Retief and the Rascals (30 page)

            "Form them up in an Oort, using a Standard
Number Nine coverage," Retief directed.

            "Hey, Retief," Pete protested.
"You know I don't know nothing about textbook tactics!"

            "I know you were third in your class at the
Academy," Retief reminded the superficially uncouth space tramp.
"Let's get this show on the road."

            "Aye, sir," Pete mumbled, and returned
to his duties. There was a stir at the entry lock and Superchief Blatski sprang
to his feet and yelled, "Shunt!"

            A bleary-eyed man of middle age, dressed
carelessly in a blue-baker officer's blouse, white spacen's bell-bottoms, and
an old Marine campaign hat staggered into view, waving an almost empty bottle.
"What's going on here?" he roared, and hiccuped. "You can't tool
me! My command here is clearing for action! My battle station is on the bridge,
of course, but first I got to see— Oh, hi, Chief," he interrupted himself.
Glad to see you're in charge, but who're these civilians?"

            "Captain Muldoon, sir," Blatski
managed, his rigid posture of attention almost locking up his breathing.
"This here's one o' them diplomats you invited aboard. He's stopping a
little war, it seems like."

            "Oh. That's swell," Muldoon replied.
"That way I don't hafta bother. What's all the excitement about, anyway?
Somebody's lobbing ineffective fire at us, did you know that? Amateurs, don't
know what they're doing, bouncing Class-four stuff off
Ruppy's
stern-plates.
Waste o' time and ammunition. You boys fixing to blast 'em out of space, or
what?" The captain, not so drunk after all, wandered over to the DV screen
and nodded.

            "I see yer setting up a Oort, eh? Good
idea. We can clear em out like a dose o' salts does a case of spaceguts! About
ready to open fire, are you? Good! I like to watch old
Ruppy
in action.
Usually can't see much on that little screen on A deck. This one's better. Got
scope! Boy, oh, boy, look at that Groaci gunboat go! He's hightailing it for
dirtside! You going to let him go?"

            "Absolutely, Cap'n, sir, good idea,"
Blatski replied. "What I'm tryna do here, I m tryna get all these
freebooters—Promo, too—to line up orderly and—"

            "Easy, sir," Blatski interrupted
himself. "Why don't you just set down here, Cap'n, and we'll take care of
everything, just like you said."

            "Chief Blatski!" Muldoon roared.
"Now hear this: I've got important orders." He paused and yelled
impressively, "Splice the main brace—all hands, mind you!"

            "What in the world does he mean?"
Magnan queried.

            "Means 'issue a tot of rum all
around'," Retief supplied. Blatski went to a double-padlocked wall-locker,
opened the door with a deft twist, leaving the big Yale in place, and took out
a blackish bottle.

            Hey, you!" Muldoon roared. "What's the
idea, Stan, messing with the classified supplies? Bring that here!"

            "Sir," Blatski offered, "you said
to splice the main brace."

            "Sure I did!" the captain agreed
readily. "Start with me; I haven't had a snort for five minutes!"

            "Jim," Magnan said anxiously, "we
have to
do
something,
now,
before he gets out of hand and starts
ordering the troops into battle!"

            Retief studied the big all-around screen, which
afforded a view of a ten-mile sphere of space, centered on the AR transmitter
aboard
Ruppy.
It showed the formerly freely-darting vessels of the four
mutually hostile task forces arranged in a twenty-mile sphere with
Corruptible
at the center.

            "Ye gods!" Muldoon yelled. "We're
in the hot spot! They've pulled off a textbook englobement! They can pour
concentrated fire into us from all quarters at once! Abandon ship!"

            "Easy, Captain, Retief urged. "It also
means we can fire in any direction and hit pay-dirt. Hold the panic button.
I'll have a word with them."

            "This is no time for diplomacy!"
Muldoon declared wrathfully. "The time has come, gents, for action. Chief
Blatski: fire all batteries at will!" Muldoon sank back to his stool and
resumed splicing his main brace.

