Читать книгу Retief: The Governor of Glave - Keith Laumer - Страница 5

The revolution was over and peace restored—naturally Retief expected the worst!

I

Retief turned back the gold-encrusted scarlet cuff of the mess jacket of a First Secretary and Consul, gathered in the three eight-sided black dice, shook them by his right ear and sent them rattling across the floor to rebound from the bulk-head.

“Thirteen’s the point,” the Power Section Chief called. “Ten he makes it!”

“Oh ...Mr. Retief,” a strained voice called. Retief looked up. A tall thin youth in the black-trimmed gray of a Third Secretary flapped a sheet of paper from the edge of the circle surrounding the game. “The Ambassador’s compliments, sir, and will you join him and the staff in the conference room at once?”

Retief rose and dusted his knees. “That’s all for now, boys,” he said. “I’ll take the rest of your money later.” He followed the junior diplomat from the ward room, along the bare corridors of the crew level, past the glare panel reading NOTICE—FIRST CLASS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT, through the chandeliered and draped ballroom and along a stretch of soundless carpet to a heavy door bearing a placard with the legend CONFERENCE IN SESSION.

“Ambassador Sternwheeler seemed quite upset, Mr. Retief,” the messenger said.

“He usually is, Pete.” Retief took a cigar from his breast pocket. “Got a light?”

The Third Secretary produced a permatch. “I don’t know why you smoke those things instead of dope sticks, Mr. Retief,” he said. “The Ambassador hates the smell.”

Retief nodded. “I only smoke this kind at conferences. It makes for shorter sessions.” He stepped into the room. Ambassador Sternwheeler eyed him down the length of the conference table.

“Ah, Mr. Retief honors us with his presence. Do be seated, Retief.” He fingered a yellow Departmental despatch. Retief took a chair, puffing out a dense cloud of smoke.

“As I have been explaining to the remainder of my staff for the past quarter-hour,” Sternwheeler rumbled, “I’ve been the recipient of important intelligence.” He blinked at Retief expectantly. Retief raised his eyebrows in polite inquiry.

“It seems,” Sternwheeler went on, “that there has been a change in regime on Glave. A week ago, the government which invited the dispatch of this mission—and to which we’re accredited—was overthrown. The former ruling class has fled into exile. A popular workers’ and peasants’ junta has taken over.”

“Mr. Ambassador,” Counsellor Magnan broke in, rising. “I’d like to be the first—” he glanced around the table—”or one of the first, anyway, to welcome the new government of Glave into the family of planetary ruling bodies—”

*

“Sit down, Magnan!” Sternwheeler snapped. “Of course the Corps always recognizes de facto sovereignty. The problem is merely one of acquainting ourselves with the policies of this new group—a sort of blue-collar coalition, it seems. In what position that leaves this Embassy I don’t yet know.”

“I suppose this means we’ll spend the next month in a parking orbit,” Counsellor Magnan sighed.

“Unfortunately,” Sternwheeler went on, “the entire affair has apparently been carried off without recourse to violence, leaving the Corps no excuse to move in—that is, it appears our assistance in restoring order will not be required.”

“Glave was one of the old Contract Worlds,” Retief said. “What’s become of the Planetary Manager General and the technical staff? And how do the peasants and workers plan to operate the atmospheric purification system, the Weather Control station, the tide regulation complexes?”

“I’m more concerned at present with the status of the Mission! Will we be welcomed by these peasants or peppered with buckshot?”

“You say that this is a popular junta, and that the former leaders have fled into exile,” Retief said. “May I ask the source?”

“The despatch cites a ‘reliable Glavian source’.”

“That’s officialese for something cribbed from a broadcast news tape. Presumably the Glavian news services are in the hands of the revolution. In that case—”

“Yes, yes, there is the possibility that the issue is yet in doubt. Of course we’ll have to exercise caution in making our approach. It wouldn’t do to make overtures to the wrong side.”

