Laumer,Keith - Retief of the COT

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Ballots and Bandits

Second Secretary Relief of the Terran Em-

bassy emerged from his hotel into a bunting-

draped street crowded with locals: bustling,

furry folk with upraised, bushy tails, like over-

sized chipmunks, ranging in height from a

foot to a yard. A party of placard-carrying

marchers, emerging from a side street, jostled

their way through the press, briskly ripping

down political posters attached to shop walls

and replacing them with posters of their own.

Their move was immediately countered by a

group of leaflet distributors who set about

applying mustaches, beards, and crossed eyes

to the new placards. The passers-by joined in

cheerfully, some blacking out teeth and add-

ing warts to the tips of button noses, others

grabbing the brushes from the defacers and

9

10 Keith Laumer

applying them to their former owners' faces.

Fists flew; the clamor rose.

Relief felt a tug at his knee; a small Obero-

nian dressed in blue breeches and a spotted

white apron looked up at him with wide, wor-

ried eyes.

"Prithee, fair sir," the small creature piped

in a shrill voice, "come quick, ere all is lost!"

"What's the matter?" Relief inquired, not-

ing the flour smudge on the Oberonian's cheek

and the dab of pink icing on the tip of his

nose. "Are the cookies burning?"

"E'en worse than that, milord—'tis the

Tsuggs! The great brutes would dismantle the

shop entire! But follow and observe!" The

Oberonian whirled and darted away.

Retief followed along the steeply sloping

cobbled alley between close-pressing houses,

his head level with the second-story bal-

conies. Through open windows he caught

glimpses of dollhouselike interiors, complete

with toy tables and chairs and postage-stamp-

sized TV screens. The bright-eyed inhabitants

clustered at their railings, twittering like spar-

rows as he passed. He picked his way with

care among the pedestrians crowding the way:

twelve-inch Ploots and eighteen-inch Grimbles

in purple and red leathers, two-foot Choobs in

fringed caps and aprons, lordly three-foot-six-

inch Blufs, elegant in ruffles and curled pink

wigs. Ahead, he heard shrill cries, a tinkle of

breaking glass, a dull thump. Rounding a sharp

turn, he came on the scene of action.

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Before a shop with a sign bearing a crude

painting of a salami, a crowd had gathered,

RETIEF OF THE CDT 11

ringing in a group of half a dozen giant

Oberonians of a type new to Retief: swagger-

ing dandies in soiled silks, with cruelly cropped

tails, scimitars slung at their waists'—if crea-

tures of the approximate shape of tenpins can

be said to have waists. One of the party held

the bridles of their mounts—scaled, spike-

maned brutes resembling gaily painted rhi-

noceri, but for their prominent canines and

long, muscular legs. Two more of the over-

sized locals were busy with crowbars, lever-

ing at the lintel over the shop doorway. Another

pair were briskly attacking the adjacent wall

with sledge hammers. The sixth, distinguished

by a scarlet sash with a pistol thrust through

it, stood with folded arms, smiling a sharp-

toothed smile at the indignant mob.

" 'Tis the pastry and ale shop of Binkster

Druzz, my granduncle twice removed!" Relief's

diminutive guide shrilled. "A little lighthearted

destruction in the course of making one's po-

litical views clear is all very well—but these

pirates would reduce us to penury! Gramercy,

milord, canst not impede the brutes?" He

swarmed ahead, clearing a path through the

onlookers. The red-sashed one, noticing Retief s

approach, unfolded his arms, letting one hand

linger near the butt of the pistol—a Groaci

copy of a two-hundred-year-old Concordiat

sliver-gun, Retief noted.

"Close enough, Off-worlder," the Tsugg said

in a somewhat squeaky baritone. "What would

ye here? Yer hutch lieth in the next street

yonder."

Retief smiled gently at the bearlike Oberonian,

12 Keith Laumer

who loomed over the crowd, his eyes almost

on a level with Relief's own, his bulk far

greater. "I want to buy a jelly doughnut," the

Terran said. "Your lads seem to be blocking

the doorway."

