk."
"There you are!" Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. "There are two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen."
"Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast." Retief pulled off his cape. "This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the Foreign Ministry."
"What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind telling you."
"I'm sure you don't. Come along—and bring an official recorder."
Two Groaci, wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornaments indicative of rank, rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered a courteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted; they were mad, all right.
"I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs," the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. "May I present Shluh, of the Internal Police."
"Sit down, gentlemen," Retief said. They resumed their seats. Miss Meuhl hovered nervously, then sat down on the edge of a chair.
"Oh, it's such a pleasure—" she began.
"Never mind that," Retief said. "These gentlemen didn't come here to sip tea today."
"True," Fith rasped. "Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report, Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it." He nodded to the police chief.
"One hour ago," Shluh said, "a Groacian national was brought to hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of this individual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by a foreigner; a Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my Department indicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that of the Terrestrial Consul . . ."
Miss Meuhl gasped audibly.
"Have you ever heard," Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, "of a Terrestrial cruiser, the ISV Terrific, which dropped from sight in this sector nine years ago?"
"Really!" Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising, "I wash my hands—"
"Just keep that recorder going," Retief snapped.
"I'll not be a party—"
"You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl," Retief said quietly. "I'm telling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation."
Miss Meuhl sat down.
Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. "You re-open an old wound, Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrial hands."
"Hogwash," Retief said. "That tune went over with my predecessors, but it hits a sour note with me."
"All our efforts," Miss Meuhl said, "to live down that terrible episode; and you—"
"Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial Peace Enforcer stood off Groac and sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funny answers and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week, they left. Somewhat annoying to you Groaci, if you were innocent—"
"If!" Miss Meuhl burst out.
"If, indeed," Fith said, his weak voice trembling. "I must protest your—"
"Save your protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do, and I don't think your story will be good enough."
"It is for you to explain; this person who was beaten—"
"Not beaten; just rapped a few times to loosen his memory."
"Then you admit—"
"It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind to it."
Fith rose, Shluh followed suit.
"I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not for your diplomatic immunity, I should—"
"Why did the Government fall, Fith, just after the Task Force paid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrial diplomatic mission?"
"This is an internal matter," Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice. "The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials; it has outdone itself—"
"—to keep the Terrestrial Consul and his staff in the dark," Retief said, "and the same goes for the few Terrestrial businessmen you've given visas. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside the diplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit outlying districts or your satellite—"
"Enough!" Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. "I can talk no more of this matter."
"You'll talk to me, or there'll be a squadron of Peace Enforcers here in five days to do the talking," Retief said.
"You can't—" Miss Meuhl gasped.
Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. The Groaci sat down.
"Answer me this one," Retief said, looking at Shluh. "A few years back—nine, to be exact—there was a little parade held here. Some curious-looking creatures were captured, and after being securely caged, were exhibited to the gentle Groacian public. Hauled through the streets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show.
"Funny thing about these animals: they wore clothes, seemed to communicate with each other. Altogether a very amusing exhibit.
"Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after the parade was over?"
Fith made a choked noise, then spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluh, retracting his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened her mouth, then closed it.
"How did they die?" Retief snapped. "Did you cut their throats, shoot them, bury them alive? What amusing end did you figure out for them? Research, maybe. Cut them open to see what made them yell . . ."
"No," Fith gasped. "I must correct this terrible false impression at once."
"False impression, hell," Retief said. "They were Terrans; a simple narco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw the parade."
"Yes," Fith said weakly. "It is true, they were Terrestrials. But there was no killing—"
"They're alive?"
"Alas, no. They . . . died."
"I see," Retief said. "They died."
"We tried to keep them alive, of course; but we did not know what foods—"
"Didn't take the trouble to find out."
"They fell ill," Fith said. "One by one . . ."
"We'll deal with that question later," Retief said. "Right now, I want more information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship? What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before the big parade?"
"There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you!"
"Killed in the crash landing?"
"No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The . . . Terrestrials . . . were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them; they were strange to us. We had never before seen such beings."
"Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they?"
"Guns? No, no guns—"
"They raised their hands, didn't they, asked for help? You helped them; helped them to death."
"How could we know?" Fith moaned.
"How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months looking for them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had a brisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A close call, eh?"