“Oh, I think we need have no fear on that score,” the Chief of the Political Section spoke up. “I know these entrenched cliques. Once challenged by an aroused populace, they scuttle for safety—with large balances safely tucked away in neutral banks.”

“I’d like to go on record,” Magnan piped, “as registering my deep gratification at this fulfillment of popular aspirations—”

“The most popular aspiration I know of is to live high off someone else’s effort,” Retief said. “I don’t know of anyone outside the Corps who’s managed it.”

*

“Gentlemen!” Sternwheeler bellowed. “I’m awaiting your constructive suggestions—not an exchange of political views. We’ll arrive off Glave in less than six hours. I should like before that time to have developed some notion regarding to whom I shall expect to offer my credentials!”

There was a discreet tap at the door; it opened and the young Third Secretary poked his head in.

“Mr. Ambassador, I have a reply to your message—just received from Glave. It’s signed by the Steward of the GFE, and I thought you’d want to see it at once....”

“Yes, of course; let me have it.”

“What’s the GFE?” someone asked.

“It’s the revolutionary group,” the messenger said, passing the message over.

“GFE? GFE? What do the letters SIGNIFY?”

“Glorious Fun Eternally,” Retief suggested. “Or possibly Goodies For Everybody.”

“I believe that’s ‘Glavian Free Electorate’,” the Third Secretary said.

Sternwheeler stared at the paper, lips pursed. His face grew pink. He slammed the paper on the table.

“Well, gentlemen! It appears our worst fears have been realized! This is nothing less than a warning! A threat! We’re advised to divert course and bypass Glave entirely. It seems the GFE wants no interference from meddling foreign exploiters, as they put it!”

Magnan rose. “If you’ll excuse me Mr. Ambassador, I want to get off a message to Sector HQ to hold my old job for me—”

“Sit down, you idiot!” Sternwheeler roared. “If you think I’m consenting to have my career blighted—my first Ambassadorial post whisked out from under me—the Corps made a fool of—”

“I’d like to take a look at that message,” Retief said. It was passed along to him. He read it.

“I don’t believe this applies to us, Mr. Ambassador.”

*

“What are you talking about? It’s addressed to me by name!”

“It merely states that ‘meddling foreign exploiters’ are unwelcome. Meddling foreigners we are, but we don’t qualify as exploiters unless we show a profit—and this appears to be shaping up as a particularly profitless venture.”

“What are you proposing, Mr. Retief?”

“That we proceed to make planetfall as scheduled, greet our welcoming committee with wide diplomatic smiles, hint at largesse in the offing and settle down to observe the lie of the land.”

“Just what I was about to suggest,” Magnan said.

“That might be dangerous,” Sternwheeler said.

“That’s why I didn’t suggest it,” Magnan said.

“Still it’s essential that we learn more of the situation than can be gleaned from official broadcasts,” Sternwheeler mused. “Now, while I can’t justify risking the entire Mission, it might be advisable to dispatch a delegation to sound out the new regime.”

“I’d like to volunteer,” Magnan said, rising.

“Of course, the delegates may be murdered—”

“—but unfortunately, I’m under treatment at the moment.” Magnan sat down.

“—which will place us in an excellent position, propaganda-wise.

“What a pity I can’t go,” the Military Attache said. “But my place is with my troops.”

“The only troops you’ve got are the Assistant Attache and your secretary,” Magnan pointed out.

“Say, I’d like to be down there in the thick of things,” the Political Officer said. He assumed a grave expression. “But of course I’ll be needed here, to interpret results.”

“I appreciate your attitude, gentlemen,” Sternwheeler said, studying the ceiling. “But I’m afraid I must limit the privilege of volunteering for this hazardous duty to those officers of more robust physique, under forty years of age—”

“Tsk. I’m forty-one,” Magnan said.

“—and with a reputation for adaptability.” His glance moved along the table.

