The Keith Laumer MEGAPACK®: 21 Classic Stories. Keith Laumer
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“Sleep, Retief!” He panted. “You followed a hunch; I did the same. I saw something strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. I watched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a dead carapace! Now many things become clear.”* * * *
Retief whistled. “So the Youths aren’t all as young as they look. Somebody’s been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!”
“The Soft One,” Whonk said. “You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw. Produce him now.”
“Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won’t do you any good—”
Whonk winked broadly. “I must take my revenge!” he roared. “I shall test the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured up by the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!”
Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feet away, hauled him back to Whonk.
“It’s up to you, Whonk,” he said. “I know how important ceremonial revenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere.”
“Mercy!” Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. “I claim diplomatic immunity!”
“No diplomat am I,” rumbled Whonk. “Let me see; suppose I start with one of those obscenely active eyes—” He reached….
“I have an idea,” said Retief brightly. “Do you suppose—just this once—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised to arrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?”
“But,” Whonk protested, “those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, one by one!”
“Yess,” hissed Yith, “I swear it! Our most expert surgeons…platoons of them, with the finest of equipment.”
“I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel him squash beneath my bulk….”
“Light as a whissle feather shall you dance,” Yith whispered. “Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—”
“Maybe just one eye,” said Whonk grudgingly. “That would leave him four.”
“Be a sport,” said Retief.
“Well.”
“It’s a deal then,” said Retief. “Yith, on your word as a diplomat, an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you’ll set up the mission. Groaci surgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments. It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. And in return, Whonk won’t sit on you. And I won’t prefer charges of interference in the internal affairs of a free world.”
Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of the borrowed carapace, struggled to his feet…in time for Whonk to seize him, lift him high and head for the entry to the Moss Rock.
“Hey,” Retief called. “Where are you going?”
“I would not deny this one his reward,” called Whonk. “He hoped to cruise in luxury. So be it.”
“Hold on,” said Retief. “That tub is loaded with titanite!”
“Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me a vengeance.”
Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the ramp and disappeared within the ship.
“I guess Whonk means business,” he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp, all five eyes goggling. “And he’s a little too big for me to stop.”
Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.
“What did you do with him?” said Retief. “Tell him you were going to—”
“We had best withdraw,” said Whonk. “The killing radius of the drive is fifty yards.”
“You mean—”
“The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep.”
* * * *
“It was quite a bang,” said Retief. “But I guess you saw it, too.”
“No, confound it,” Magnan said. “When I remonstrated with Hulk, or Whelk—”
“Whonk.”
“—the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I’ll most certainly complain to the Minister.”
“How about the surgical mission?”
“A most generous offer,” said Magnan. “Frankly, I was astonished. I think perhaps we’ve judged the Groaci too harshly.”
“I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it,” said Retief. “And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groups are on the way out.”
Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. “I—ah—have explained to the press that last night’s—ah—”
“Fiasco.”
“—affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenable position. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and the presumed death of, uh, Slop.”
“The Fustians understand,” said Retief. “Whonk wasn’t kidding about ceremonial vengeance.”
“The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,” said Magnan. “I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: less formal….”
“The Moss Rock was bound for Groaci,” said Retief. “She was already in her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive on schedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display. I think that should be all the aide the Groaci’s memoires will need to keep their tentacles off Fust.”
“But diplomatic usage—”
“Then, too, the less that’s put in writing, the less they can blame you for, if anything goes wrong.”
“That’s true,” said Magnan, lips pursed. “Now you’re thinking constructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet.” He smiled expansively.
“Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me.” Retief stood up. “I’m taking a few weeks off…if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. My pal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing is good.”
“But there are some extremely important matters coming up,” said Magnan. “We’re planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—”
“Count me out. All groups give me an itch.”
“Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats are ourselves a group.”
“Uh-huh,” Retief said.
Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into the hall and closed the door gently behind him.
CULTURAL EXCHANGE
Originally published in Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.
I
Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-feathered beret from the clothes tree. “I’m off now, Retief,” he said. “I hope you’ll manage the administrative routine during my absence without any unfortunate incidents.”
“That seems a modest enough hope,” Retief said. “I’ll try to live up to it.”
“I don’t appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division,” Magnan said testily. “When I first came here, the Manpower Utilization Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. I fancy I’ve made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question the wisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for two weeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.”
“In