"Aroint thee, Terry; seek refreshment else-

where. Being somewhat fatigued with cam-

paigning, I plan to honor this low dive with

my custom; my bullies must needs enlarge the

door to comport with my noble dimensions."

"That won't be convenient," Retief said

smoothly. "When I want a jelly doughnut I

want it now." He took a step toward the door;

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the pistol jumped at him. The other Tsuggs

were gathering around, hefting crowbars.

"Ah-ah," Relief cautioned, raising a finger—

and at the same moment swung his foot in a

short arc that ended just under the gunhandler's

knee joint. The victim emitted a sharp yap

and leaned forward far enough for his jaw to

intersect the course of Relief's left fist. Retief

palmed the gun deftly as the Tsugg staggered

backward into the arms of his companions.

"Aroint thee, lads," the giant muttered re-

proachfully to his supporters, shaking his head

dazedly. "We've been boon drinking chums

these six Lesser Moons, and this is the first

time ye've give me any of the good stuff...."

"Spread out, lads," one of the Tsuggs or-

dered his companions. "We'll pound this knave

into a thin paste."

"Better relax, gentlemen," Retief suggested.

"This gun is messy at short range."

"An' I mistake me not," one of the crowbar

wielders said, eyeing Retief sourly, "ye're one

RETIEF OF THE CDT 13

of the Outworld bureaucrats, here to connive

in the allocation of loot, now the Sticky-fingers

have gone."

"Ambassador Clawhammer prefers to refer

to his role as refereeing the elections," Retief

corrected.

"Aye," the Tsugg nodded, "that's what I

said. So how is it ye're interfering with the

free democratic process by coshing Dir Blash

in the midst of exercising his voice in local

affairs?"

"We bureaucrats are a mild lot," Retief clar-

ified, "unless someone gets between us and

our jelly doughnuts."

Red-sash was weaving on his feet, shaking

his head. " 'Tis a scurvy trick," he said blur-

rily, "sneaking a concealed anvil into a friendly

little six-to-one crowbar affray."

"Let's go," one of the others said, "ere he

produces a howitzer from his sleeve." The

banditti mounted their wild-eyed steeds amid

much snorting and tossing of fanged heads.

"But we'll not forget yer visage, Outworlder,"

another promised. "I wot well we'll meet

again—and next time we'll be none so lenient."

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A hubbub of pleased chatter broke out among

the lesser Oberonians as the party passed from

sight.

"Milord hath saved Greatuncle Binkster's

fried fat this day," the small being who had

enlisted Relief's aid cried. The Terran leaned

over, hands on knees, which put his face on a

level only a foot or two above that of the little

fellow.

"Haven't I seen you before?" he asked.

14 Keith Laumer

"Certes, milord—until an hour since, I eked

out a few coppers as third assistant pastrycook

in the inn yonder, assigned to the cupcake

division, decorative-icing branch." He sighed.

"My specialty was rosebuds—but no need to

burden Your Grace with my plaint."

"You lost your job?" Relief inquired.

"Aye, that did I—but forsooth, 'tis but a

trifling circumstance, in light of what I o'er-

heard ere the hostler bade me hie from the

premises forthwith!"

"Let's see, your name is ... ?"

"Prinkle, milord. Ipstitch Prinkle IX, at your

service." The Twilpritt turned as a slightly

plumper, grayer version of himself bustled up,

bobbing his head and twitching his ears in a

manner expressive of effusive gratitude. "And

this, milord, is Uncle Binkster, in the flesh."

"Your sarvent, sir," Uncle Binkster squeaked,

mopping at his face with a large striped hand-

kerchief. "Wouldst honor me by accepting a

cooling draft of pring-lizard milk and a lardy-

tart after milord's exertions?"

"In sooth, Uncle, he needs something stronger

than whey," Prinkle objected. "And in sooth,

the Plump Sausage offers fine ale—if Your

Grace can manage the approaches," he added,

comparing Relief's six-foot-three with the

doorway.