"We were afraid," Shluh said. "We are a simple people. We feared the strange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but we felt it was as well that they . . . did not survive. Then, when the warships came, we realized our error, but we feared to speak. We purged our guilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and . . . offered our friendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We made a blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to make amends . . ."
"Where is the ship?"
"The ship?"
"What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget. Where is it?"
The two Groacians exchanged looks.
"We wish to show our contrition," Fith said. "We will show you the ship."
"Miss Meuhl," Retief said. "If I don't come back in a reasonable length of time, transmit that recording to Sector Headquarters, sealed." He stood and looked at the Groaci.
"Let's go," he said.
Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern and peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull.
"Any lights in here?" he asked.
A Groacian threw a switch and a weak bluish glow sprang up. Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Empty emplacements gaped below lenseless scanner eyes. Littered decking was visible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVS Terrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy.
"How did you get it in here?" Retief asked.
"It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant," Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. "This is a natural crevasse; the vessel was lowered into it and roofed over."
"How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up?"
"All here is high-grade iron-ore," Fith said, waving a member. "Great veins of almost pure metal."
"Let's go inside."
Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship. Retief clambered up a narrow companionway and glanced around the interior of the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchions where acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrument panels, the litter of sheared bolts, and on scraps of wire and paper. A thin frosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches had sliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding.
"The cargo compartment—" Shluh began.
"I've seen enough," Retief said. Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel and into the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to the steam car, Fith came to Retief's side.
"Indeed I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair," he said. "Now that all has been fully and honestly shown."
"You can skip all that," Retief said. "You're nine years late. The crew was still alive when the Task Force called, I imagine. You killed them—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting what you'd done."
"We were at fault," Fith said abjectly. "Now we wish only friendship."
"The Terrific was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons." Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. "Where is she, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat."
Fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off.
"I know nothing of . . . of . . ." He stopped. His throat vibrated rapidly as he struggled for calm.
"My government can entertain no further accusations, Mr. Consul," he said at last. "I have been completely candid with you, I have overlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere of responsibility. My patience is at an end."
"Where is that ship?" Retief rapped out. "You never learn, do you? You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'm telling you you can't."
"We return to the city now," Fith said. "I can do no more."
"You can and you will, Fith," Retief said. "I intend to get to the truth of this matter."
Fith spoke to Shluh in rapid Groacian. The police chief gestured to his four armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in.
Retief eyed Fith. "Don't try it," he said. "You'll just get yourself in deeper."
Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, his eye stalks canted aggressively toward the Terrestrial.
"Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shall ignore your insulting implications," Fith said in his reedy voice. "We will now return to the city."
Retief looked at the four policemen. "Sure," he said. "We'll cover the details later."
Fith followed him into the car and sat rigidly at the far end of the seat.
"I advise you to remain very close to your Consulate," Fith said. "I advise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy the cultural aspects of life at Groac. Especially, I should not venture out of the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only to the Groacian government."
In the front seat, Shluh looked straight ahead. The loosely-sprung vehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened to the rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing.
"Miss Meuhl," Retief said, "I want you to listen carefully to what I'm going to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci off guard.
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Miss Meuhl snapped, her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses.
"If you'll listen, you may find out," Retief said. "I have no time to waste, Miss Meuhl. They won't be expecting an immediate move—I hope—and that may give me the latitude I need."
"You're still determined to make an issue of that incident." Miss Meuhl snorted. "I really can hardly blame the Groaci; they are not a sophisticated race; they had never before met aliens."
"You're ready to forgive a great deal, Miss Meuhl. But it's not what happened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now. I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out. Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have come far; the cruiser itself must be somewhere nearby. I want to know where."
"The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You can do irreparable harm to the Terrestrial image if you insist—"
"We're wasting time," Retief said, as he crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a slim-barreled needler.
"This office is being watched; not very efficiently, if I know the Groaci. I think I can get past them all right."
"Where are you going with . . . that?" Miss Meuhl stared at the needler. "What in the world—"
"The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper in their files relating to this affair. I have to get what I need before it's too late. If I wait for an official Enquiry Commission, they'll find nothing but blank smiles."
"You're out of your mind!" Miss Meuhl stood up, quivering with indignation. "You're like a . . . a . . ."
