The Return of Retief by Keith Laumer Page B

Herky."
     
                "I
must protest, Mr, ah, just what is your civil title?"
     
                "I'm
a Maker of Ritual Grimaces, First Class, in the reserves," the alien
replied. " 'Captain' is my regular honorific. Retief calls me 'Fumpy': I
like it. Short and snappy, even if it does sound like some kinda Terry handle;
no offense. Or maybe a little offense at that." Fump's sense-organ cluster
hardened. "I overheard you boys talking about reparations and all. You can
hand over the blank surrender forms now, and the fifty million Guck, too."
     
                "Why,
the audacity of the fellow fairly takes my breath away," the
Undersecretary said in admiring tones to Ben Magnan, who was now standing
behind Retief's chair. "And before I could lodge my protest at his
implication, too."
     
                "You
don't deny the Efficiency Rating of our agents, do you? It was them as made up
the Questionnaire and slid it into the system. According to the Form X-13
questionnaire you filled in— and signed—you're ready to pay up and shut
up, if anybody jumps out and says boo! to you."
     
                "I
thought the X-13 was a personnel form I was completing," Crodfoller
protested. "I felt I handled some of the trick questions rather cleverly.
I assumed it was a new technique for weeding out, if you'll pardon the
expression, isolationists. Like the sneaky one in the 'Ability to Empathize
With Our Friends We Haven't Met Yet' column: "If you should discover local
employees in collusion with black marketeers (individualist entrepreneurs, that
is) to loot the Embassy commissary, would you (select one):
     
                Clobber
them and ask questions later
                Request
a cut
                Demand
a cut
                Call
for help
                File
a confidential report
                Lodge
an official protest
                Fire
them en masse (local employees only)
                Volunteer
to serve as lookout
                Congratulate
them on their enterprise
                None
of the above?"
     
                "I
spotted that one easy," Crodfoller continued. "Transparently bait to
tempt one to an intemperate response. But if it was actually a fake, slipped
into channels by Ree espionage agents— heavens! I shudder to contemplate the
impression—"
     
                "Sure;
you can skip all that jazz, Herky," the cylindrical alien dismissed
Crodfoller's complaint. "Us Rees are practical. So let's get down to
cases: are you boys going to turn your backs and let us deserving
underprivileged fellows from the Western Arm take over East Arm, or what?"
     
                "Such
presumption!" Magnan ventured cautiously, one eye on the Undersecretary's
reaction. Seeing none, he went on: "As if we'd sit back and allow our
brave Terry pioneers in Tip Space to perish for want of the support they were
promised when we were pushing the Take a Trip to the Tip program."
     
                "Now.
Ben, I wouldn't precisely say 'promised'." Crodfoller demurred.
"Actually, we said 'maybe, depending on the exigencies of Corps policy'
and like that. Check the wording; I'm sure you'll find nothing to which we
could actually be rigorously held."
     
                "Anyway,
it's a darn shame, just like Ben says," Hy Felix spoke up from his spot
downtable. "Our folks have just about had time to start getting a little
return on all the time and effort they've put into this Settlement venture—and
all of a sudden they got these worms coming in and throwing them off the farm,
or worse."
     
                "The
Corps," the Undersecretary said loftily, "can hardly assume
responsibility for the success of private ventures embarked upon by rootless
adventurers."
     
                "Ten
years ago we were blanketing the media with our Settlement promo.