"I'll turn sideways," Relief reassured the

Oberonian. He ducked through, was led across

the crowded room by a bustling eighteen-

inch tapman to a comer table, where he was

able to squeeze himself onto a narrow bench

against the wall.

RETIEF OF THE CDT 15

"Whatll it be, gents?" the landlord inquired.

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"Under the circumstances, I'll stick to small

beer," Retief said.

"Ale for me," Uncle Binkster said. " "Tis

vice, perchance, to tipple ere lunchtime, but

with Tsuggs roaming the Quarter battering

down walls, one'd best tipple while opportu-

nity presents itself."

"A sound principle," Retief agreed. "Who

are these Tsuggs, Uncle Binkster?"

"Lawless rogues, down from the high crags

for easy pickings," the elderly baker replied

with a sigh. "After you Terrans sent the Groaci

packing, we thought all our troubles were over.

Alas, I fear me 'tis not the case. So soon as the

ruffians got the word the Five-eyes were pull-

ing out, they came swarming down out of the

hills like zing-bugs after a jam-wagon—'tis

plain they mean to elect their ruffianly chief,

Hoobrik the Uncouth. Bands of them roam

the city, and the countryside as well, terroriz-

ing the voters—" He broke off as the landlord

placed a foaming three-inch tankard before

Retief.

"Away with that thimble, Squirmkin!" he

exclaimed. "Our guest requires a heartier

bumper than that!"

" 'Tis an Emperor-sized mug," the landlord

said, "but I allow his dimensions dwarf it.

Mayhap I can knock the top out of a hogs-

head ..." He hurried away.

"Pray, don't mistake me, milord," Uncle

Binkster resumed. "Like any patriot, I rejoiced

to see the Sticky-fingers go, leaving the con-

duct of Oberonian affairs to Oberonians. But

16 Keith Laumer

who'd have guessed we normal-sized chaps

would at once be subjected to depredations

by our own oversized kith and kin exceeding

anything the invaders ever practiced!"

"A student of history might have predicted

it," Relief pointed out, "But I agree: Being

pushed around by local hoodlums is even less

satisfying than being exploited from afar."

"Indeed so," Prinkle agreed. "In the case of

foreigners one can always gain a certain relief

by hurling descriptive epithets, mocking their

outlandish ways, and blaming everything on

their inherent moral leprosy—an awkward

technique to use on one's relatives."

The landlord returned, beaming, with a

quart-sized wooden container topped by a re-

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spectable head. Relief raised it in salute and

drank deep.

"And if what my nephew o'erheard be any

indication," Uncle Binkster went on, wiping

foam from his whiskers, "the worst is yet to

come. Hast related all to our benefactor, lad?"

"Not yet. Uncle." Prinkle turned to Relief.

"I was sweeping up crumbs in the VIP break-

fast room, my mind on other matters, when I

heard the word 'Tsugg' bandied among the

company still sitting at table. I cocked an

auricle, thinking to hear the scoundrels roundly

denounced, only to catch the intelligence that

their chief, that brawling bravo Hoobrik, rep-

resenting himself to be spokesman and natural

leader of all Oberon, withal, hath demanded

audience of His Impressiveness, Ambassador

Clawhammer! 'Twas but natural that I under-

took to disabuse Their Lordships of this im-

RETIEF OF THE CDT 17

pertinent notion, accidentally overturning a

pot of chocolate in process thereof—"

"Alas, my nephew is at times too enthusi-

astic in his espousal of his views," Uncle

Binkster put in. "Though 'tis beyond dispute,

in this instance he was sorely tried."

"In sooth, so was His Honor, Mr. Magnan,

when the cocoa landed in his lap," Prinkle

admitted. "Happily, 'twas somewhat cooled

by long standing."

"A grotesque prospect," Uncle Binkster ru-

minated. "Those scapegrace villains lording it

over us honest folk! Perish the thought, Sir

Retief! I trow I'd sooner have the Five-eyes

back!"

"At least they maintained a degree of con-

trol over the ne'er-do-wells," Prinkle said, "re-

stricting them to their hills and caves."