"You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move for the Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who know what happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffed him out—for the moment."
Miss Meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. "Your fantasies are getting the better of you," she gasped. "In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I've never heard anything so ridiculous."
"Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food and water in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut the supply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep in touch with you via handphone."
"What are you planning to do?"
"If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of this afternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you. Beam it through on a Mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you've done and sit tight. I think you'll be all right. It won't be easy to blast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you in an obvious way. A Force can be here in a week."
"I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You . . . Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy—"
"Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better," Retief said, "but don't be fool enough to trust them." He pulled on a cape, and opened the door.
"I'll be back in a couple of hours," he said. Miss Meuhl stared after him silently as he closed the door.
It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to the safe-lock and stepped into the darkened Consular office. Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked at Retief, rose, snapped on a light, and turned to stare.
"What in the world— Where have you been? What's happened to your clothing?"
"I got a little dirty—don't worry about it." Retief went to his desk, opened a drawer, and replaced the needler.
"Where have you been?" Miss Meuhl demanded. "I stayed here."
"I'm glad you did," Retief said. "I hope you piled up a supply of food and water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week, at least." He jotted figures on a pad. "Warm up the official sender. I have a long transmission for Sector Headquarters."
"Are you going to tell me where you've been?"
"I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl," Retief said sharply. "I've been to the Foreign Ministry," he added. "I'll tell you all about it later."
"At this hour? There's no one there."
"Exactly."
Miss Meuhl gasped. "You mean you broke in? You burgled the Foreign Office?"
"That's right," Retief said calmly. "Now—"
"This is absolutely the end," Miss Meuhl said. "Thank heaven I've already—"
"Get that sender going, woman! This is important."
"I've already done so, Mr. Retief!" Miss Meuhl said harshly. "I've been waiting for you to come back here." She turned to the communicator and flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distance image appeared.
"He's here now," Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retief triumphantly.
"That's good," said Retief. "I don't think the Groaci can knock us off the air, but—"
"I have done my duty, Mr. Retief; I made a full report of your activities to Sector Headquarters last night, as soon as you left this office. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of my decision have been completely dispelled by what you've just told me."
Retief looked at her levelly. "You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Did you mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here?"
"That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior. I must say, in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality less suited to diplomatic work."
The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed. "Mr. Retief," the face on the screen said sternly, "I am Counselor Nitworth, DSO-1, Deputy Under-Secretary for the Sector. I have received a report on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve you administratively. Pending the findings of a Board of Inquiry, you will—"
Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphant look faded from Miss Meuhl's face.
"Why, what is the meaning—"
"If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn't ignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl," Retief went on earnestly, "I've found the missing cruiser. It's—"
"You heard him relieve you!"
"I heard him say he was going to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heard and acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'll get my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassing all around."
"You're defying lawful authority. I'm in charge here now." Miss Meuhl stepped to the local communicator.
"I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, and offer my profound—"
"Don't touch that screen," Retief said. "You go sit in that corner where I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape for transmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed Task Force. Then we'll settle down to wait."
Retief, ignoring Miss Meuhl's fury, spoke into the recorder.
The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up and stared at it.
"Go ahead," Retief said. "Answer it."
A Groacian official appeared on the screen.
"Yolanda Meuhl," he said without preamble, "for the Foreign Minister of the Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consul to Groac, in accordance with the advice transmitted to my Government direct from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As Consul, you are requested to make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former Consul, in connection with the assault on two Peace Keepers, and illegal entry into the offices of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs."
"Why . . . why," Miss Meuhl stammered. "Yes, of course, and I do want to express my deepest regrets—"
Retief rose, went to the communicator, and assisted Miss Meuhl aside.
"Listen carefully, Fith," he said. "Your bluff has been called. You don't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nine years, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resist the temptation to make matters worse."
"Miss Meuhl," Fith replied, "a Peace Squad waits outside your Consulate. It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, the Groaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but—"
"Don't bother," Retief cut in. "You know what was in those files I looked over this morning."
Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door reaching for the safe-lock release.
"Don't!" Retief jumped . . . too late. The door burst inward, a crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room, pushed Miss Meuhl back, and aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police Chief Shluh pushed forward.
