Retief: The Governor of Glave. Keith Laumer

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.”

      *