"As will we, lad, once the election is con-

summated," Uncle Binkster reminded the

youth. "Naturally, we Twilpritts stand ready

to assume the burden of policing the rabble,

as is only right and natural, so soon as our

slate is elected, by reason of our superior

virtues—"

"Hark not to the old dodderer's maunder-

ings. Giant," a tiny voice peeped from the

next table. A miniature Oberonian, no more

than nine inches tall, raised his one-ounce

glass in salute. "We Chimberts, being Nature's

noblemen, are of course divinely appointed to

a position of primacy among these lumbering

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brutes, saving your presence, milord—"

"Dost hear a dust-cricket chirping in the

woodwork?" a medium-sized Oberonian with

Keith Laumer

18

black circles resembling spectacles around his

eyes inquired loudly from three tables away.

" 'Twere plain e'en to an Outworlder that we

Choobs are the rightful inheritors of the man-

tle of superiority. Once in office we'll put an

end to such public rantings."

"You in office?" Prinkle yelped. "O'er my

dead corse, varlet!" He leaped up, slopping

beer as he cocked his arm to peg the mug at

the offender.

"Stay, Nephew!" Uncle Binkster restrained

the youth. "Pay no heed to the wretch. Doubt-

less he's in his cups—"

"Drunk, am I, you old sot!" the Choob yelled,

overturning the table as he leaped up, grab-

bing for the hilt of his foot-long sword. "I'll

ha' a strip o' thy wrinkled hide for that

allegation—" His threat was cut off abruptly

as a tankard, hurled from across the room,

clipped him over the ear, sending him reeling

into the next table, whose occupants leaped

up with indignant shouts and flailing fists.

"Gentlemen, time, time!" the landlord

wailed, before diving behind the bar amid a

barrage of pewter. Retief finished his beer in

a long swallow, and rose, looming over the

battle raging about his knees.

"A pleasure, gentlemen," he addressed the

room at large. "I hate to leave such a friendly

gathering, but Staff Meeting time is here."

"Farewell, Sir Retief," Prinkle panted from

under the table, where he grappled with a

pale-furred local of about his own weight. "Call

around any time for a drop and a bit of friendly

political chat."

RETIEF OF THE CDT 19

"Thanks," Retief said. "If things get too slow

in the frontline trenches I'll remember your

invitation."

2

As Retief entered the conference room—a

converted packing room in the former ware-

house temporarily housing the Terran Mis-

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sion to the newly liberated planet Oberon—

First Secretary Magnan gave him a sour look.

"Well—here you are at last. I'd begun to

fear you'd lingered to roister with low com-

panions in your usual manner."

"Not quite my usual manner," Retief cor-

rected. "We'd barely started to roister when I

remembered Staff Meeting. By the way, what

do you know about a fellow called Hoobrik

the Uncouth?"

Magnan looked startled. "Why, that name

is known only to a handful of us in the inner

security circle," he said in a lowered tone,

glancing about. "Who leaked it to you, Retief?"

"A few hundred irate locals. They didn't

seem to know it was a secret."

"Well, whatever you do, act surprised when

the Ambassador mentions it," Magnan cau-

tioned his junior as they took seats at the long

table. "My," he went on as the shouts of the

crowd outside the building rose to a thunder-

ous level, "how elated the locals are, now

they realize we've relieved them of the bur-

dens of Groaci overlordship! Hear their merry

cries!"

20 Keith Lawner

"Remarkable," Retief agreed. "They have a

better command of invective than the Groaci

themselves."

"Why, Wilbur," Magnan said as Colonel

Saddlesore, the Military Attache, slipped into

the chair beside him, avoiding his glance.

"However did you get that alarming discolor-

ation under your eye?"

"Quite simple, actually." The Colonel bit

off his words like bullets. "I was struck by a

thrown political slogan."

"Well!" Magnan sniffed. "There's no need

for recourse to sarcasm."

"The slogan," Saddlesore amplified, "was

inscribed on the rind of a bham-bham fruit of

the approximate size and weight of a well-hit

cricket ball."