"Attempt no violence, Terrestrial," he said. "I cannot promise to restrain my men."
"You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh," Retief said steadily. "I suggest you move back out the same way you came in."
"I invited them here," Miss Meuhl spoke up. "They are here at my express wish."
"Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squad of armed Groaci in the Consulate?"
"You are the Consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl," Shluh said. "Would it not be best if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety?"
"Yes," Miss Meuhl said. "You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escort Mr. Retief to his quarters in this building."
"I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith," Retief said.
"As Chief of Mission," Miss Meuhl said quickly, "I hereby waive immunity in the case of Mr. Retief."
Shluh produced a hand recorder. "Kindly repeat your statement, madam, officially," he said. "I wish no question—"
"Don't be a fool, woman," Retief said. "Don't you see what you're letting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you to figure out whose side you're on."
"I'm on the side of common decency!"
"You've been taken in. These people are concealing—"
"You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief?" She turned to the police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up.
"That's an illegal waiver," Retief said. "I'm Consul here, whatever rumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, in spite of anything you can do; don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacian atrocities."
"Take the man," Shluh said. Two tall Groaci came to Retief's side, guns aimed at his chest.
"Determined to hang yourselves, aren't you?" Retief said. "I hope you have sense enough not to lay a hand on this poor fool here." He jerked a thumb at Miss Meuhl. "She doesn't know anything. I hadn't had time to tell her yet. She thinks you're a band of angels."
The cop at Retief's side swung the butt of his scatter gun and connected solidly with Retief's jaw. Retief staggered against a Groacian, was caught and thrust upright, blood running down onto his shirt. Miss Meuhl yelped. Shluh barked at the guard in shrill Groacian, then turned to stare at Miss Meuhl.
"What has this man told you?"
"I—nothing. I refused to listen to his ravings."
"He said nothing to you of . . . some alleged . . . involvement."
"I've told you," Miss Meuhl said sharply. She looked at the expressionless Groaci, then back at the blood on Retief's shirt.
"He told me nothing," she whispered. "I swear it."
"Let it lie, boys," Retief said, "before you spoil that good impression."
Shluh looked at Miss Meuhl for a long moment. Then he turned.
"Let us go," he said. He turned back to Miss Meuhl. "Do not leave this building until further advice."
"But . . . I am the Terrestrial Consul."
"For your safety, madam. The people are aroused at the beating of Groacian nationals by an . . . alien."
"So long, Meuhlsie," Retief said. "You played it real foxy."
"You'll . . . lock him in his quarters?" Miss Meuhl said.
"What is done with him is now a Groacian affair, Miss Meuhl. You yourself have withdrawn the protection of your government."
"I didn't mean—"
"Don't start having second thoughts," Retief said. "They can make you miserable."
"I had no choice. I had to consider the best interest of the Service."
"My mistake, I guess. I was thinking of the best interests of a Terrestrial cruiser with three hundred men aboard."
"Enough," Shluh said. "Remove this criminal." He gestured to the Peace Keepers.
"Move along," he said to Retief. He turned to Miss Meuhl.
"A pleasure to deal with you, Madam."
The police car started up and pulled away. The Peace Keeper in the front seat turned to look at Retief.
"To have some sport with it, and then to kill it," he said.
"To have a fair trial first," Shluh said. The car rocked and jounced, rounded a corner, and puffed along between ornamented pastel facades.
"To have a trial and then to have a bit of sport," the Peace Keeper said.
"To suck the eggs in your own hill," Retief said. "To make another stupid mistake."
Shluh raised his short ceremonial club and cracked Retief across the head. Retief shook his head, tensed—
The Peace Keeper in the front seat beside the driver turned and rammed the barrel of his scatter gun against Retief's ribs.
"To make no move, outworlder," he said. Shluh raised his club and carefully struck Retief again. He slumped.
The car, swaying, rounded another corner. Retief slid over against the police chief.
"To fend this animal—" Shluh began. His weak voice was cut off short as Retief's hand shot out, took him by the throat, and snapped him down onto the floor. As the guard on Retief's left lunged, Retief uppercut him, slamming his head against the door post. Retief grabbed the guard's scatter gun as it fell, and pushed it into the mandibles of the Groacian in the front seat.
