Retief: The Governor of Glave. Keith Laumer

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      Retief: The Governor of Glave

      by Keith Laumer

      ©2020 Positronic Publishing

      Retief: The Governor of Glave 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: 978-1-5154-4440-4

      Table of Contents

       The Governor of Glave

      The Governor of Glave

       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