            Retief spoke into the all-band talker.
"Attention all captains," he called. "You're under
Ruppy's
guns,
as you can see, but I'll try to persuade the captain not to use them, if you
can ground your vessels in good order, due east of the port. Pete, you ride
herd on this maneuver and see they set them down in orderly rows,
prow-to-stern."

            "You heard Jim Retief," Pete's voice
growled. "Now, do it, you miserable space-sweepings, before I get my
dander up and start squirting low-R nukes right up yer tailpipes! Go!"

            The dispersed vessels coagulated into neatly ranked
formations and dropped toward the broad plain far below. They slowed on
entering atmosphere, a few prows with inadequate shielding glowing white-hot
for a few moments as they dropped lower and went over to airfoils. They spread
out, took up parking formations, and settled in, rank on rank. At high-M,
Retief could see crowds of people streaming out along the roads from the city
and forming up in an immense mob along the security fence of the port.

            "Jim, we've got to get down there
fast," Magnan blurted. "Before there's another unfortunate
misunderstanding."

           
"Look
here, Mr. Retief," Pokey's harsh voice rasped from the squawk-box.
"What's going on here? Something seems to have disrupted the festival, and
before I got video footage of the hijinks for my files, too!"

            "It's quite all right, sir!" Magnan
caroled. "The carnival will resume as soon as the crowd reaches the
debarking crews!"

            "Pete, Retief called, "you'd better
look for a fellow named Wim Dit: He's handling the ground-based phase of the
festival down there. Keep him calm and tell him there'll be a fresh
distribution of play-pretties as soon as he's shown me a properly organized
welcoming celebration for all his new allies. He'll be notified of the location
of the handout as soon as I see the Hon lying down with the lamb."

            " 'The Insupportable lying down with the
Unspeakable' would be more to the point," Magnan sniffed. "Jim, do
you really think ...?"

            With a clatter of polished boots on unpolished
deck-plates, Chief Inspector Pokey Snail appeared personally on the scene. When
an elaborate, stagey throat-clearing failed to elicit an instant response, he
declaimed, "Ah, Ben, it just occurred to me—silly idea, of course, that
vessel being as it is decommissioned—that some hothead among the celebrants
might somehow receive the impression that
Incorruptible
might in some
fashion represent a threat, and thus inspire retaliatory action in advance: an
attack, that is. So wouldn't it be prudent to offer our immediate surrender, so
as to defuse such a dreadful potentiality before the fact? Now, a simple
document would be best, I think: something along the lines of, 'The Chief
Inspector in charge of the VIP Transport (ex-battlewagon)
Incorruptible
requests
an accommodation with all groups now engaged in the celebration. While it is
true that certain trifling regulations have been broached by the inattentive
among you'—here I refer to the bombardment to which I was subjected—'I
understand that it was all in the joyous spirit of Gorm, and I give assurance—'
"

            He broke off as Magnan interrupted: "Oh,
sir. Is this the
simplified
form of your proposal?"

            "To be sure, Ben," Pokey replied
affably. "Perhaps I was getting a bit carried away, but I'm sure you get
the idea: we come on like a bunch of boobs and con these hillbillies into
grounding their vessels where they can do no more accidental harm—then we move
into zenith and show them where the power is. I suspect a prize court would
settle a respectable sum on those responsible for such a coup, in addition to
the pleasing glow of satisfaction we'll all experience at having escaped alive
from this ridiculous contretemps: barging into the middle of carnival time, as
if—at
your
insistence, Ben—as if we had no conception of respect for the
quaint native customs of emergent, ah, developing, er, inferior, that is,
peoples."

            "Do you think they'd go for a simple-minded
gambit like that?" Magnan inquired of Retief, who shook his head.

            "Let's ask them," he suggested, then,
to the talker, "Pete, how does it sound to you?"

            "Oh, that darn off-key again!" Magnan
complained. "Do you suppose the uncouth fellow heard the whole
thing?"