"To put your pop-gun over the seat—carefully—and drop it," he said.
The driver slammed on his brakes, then whirled to raise his gun. Retief cracked a gun barrel against the head of the Groacian.
"To keep your eye-stalks on the road," he said. The driver grabbed at the tiller and shrank against the window, watching Retief with one eye, driving with another.
"To gun this thing," Retief said. "To keep moving."
Shluh stirred on the floor. Retief put a foot on him, pressing him back. The Peace Keeper beside Retief moved. Retief pushed him off the seat onto the floor. He held the scatter gun with one hand and mopped at the blood on his face with the other. The car bounded over the irregular surface of the road, puffing furiously.
"Your death will not be an easy one, Terrestrial," Shluh said in Terran.
"No easier than I can help," Retief said. "Shut up for now, I want to think."
The car, passing the last of the relief-encrusted mounds, sped along between tilled fields.
"Slow down," Retief said. The driver obeyed.
"Turn down this side road."
The car bumped off onto an unpaved surface, then threaded its way back among tall stalks.
"Stop here." The car stopped, blew off steam, and sat trembling as the hot engine idled.
Retief opened the door, taking his foot off Shluh.
"Sit up," he ordered. "You two in front listen carefully." Shluh sat up, rubbing his throat.
"Three of you are getting out here. Good old Shluh is going to stick around to drive for me. If I get that nervous feeling that you're after me, I'll toss him out. That will be pretty messy, at high speed. Shluh, tell them to sit tight until dark and forget about sounding any alarms. I'd hate to see you split open and spill all over the pavement."
"To burst your throat sac, evil-smelling beast!" Shluh hissed in Groacian.
"Sorry, I haven't got one." Retief put the gun under Shluh's ear. "Tell them, Shluh; I can drive myself, in a pinch."
"To do as the foreign one says; to stay hidden until dark," Shluh said.
"Everybody out," Retief said. "And take this with you." He nudged the unconscious Groacian. "Shluh, you get in the driver's seat. You others stay where I can see you."
Retief watched as the Groaci silently followed instructions.
"All right, Shluh," Retief said softly. "Let's go. Take me to Groac Spaceport by the shortest route that doesn't go through the city, and be very careful about making any sudden movements."
Forty minutes later Shluh steered the car up to the sentry-guarded gate in the security fence surrounding the military enclosure at Groac Spaceport.
"Don't yield to any rash impulses," Retief whispered as a crested Groacian soldier came up. Shluh grated his mandibles in helpless fury.
"Drone-master Shluh, Internal Security," he croaked. The guard tilted his eyes toward Retief.
"The guest of the Autonomy," Shluh added. "To let me pass or to rot in this spot, fool?"
"To pass, Drone-master," the sentry mumbled. He was still staring at Retief as the car moved jerkily away.
"You are as good as pegged-out on the hill in the pleasure pits now, Terrestrial," Shluh said in Terran. "Why do you venture here?"
"Pull over there in the shadow of the tower and stop," Retief said.
Shluh complied. Retief studied a row of four slender ships silhouetted against the early dawn colors of the sky.
"Which of those boats are ready to lift?" Retief demanded.
Shluh swiveled a choleric eye.
"All of them are shuttles; they have no range. They will not help you."
"To answer the question, Shluh, or to get another crack on the head."
"You are not like other Terrestrials, you are a mad dog."
"We'll rough out a character sketch of me later. Are they fueled up? You know the procedures here. Did those shuttles just get in, or is that the ready line?"
"Yes. All are fueled and ready for take-off."
"I hope you're right, Shluh. You and I are going to drive over and get in one; if it doesn't lift, I'll kill you and try the next one. Let's go."
"You are mad. I have told you: these boats have not more than ten thousand ton-seconds capacity; they are useful only for satellite runs."
"Never mind the details. Let's try the first in line."
Shluh let in the clutch and the steam car clanked and heaved, rolling off toward the line of boats.
"Not the first in line," Shluh said suddenly. "The last is the most likely to be fueled. But—"
"Smart grasshopper," Retief said. "Pull up to the entry port, hop out, and go right up. I'll be right behind you."
"The gangway guard. The challenging of—"
"More details. Just give him a dirty look and say what's necessary. You know the technique."
