Chip reappeared at the front of the tank.
“It’s stuck,” he called. He stopped to breathe hard, clung as the machine lurched forward, spun to the right, stopped, rocking slightly.
“Take over here,” Retief said. He crawled forward, watched as the chef pulled himself up, slipped down past him, feeling for the footholds between the treads. He reached the ground, dropped on his back, hitched himself under the dark belly of the tank. He groped, found the handholds, probed with a foot for the tread-jack lever.
The tank rumbled, backed quickly, turned left and right in a dizzying sine curve. Retief clung grimly, inches from the clashing treads.
The machine ground to a halt. Retief found the lever, braced his back, pushed. The lever seemed to give minutely. He set himself again, put both feet against the frozen bar and heaved.
With a dry rasp, it slid back. Immediately two heavy rods extended themselves, moved down to touch the pavement, grated. The left track creaked as the weight went off it. Suddenly the tank’s drive raced, and Retief grabbed for a hold as the right tread clashed, heaved the fifty-ton machine forward. The jacks screeched as they scored the tarmac, then bit in. The tank pivoted, chips of pavement flying. The jacks extended, lifted the clattering left track clear of the surface as the tank spun like a hamstrung buffalo.
The tank stopped, sat silent, canted now on the extended jacks. Retief emerged from under the machine, jumped, pulled himself above the anti-personnel apertures as another charge rocked the tank. He clambered to the turret, crouched beside Chip. They waited, watching the entry hatch.
Five minutes passed.
“I’ll bet Old Tony’s givin’ the chauffeur hell,” Chip said.
The hatch cycled open. A head came cautiously into view in time to see the needler in Retief’s hand.
“Come on out,” Retief said.
The head dropped. Chip snaked forward to ram a short section of steel rod under the hatch near the hinge. The hatch began to cycle shut, groaned, stopped. There was a sound of metal failing, and the hatch popped open.
Retief half rose, aimed the needler. The walls of the tank rang as the metal splinters ricocheted inside.
“That’s one keg o’ beer I owe you, Mister,” Chip said. “Now let’s git outa here before the ship lifts and fries us.”
* * * *
“The biggest problem the Jorgensen’s people will have is decontaminating the wreckage,” Retief said.
Magnan leaned forward. “Amazing,” he said. “They just keep coming, did they? Had they no inter-ship communication?”
“They had their orders,” Retief said. “And their attack plan. They followed it.”
“What a spectacle,” Magnan said. “Over a thousand ships, plunging out of control one by one as they entered the stress-field.”
“Not much of a spectacle,” Retief said. “You couldn’t see them. Too far away. They all crashed back in the mountains.”
“Oh.” Magnan’s face fell. “But it’s as well they did. The bacterial bombs—”
“Too cold for bacteria. They won’t spread.”
“Nor will the Soetti,” Magnan said smugly, “thanks to the promptness with which I acted in dispatching you with the requisite data.” He looked narrowly at Retief. “By the way, you’re sure no…ah…message reached you after your arrival?”
“I got something,” Retief said, looking Magnan in the eye. “It must have been a garbled transmission. It didn’t make sense.”
Magnan coughed, shuffled papers. “This information you’ve reported,” he said hurriedly. “This rather fantastic story that the Soetti originated in the Cloud, that they’re seeking a foothold in the main Galaxy because they’ve literally eaten themselves out of subsistence—how did you get it? The one or two Soetti we attempted to question, ah….” Magnan coughed again. “There was an accident,” he finished. “We got nothing from them.”
“The Jorgensens have a rather special method of interrogating prisoners,” Retief said. “They took one from a wreck, still alive but unconscious. They managed to get the story from him. He died of it.”
“It’s immaterial, actually,” Magnan said. “Since the Soetti violated their treaty with us the day after it was signed. Had no intention of fair play. Far from evacuating the agreed areas, they had actually occupied half a dozen additional minor bodies in the Whate system.”
Retief clucked sympathetically.
“You don’t know who to trust, these days,” he said.
Magnan looked at him coldly.
“Spare me your sarcasm, Mr. Retief,” he said. He picked up a folder from his desk, opened it. “By the way, I have another little task for you, Retief. We haven’t had a comprehensive wild-life census report from Brimstone lately—”
“Sorry,” Retief said. “I’ll be tied up. I’m taking a month off. Maybe more.”
“What’s that?” Magnan’s head came up. “You seem to forget—”
“I’m trying, Mr. Councillor,” Retief said. “Good-by now.” He reached out and flipped the key. Magnan’s face faded from the screen. Retief stood up.
“Chip,” he said, “we’ll crack that keg when I get back.” He turned to Anne-Marie.
“How long,” he said, “do you think it will take you to teach me to ski by moonlight?”
GAMBLER’S WORLD
Originally published in Worlds of If, November 1961.
I
Retief paused before a tall mirror to check the overlap of the four sets of lapels that ornamented the vermilion cutaway of a First Secretary and Consul.
“Come along, Retief,” Magnan said. “The Ambassador has a word to say to the staff before we go in.”
“I hope he isn’t going to change the spontaneous speech he plans to make when the Potentate impulsively suggests a trade agreement along the lines they’ve been discussing for the last two months.”
“Your derisive attitude is uncalled for, Retief,” Magnan said sharply. “I think you realize it’s delayed your promotion in the Corps.”
Retief took a last glance in the mirror. “I’m not sure I want a promotion,” he said. “It would mean more lapels.”
Ambassador Crodfoller pursed his lips, waiting until Retief and Magnan took places in the ring of Terrestrial diplomats around him.
“A word of caution only, gentlemen,” he said. “Keep always foremost in your minds the necessity for our identification with the Nenni Caste. Even a hint of familiarity with lower echelons could mean the failure of the mission. Let us remember that the Nenni represent authority here on Petreac. Their traditions must be observed, whatever our personal preferences. Let’s go along now. The Potentate will be making his entrance any moment.”
Magnan came to Retief’s side as they moved toward the salon.
“The Ambassador’s remarks were addressed chiefly to you, Retief,” he said. “Your laxness in these matters is notorious. Naturally, I believe firmly in democratic principles myself—”
“Have you ever had a feeling, Mr. Magnan, that there’s a lot going on here that we don’t know about?”
Magnan