The Keith Laumer MEGAPACK®: 21 Classic Stories. Keith Laumer
“Lemuel!” Potter said. “Nobody else could sneak up on us like that.”
“If I’d a been a Flap-jack; I’d of et you alive,” the newcomer said, moving into the ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced man in grimy leather. He eyed Retief.
“Who’s that?”
“What do ya mean?” Potter spoke in the silence. “He’s your cousin….”
“He ain’t no cousin of mine,” Lemuel said slowly. He stepped to Retief.
“Who you spyin’ for, stranger?” he rasped.
Retief got to his feet. “I think I should explain—”
A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel’s hand, a clashing note against his fringed buckskins.
“Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one.”
“Just for a change, I’d like to finish a sentence,” said Retief. “And I suggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you.”
“You talk too damned fancy to suit me.”
“Maybe. But I’m talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put it away.”
Lemuel stared at Retief. “You givin’ me orders…?”
Retief’s left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel’s face dead center. He stumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into the dirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief…and met a straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold.
“Wow!” said Potter. “The stranger took Lem…in two punches!”
“One,” said Swazey. “That first one was just a love tap.”
Bert froze. “Hark, boys,” he whispered. In the sudden silence a night lizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes, peered past the fire—
With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed it over the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt a split second behind him.
“You move fast for a city man,” breathed Swazey beside him. “You see pretty good too. We’ll split and take ’em from two sides. You and Bert from the left, me and Potter from the right.”
“No,” said Retief. “You wait here. I’m going out alone.”
“What’s the idea…?”
“Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open.” Retief took a bearing on a treetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward.
* * * *
Five minutes’ stealthy progress brought him to a slight rise of ground. With infinite caution he raised himself, risking a glance over an out-cropping of rock.
The stunted trees ended just ahead. Beyond, he could make out the dim contour of rolling desert. Flap-jack country. He got to his feet, clambered over the stone—still hot after a day of tropical heat—and moved forward twenty yards. Around him he saw nothing but drifted sand, palely visible in the starlight, and the occasional shadow of jutting shale slabs. Behind him the jungle was still.
He sat down on the ground to wait.
It was ten minutes before a movement caught his eye. Something had separated itself from a dark mass of stone, glided across a few yards of open ground to another shelter. Retief watched. Minutes passed. The shape moved again, slipped into a shadow ten feet distant. Retief felt the butt of the power pistol with his elbow. His guess had better be right this time….
There was a sudden rasp, like leather against concrete, and a flurry of sand as the Flap-jack charged.
Retief rolled aside, then lunged, threw his weight on the flopping Flap-jack—a yard square, three inches thick at the center and all muscle. The ray-like creature heaved up, curled backward, its edge rippling, to stand on the flattened rim of its encircling sphincter. It scrabbled with prehensile fringe-tentacles for a grip on Retief’s shoulders. He wrapped his arms around the alien and struggled to his feet. The thing was heavy. A hundred pounds at least. Fighting as it was, it seemed more like five hundred.
The Flap-jack reversed its tactics, went limp. Retief grabbed, felt a thumb slip into an orifice—
The alien went wild. Retief hung on, dug the thumb in deeper.
“Sorry, fellow,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “Eye-gouging isn’t gentlemanly, but it’s effective….”
The Flap-jack fell still, only its fringes rippling slowly. Retief relaxed the pressure of his thumb; the alien gave a tentative jerk; the thumb dug in.
The alien went limp again, waiting.
“Now we understand each other,” said Retief. “Take me to your leader.”
* * * *
Twenty minutes’ walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampart of thorn branches: the Flap-jacks’ outer defensive line against Terry forays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by the Flap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off his back, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situation was correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long….
A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off. He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in an agitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket.
“Sit tight,” he said. “Don’t try to do anything hasty….” His remarks were falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke as loudly as words.
There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring of presences drawing closer.
Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now, looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jacks came in all sizes.
A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, faded out. Retief cocked his head, frowning.
“Try it two octaves higher,” he said.
“Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better?” a clear voice came from the darkness.
“That’s fine,” Retief said. “I’m here to arrange a prisoner exchange.”
“Prisoners? But we have no prisoners.”
“Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require?”
“The word of a gentleman is sufficient.” Retief released the alien. It flopped once, disappeared into the darkness.
“If you’d care to accompany me to our headquarters,” the voice said, “we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort.”
“Delighted.”
Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thorny barrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand to a low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow.
“I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome,” said the voice. “Had we known we would be honored by a visit—”
“Think nothing of it,” Retief said. “We diplomats are trained to crawl.”
Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling, Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor like burgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table of polished red granite that stretched down the center of the spacious room, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes.
III
“Let me congratulate you,” the voice said.
Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings, rippled