The car passed under the stern of the first boat, then the second. There was no alarm. It rounded the third and shuddered to a stop by the open port of the last vessel.
"Out," Retief said. "To make it snappy."
Shluh stepped from the car, hesitated as the guard came to attention, then hissed at him and mounted the steps. The guard looked wonderingly at Retief, mandibles slack.
"An outworlder!" he said. He unlimbered his scatter gun. "To stop here, meat-faced one."
Up ahead, Shluh turned.
"To snap to attention, litter-mate of drones," Retief rasped in Groacian. The guard jumped, waved his eye stalks, and came to attention.
"About face!" Retief hissed. "To hell out of here—march!"
The guard tramped off across the ramp. Retief took the steps two at a time, slammed the port shut behind himself.
"I'm glad your boys have a little discipline, Shluh," Retief said. "What did you say to him?"
"I but—"
"Never mind. We're in. Get up to the control compartment."
"What do you know of Groacian Naval vessels?"
"Plenty. This is a straight copy from the life boat you lads hijacked. I can run it. Get going."
Retief followed Shluh up the companionway into the cramped control room.
"Tie in, Shluh," Retief ordered.
"This is insane. We have only fuel enough for a one-way transit to the satellite; we cannot enter orbit, nor can we land again! To lift this boat is death. Release me. I promise you immunity."
"If I have to tie you in myself, I might bend your head in the process."
Shluh crawled onto the couch, and strapped in.
"Give it up," he said. "I will see that you are re-instated—with honor. I will guarantee a safe-conduct—"
"Count-down," Retief said. He threw in the autopilot.
"It is death!" Shluh screeched.
The gyros hummed, timers ticked, relays closed. Retief lay relaxed on the acceleration pad. Shluh breathed noisily, his mandibles clicking rapidly.
"That I had fled in time," he said in a hoarse whisper. "This is not a good death."
"No death is a good death," Retief said, "not for a while yet." The red light flashed on in the center of the panel, and sound roared out into the breaking day. The ship trembled, then lifted. Retief could hear Shluh's whimpering even through the roar of the drive.
"Perihelion," Shluh said dully. "To begin now the long fall back."
"Not quite," Retief said. "I figure eighty-five seconds to go." He scanned the instruments, frowning.
"We will not reach the surface, of course," Shluh said. "The pips on the screen are missiles. We have a rendezvous in space, Retief. In your madness, may you be content."
"They're fifteen minutes behind us, Shluh. Your defenses are sluggish."
"Nevermore to burrow in the grey sands of Groac," Shluh mourned.
Retief's eyes were fixed on a dial face.
"Any time now," he said softly. Shluh canted his eye stalks.
"What do you seek?"
Retief stiffened. "Look at the screen," he said. Shluh looked. A glowing point, off-center, moving rapidly across the grid . . .
"What—?"
"Later—"
Shluh watched as Retief's eyes darted from one needle to another.
"How . . ."
"For your own neck's sake, Shluh, you'd better hope this works." He flipped the sending key.
"2396 TR-42 G, this is the Terrestrial Consul at Groac, aboard Groac 902, vectoring on you at an MP fix of 91/54/942. Can you read me? Over."
"What forlorn gesture is this?" Shluh whispered. "You cry in the night to emptiness."
"Button your mandibles," Retief snapped, listening. There was a faint hum of stellar background noise. Retief repeated his call.
"Maybe they hear but can't answer," he muttered. He flipped the key.
"2396, you've got forty seconds to lock a tractor beam on me, before I shoot past you."
"To call into the void," said Shluh. "To—"
"Look at the DV screen."
Shluh twisted his head and looked. Against the background mist of stars, a shape loomed, dark and inert.
"It is . . . a ship," he said, "a monster ship . . ."
"That's her," Retief said. "Nine years and a few months out of New Terra on a routine mapping mission; the missing cruiser, IVS Terrific."
"Impossible," Shluh hissed. "The hulk swings in a deep cometary orbit."
"Right, and now it's making its close swing past Groac."
"You think to match orbits with the derelict? Without power? Our meeting will be a violent one, if that is your intent."
"We won't hit; we'll make our pass at about five thousand yards."
"To what end, Terrestrial? You have found your lost ship; what then? Is this glimpse worth the death we die?"