            "Damn right, Ben," Pete replied
promptly. "And unfortunately for hopes of pacification of the unruly
element, so did the rest o' the boys."

            "But they
do
understand," Pokey
put in quickly, "that I'm offering unconditional surrender?"

            "That's cool," Pete acknowledged,
"but the part about the prize court sounds a little crafty. But anyway, if
you wanna surrender, go ahead. Close them gun ports and set her down nice, I'll
try to keep the boys in line. The Groaci, too—and even Buck Promo. Remember,
Retief, I got no control over them auxiliaries."

            "I'll bet you could think of something,
Pete," Retief encouraged.

        "Damn right,"
Pete muttered, and flipped keys.

            "All right, you volunteers!" he
boomed. "I got no objection you wanna get in on the fun, but
I'm
War
Chief around here! That means you, too, Buck! I know you useta be a admiral and
all, but you quit yer job, remember! Now, lay offa the tough stuff and hit the
deck, right now, or I'll hafta—" He broke off and punched another button.
On the screen, a blue-white fireball appeared adjacent to Promo's flagship. The
cruiser did a snappy vertical one-eighty and dropped away, its subordinates in
line astern.

            "Hey, you, Admiral Foof—yeah, I reckernize
you, you five-eyed little ulsio! I'm giving you one chance: get outa this
now,
and put down east o' the rest o' the boys! Get going, or—"

            "To stay your hand Pete," the Groaci's
breathy voice came hack. "To see that blister you raised on Buck Promo's
favorite play-toy! I'm going! To just take it easy!"

            "Hey, you, Brag Gab—back off, there!"
Pete yelled. "No fair tryna sneak up on them Five-eyes whilst they're in
compliance!" Pete continued, muttering: "... dumb swabbie! Shun't
have command of a GI mop, much less a attack group! But no use griping: I got
work to do, getting out o this without starring a war right under Pokey's
nose!" He turned his attention to Retief. "Whattaya think, Retief?
Can I trust that long-nosed pencil-pusher?"

            "Not on your life," Retief replied
promptly, as Magnan bleated:

            "Would you impugn the integrity of a CDT
inspector-general?"

            "Sure would, Ben," Pete confirmed.
"You heard the little weasel good as me."

            " 'As well as I' would be the preferable
formulation! Magnan countered sharply, "the first-person pronoun being as
it is the subject of the verb to hear I Still, I grasp your meaning. Pokey did,
indeed appear to be suggesting a highly questionable course of action,
eternal-chumship-wise! He appealed to Retief: "Jim, can't we
do
something
to prevent Inspector Snail's betrayal of all the poor fellows who repose
confidence in his assurances?"

            "I don't see any sign of anybody reposing
any confidence in his assurances," Retief pointed out. "All
participants in the carnival are still Gorming away as if he hadn't lied to
them at all."

            "That's
some
consolation,"
Magnan breathed. "But Pokey will be furious. Won't you, Pokey?" he
appealed to the glaring inspector.

            "Indeed I am, Ben!" Snail grated.
"I fear your excessive squeamishness is likely to have interfered with the
harmonious exercise of my professional peacemaking virtuosity! Kindly keep out
of this! Now, you, Chief Blatski, I want you to run out the battle flag, just
to shake these fellows up a bit, you understand; they don't know our
battle-hoard is sealed."

            "Ha!" Blatski exulted. "Watch
this, fellows!" He slammed home a big red-striped knife-switch, at which
the dim-lit battle-board lit up in a blaze of cherry idiot-lights. On the
external-inspection screen,
Ruppy's
battle colors were now glowing in a
bright pattern all along her mighty hull.

        "Looks great, don't
it, Cap?" Blatski shouted.

            Muldoon was waving his empty rum bottle and
yelling: "That's a glorious sight, Chief! Never thought I'd see it again!
That's why I took to boozing!"

            He glared at the flask in his hand and threw it from
him. "From now on, it's straight Battle Procedures all the way, right out
of the Manual!" he declared in a ringing tone.