“Do you mind if I run along now, Mr. Ambassador?” Retief said. “It’s time for my insulin shot.”

Sternwheeler’s mouth dropped open.

“Just kidding,” Retief said. “I’ll go. But I have one request, Mr. Ambassador: no further communication with the ground until I give the all-clear.”

II

Retief grounded the lighter, in-cycled the lock and stepped out. The hot yellow Glavian sun beat down on a broad expanse of concrete, an abandoned service cart and a row of tall ships casting black shadows toward the silent control tower. A wisp of smoke curled up from the shed area at the rim of the field. There was no other sign of life.

Retief walked over to the cart, tossed his valise aboard, climbed into the driver’s seat and headed for the operations building. Beyond the port, hills rose, white buildings gleaming against the deep green slopes. Near the ridge, a vehicle moved ant-like along a winding road, a dust trail rising behind it. Faintly a distant shot sounded.

Papers littered the ground before the Operations Building. Retief pushed open the tall glass door, stood listening. Slanting sunlight reflected from a wide polished floor, at the far side of which illuminated lettering over empty counters read IMMIGRATION, HEALTH and CUSTOMS. He crossed to the desk, put the valise down, then leaned across the counter. A worried face under an oversized white cap looked up at him.

“You can come out now,” Retief said. “They’ve gone.”

The man rose, dusting himself off. He looked over Retief’s shoulder. “Who’s gone?”

“Whoever it was that scared you.”

“Whatta ya mean? I was looking for my pencil.”

“Here it is.” Retief plucked a worn stub from the pocket of the soiled shirt sagging under the weight of braided shoulderboards. “You can sign me in as a Diplomatic Representative. A break for you—no formalities necessary. Where can I catch a cab for the city?”

The man eyed Retief’s bag. “What’s in that?”

“Personal belongings under duty-free entry.”

“Guns?”

“No, thanks, just a cab.”

“You got no gun?” The man raised his voice.

“That’s right, fellows,” Retief called out. “No gun; no knife, not even a small fission bomb. Just a few pairs of socks and some reading matter.”

A brown-uniformed man ran from behind the Customs Counter, holding a long-barreled blast-rifle centered on the Corps insignia stitched to the pocket of Retief’s powder-blue blazer.

“Don’t try nothing,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”

“It can’t be overtime parking. I’ve only been here five minutes.”

“Hah!” The gun-handler moved out from the counter, came up to Retief. “Empty out your pockets!” he barked. “Hands overhead!”

“I’m just a diplomat, not a contortionist,” Retief said, not moving. “Do you mind pointing that thing in some other direction?”

“Looky here, Mister, I’ll give the orders. We don’t need anybody telling us how to run our business.”

“I’m telling you to shift that blaster before I take it away from you and wrap it around your neck,” Retief said conversationally. The cop stepped back uncertainly, lowering the gun.

“Jake! Horny! Pud! come on out!”

Three more brown uniforms emerged from concealment.

“Who are you fellows hiding from, the top sergeant?” Retief glanced over the ill-fitting uniforms, the unshaved faces, the scuffed boots. “Tell you what. When he shows up, I’ll engage him in conversation. You beat it back to the barracks and grab a quick bath—”

“That’s enough smart talk.” The biggest of the three newcomers moved up to Retief. “You stuck your nose in at the wrong time. We just had a change of management around here.”

“I heard about it,” Retief said. “Who do I complain to?”

“Complain? What about?”

“The port’s a mess,” Retief barked. “Nobody on duty to receive official visitors! No passenger service facilities! Why, do you know I had to carry my own bag—”

“All right, all right, that’s outside my department. You better see the boss.”

“The boss? I thought you got rid of the bosses.”

“We did, but now we got new ones.”

“They any better than the old ones?”

“This guy asks too many questions,” the man with the gun said. “Let’s let Sozier answer ’em.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s the Military Governor of the City.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Retief said. “Lead the way, Jake—and don’t forget my bag.”

*