"I saw three small riots myself on the way

into the office," the Press Attache said in a

pleased tone. "Remarkable enthusiasm these

locals show for universal sufferage."

"I think it's time, however," the Counselor

put in ponderously, "that someone explained

to them that the term 'political machine' does

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not necessarily refer to medium tank."

The chatter around the long table cut off

abruptly as Ambassador Clawhammer, a small,

pink-faced man with an impressive paunch,

entered the room, glowered at his staff as

they rose, waved them to their seats as he

waited for silence.

"Well, gentlemen"—he looked around the

table—"what progress have you to report anent

the preparation of the populace for the bal-

loting?"

RETIEF OF THE CDT 21

A profound silence ensued.

"What about you, Chester?" Clawhammer

addressed the Counselor. "I seem to recall

instructing you to initiate classes in parlia-

mentary procedure among these riffraff—that

is to say, among the free citizens of Oberon."

"I tried, Mr. Ambassador. I tried," Chester

said sadly. "They didn't seem to quite grasp

the idea. They chose up sides and staged a

pitched battle for possession of the chair."

"Ah—I can report a teensy bit of progress in

my campaign to put across the idea of one

man, one vote," a slender-necked Political Of-

ficer spoke up. "They got the basic idea, all

right ..." He paused. "The only trouble was,

they immediately deduced the corollary: One

less man, one less vote." He sighed. "Luckily,

they were evenly matched, so no actual votes

were lost."

"You might point out the corollary to the

corollary," Retief suggested. "The lighter the

vote, the smaller the Post Office."

"What about your assigned task of voter

registration, eh, Magnan?" the Chief of Mis-

sion barked. "Are you reporting failure too?"

"Why, no, indeed, sir, not exactly failure; at

least not utter failure; it's too soon to announce

that—"

"Oh?" The Ambassador looked ominous.

"When do you think would be an appropriate

time? After disaster strikes?"

"I'd like to propose a rule limiting the num-

ber of political parties to P minus 1, P being

the number of voters," Magnan said hastily.

22 Keith Laumer

"Otherwise we run the risk that no one gets a

plurality."

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"No good, Magnan," the Counselor for PR

Affairs spoke up. "We don't want to risk a

charge of meddling. However," he added

thoughtfully, "we might just up the nomina-

tion fee to a figure sufficiently astronomical

to keep the trash out—that is, to discourage

the weakly motivated."

"I don't know, Irving." The Econ Officer

ran his fingers through his thinning hair in a

gesture of frustration. "What we really need

is to prune the ranks of the voters more dras-

tically. Now, far be it from me to propose

strong-arm methods—but what if we tried out

a modified Grandfather Rule?"

"Say—a touch of the traditional might be in

order at that, Oscar," the Political Officer

agreed tentatively. "Just what did you have

in mind?"

"Actually, I haven't worked out the details;

but how about limiting the franchise to those

who have grandfathers? Or possibly grand-

children? Or even both?"

"Gentlemen!" Ambassador Clawhammer cut

short the debate. "We must open our sights!

The election promises to degenerate into a

debacle of ruinous proportions, career-wise,

unless we break through with a truly fresh

approach!" He paused impressively.

"Fortunately," he continued in the modest

tones of Caesar accepting the crown, "I have

evolved such an approach." He raised a hand in

kindly remonstrance at the chorus of congratu-

lations that broke out at his announcement.

RETIEF OF THE CDT 23

"It's clear, gentlemen, that what is needed

is the emergence of a political force which

will weld together the strands of Oberonian

political coloration into a unified party capable

of seating handy majorities. A force conversant

with the multitudinous benefits which would

stem from a sympathetic attitude toward Ter-

ran interests in the Sector."

"Yes, Chief," an alert underling from the

Admin Section took his cue. "But, gosh, who

could possibly produce such a miracle from

the welter of divergent political creeds here

on Oberon, which they're at practically swords'

points with each other over each and every

question of policy, both foreign and domestic?"

Clawhammer nodded acknowledgment. "Your

question is an acute one, Dimplick. Happily,

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