"Maybe they're not dead," Retief said.
"Not dead?" Shluh lapsed into Groacian. "To have died in the burrow of one's youth. To have burst my throat sac before I embarked with a mad alien to call up the dead."
"2396, make it snappy," Retief called. The speaker crackled heedlessly. The dark image on the screen drifted past, dwindling now.
"Nine years, and the mad one is speaking as to friends," Shluh raved. "Nine years dead, and still to seek them."
"Another ten seconds," Retief said softly, "and we're out of range. Look alive, boys."
"Was this your plan, Retief?" Shluh reverted to Terran. "Did you flee Groac and risk all on this slender thread?"
"How long would I have lasted in a Groaci prison?"
"Long and long, my Retief," Shluh hissed, "under the blade of an artist."
Abruptly the ship trembled, seemed to drag, rolling the two passengers in their couches. Shluh hissed as the restraining harness cut into him. The shuttle boat was pivoting heavily, up-ending. Crushing acceleration forces built. Shluh gasped, crying out shrilly.
"What . . . is . . . it . . . ?"
"It looks," said Retief, "like we've had a little bit of luck."
"On our second pass," the gaunt-faced officer said, "they let fly with something. I don't know how it got past our screens. It socked home in the stern and put the main pipe off the air. I threw full power to the emergency shields, and broadcast our identification on a scatter that should have hit every receiver within a parsec; nothing. Then the transmitter blew. I was a fool to send the boat down, but I couldn't believe, somehow . . ."
"In a way it's lucky you did, Captain. That was my only lead."
"They tried to finish us after that. But, with full power to the screens, nothing they had could get through. Then they called on us to surrender."
Retief nodded. "I take it you weren't tempted?"
"More than you know. It was a long swing out on our first circuit. Then coming back in, we figured we'd hit. As a last resort I would have pulled back power from the screens and tried to adjust the orbit with the steering jets, but the bombardment was pretty heavy. I don't think we'd have made it. Then we swung past and headed out again. We've got a three-year period. Don't think I didn't consider throwing in the towel."
"Why didn't you?"
"The information we have is important. We've got plenty of stores aboard, enough for another ten years, if necessary. Sooner or later I knew a Corps search vessel would find us."
Retief cleared his throat. "I'm glad you stuck with it, Captain. Even a backwater world like Groac can kill a lot of people when it runs amok."
"What I didn't know," the captain went on, "was that we're not in a stable orbit. We're going to graze atmosphere pretty deeply this pass, and in another sixty days we'd be back to stay. I guess the Groaci would be ready for us."
"No wonder they were sitting on this so tight. They were almost in the clear."
"And you're here now," the captain said. "Nine years, and we weren't forgotten. I knew we could count on—"
"It's over now, Captain. That's what counts."
"Home . . . After nine years . . ."
"I'd like to take a look at the films you mentioned," Retief said. "The ones showing the installations on the satellite."
The captain complied. Retief watched as the scene unrolled, showing the bleak surface of the tiny moon as the Terrific had seen it, nine years before. In harsh black and white, row on row of identical hulls cast long shadows across the pitted metallic surface of the satellite.
"They had quite a little surprise planned; your visit must have panicked them," Retief said.
"They should be about ready to go, by now. Nine years . . ."
"Hold that picture," Retief said suddenly. "What's that ragged black line across the plain there?"
"I think it's a fissure. The crystalline structure—"
"I've got what may be an idea," Retief said. "I had a look at some classified files last night, at the Foreign Office. One was a progress report on a fissionable stock-pile. It didn't make much sense at the time. Now I get the picture. Which is the north end of that crevasse?"
"At the top of the picture."
"Unless I'm badly mistaken, that's the bomb dump. The Groaci like to tuck things underground. I wonder what a direct hit with a 50 megaton missile would do to it?"
"If that's an ordnance storage dump," the captain said, "it's an experiment I'd like to try."
"Can you hit it?"
"I've got fifty heavy missiles aboard. If I fire them in direct sequence, it should saturate the defenses. Yes, I can hit it."
"The range isn't too great?"
"These are the deluxe models." The captain smiled balefully. "Video guidance. We could steer them into a bar and park 'em on a stool."
"What do you say we try it?"
