Retief: The Frozen Planet. Keith Laumer

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      Retief: The Frozen Planet

      by Keith Laumer

      ©2020 Positronic Publishing

      Retief: The Frozen Planet is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or institutions is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except for brief quotations for review purposes only.

      ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-4439-8

      Table of Contents

       The Frozen Planet

      The Frozen Planet

      “It is rather unusual,” Magnan said, “to assign an officer of your rank to courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.”

      Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grew awkward, Magnan went on.

      “There are four planets in the group,” he said. “Two double planets, all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They’re called Jorgensen’s Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti have been penetrating.

      “Now—” Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—”we have learned that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they’ve met no opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they intend to seize Jorgensen’s Worlds by force.”

      Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief’s reaction. Retief drew carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.

      “This is open aggression, Retief,” he said, “in case I haven’t made myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien species. Obviously, we can’t allow it.”

      Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.

      “A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately, Jorgensen’s Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They’re farmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role in their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war potential, by conventional standards, is nil.”

      Magnan tapped the folder before him.

      “I have here,” he said solemnly, “information which will change that picture completely.” He leaned back and blinked at Retief.

      *

      “All right, Mr. Councillor,” Retief said. “I’ll play along; what’s in the folder?”

      Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.

      “First,” he said. “The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade Terrestrials who’ve been advising the Soetti.” He folded another finger. “Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen’s people, worked out by the Theory group.” He wrestled a third finger down. “Lastly; an Utter Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration field into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have been holding in reserve for just such a situation.”

      “Is that all?” Retief said. “You’ve still got two fingers sticking up.”

      Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.

      “This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this information could be catastrophic. You’ll memorize it before you leave this building.”

      “I’ll carry it, sealed,” Retief said. “That way nobody can sweat it out of me.”

      Magnan started to shake his head.

      “Well,” he said. “If it’s trapped for destruction, I suppose—”

      “I’ve heard of these Jorgensen’s Worlds,” Retief said. “I remember an agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with cards and dice. Never played for money, though.”

      “Umm,” Magnan said. “Don’t make the error of personalizing this situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its natural course, as always.”

      “When does this attack happen?”

      “Less than four weeks.”

      “That doesn’t leave me much time.”

      “I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as Aldo Cerise. You’ll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest of the way.”

      “That’s a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don’t make it?”

      Magnan looked sour. “Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is not misplaced.”

      “This antiac conversion; how long does it take?”

      “A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of some sort.”

      Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets inside.

      “Less than four hours to departure time,” he said. “I’d better not start any long books.”

      “You’d better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination,” Magnan said.

      Retief stood up. “If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.”

      “The allusion escapes me,” Magnan said coldly. “And one last word. The Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen’s Worlds; don’t get yourself interned.”

      “I’ll tell you what,” Retief said soberly. “In a pinch, I’ll mention your name.”

      “You’ll be traveling with Class X credentials,” Magnan snapped. “There must be nothing to connect you with the Corps.”

      “They’ll never guess,” Retief said. “I’ll pose as a gentleman.”

      “You’d better be getting started,” Magnan said, shuffling papers.

      “You’re right,” Retief said. “If I work at it, I might manage a snootful by takeoff.” He went to the door. “No objection to my checking out a needler, is there?”

      Magnan looked up. “I suppose not. What do you want with it?”

      “Just a feeling I’ve got.”

      “Please yourself.”

      “Some day,” Retief said, “I may take you up on that.”

      II

      Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend “ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY.” A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching Retief from the corner of his eye.

      Retief glanced at him.

      The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and spat it on the floor.

      “Was there something?” he said.

      “Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group,” Retief said. “Is it on schedule?”

      The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. “Filled up. Try again in a couple of weeks.”

      “What time does it leave?”

      “I don’t think—”

      “Let’s stick to facts,” Retief said. “Don’t