"I've been wanting a solid target for a long time," the captain said.
Half an hour later, Retief propelled Shluh into a seat before the screen.
"That expanding dust cloud used to be the satellite of Groac, Shluh," he said. "Looks like something happened to it."
The police chief stared at the picture.
"Too bad," Retief said. "But then it wasn't of any importance, was it, Shluh?"
Shluh muttered incomprehensibly.
"Just a bare hunk of iron, Shluh, as the Foreign Office assured me when I asked for information."
"I wish you'd keep your prisoner out of sight," the captain said. "I have a hard time keeping my hands off him."
"Shluh wants to help, Captain. He's been a bad boy and I have a feeling he'd like to co-operate with us now, especially in view of the eminent arrival of a Terrestrial ship, and the dust cloud out there," Retief said.
"What do you mean?"
"Captain, you can ride it out for another week, contact the ship when it arrives, get a tow in, and your troubles are over. When your films are shown in the proper quarter, a Peace Force will come out here and reduce Groac to a sub-technical cultural level and set up a monitor system to insure she doesn't get any more expansionist ideas—not that she can do much now, with her handy iron mine in the sky gone."
"That's right, and—"
"On the other hand, there's what I might call the diplomatic approach . . ."
He explained at length. The captain looked at him thoughtfully.
"I'll go along," he said. "What about this fellow?"
Retief turned to Shluh. The Groacian shuddered, retracting his eye stalks.
"I will do it," he said faintly.
"Right," Retief said. "Captain, if you'll have your men bring in the transmitter from the shuttle, I'll place a call to a fellow named Fith at the Foreign Office." He turned to Shluh. "And when I get him, Shluh, you'll do everything exactly as I've told you—or have Terrestrial monitors dictating in Groac City."
"Quite candidly, Retief," Counselor Nitworth said, "I'm rather nonplussed. Mr. Fith of the Foreign Office seemed almost painfully lavish in your praise. He seems most eager to please you. In the light of some of the evidence I've turned up of highly irregular behavior on your part, it's difficult to understand."
"Fith and I have been through a lot together," Retief said. "We understand each other."
"You have no cause for complacency, Retief," Nitworth said. "Miss Meuhl was quite justified in reporting your case. Of course, had she known that you were assisting Mr. Fith in his marvelous work, she would have modified her report somewhat, no doubt. You should have confided in her."
"Fith wanted to keep it secret, in case it didn't work out. You know how it is."
"Of course. And as soon as Miss Meuhl recovers from her nervous breakdown, there'll be a nice promotion awaiting her. The girl more than deserves it for her years of unswerving devotion to Corps policy."
"Unswerving," Retief said. "I'll go along with that."
"As well you may, Retief. You've not acquitted yourself well in this assignment. I'm arranging for a transfer; you've alienated too many of the local people."
"But as you said, Fith speaks highly of me . . ."
"True. It's the cultural intelligentsia I'm referring to. Miss Meuhl's records show that you deliberately affronted a number of influential groups by boycotting—"
"Tone deaf," Retief said. "To me a Groacian blowing a nose-whistle sounds like a Groacian blowing a nose-whistle."
"You have to come to terms with local aesthetic values. Learn to know the people as they really are. It's apparent from some of the remarks Miss Meuhl quoted in her report that you held the Groaci in rather low esteem. But how wrong you were. All the while they were working unceasingly to rescue those brave lads marooned aboard our cruiser. They pressed on, even after we ourselves had abandoned the search. And when they discovered that it had been a collision with their satellite which disabled the craft, they made that magnificent gesture—unprecedented. One hundred thousand credits in gold to each crew member, as a token of Groacian sympathy."
"A handsome gesture," Retief murmured.
"I hope, Retief, that you've learned from this incident. In view of the helpful part you played in advising Mr. Fith in matters of procedure to assist in his search, I'm not recommending a reduction in grade. We'll overlook the affair, give you a clean slate. But in the future, I'll be watching you closely."
"You can't win 'em all," Retief said.
"You'd better pack up; you'll be coming along with us in the morning." Nitworth shuffled his papers together. "I'm sorry that I can't file a more flattering report on you. I would have liked to recommend your promotion, along with Miss Meuhl's."
"That's okay," Retief said. "I have my memories."