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  RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN
  by KEITH LAUMER
  Retief knew the importance of sealed
     
    orders—and the need to keep them that way!
   
    [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
     
    Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.
     
    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
     
    the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
  "It's true," Consul Passwyn said, "I requested assignment as principal
  officer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resort
  worlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressed
  spaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confounded
  settlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight!" He stared glumly
  at Vice-Consul Retief.
   
    "Still," Retief said, "it gives an opportunity to travel—"
   
    "Travel!" the consul barked. "I hate travel. Here in this backwater
  system particularly—" He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared his
  throat. "Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for a
  junior officer. Marvelous experience."
   
    He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagram
  appeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger disk
  representing the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating the
  innermost planet.
   
    "The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—a
  mere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble with
  an intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why they
  bother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However I
  have, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters to
  take certain action." He swung back to face Retief. "I'm sending you
  in to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders." He picked
  up a fat buff envelope. "A pity they didn't see fit to order the
  Terrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.
  I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrial
  and Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failure
  would look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results."
   
    He passed the buff envelope across to Retief.
   
    "I understood that Adobe was uninhabited," Retief said, "until the
  Terrestrial settlers arrived."
   
    "Apparently, that was an erroneous impression." Passwyn fixed Retief
  with a watery eye. "You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In a
  delicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptu
  element introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail at
  Sector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear?"
   
    "Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe?"
   
    "Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,
  you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less than
  an hour."
   
    "What's this native life form like?" Retief asked, getting to his feet.
   
    "When you get back," said Passwyn, "you tell me."
  The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spat
  toward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen.
   
    "They's shootin' goin' on down there," he said. "See them white puffs
  over the edge of the desert?"
   
    "I'm supposed to be preventing the war," said Retief. "It looks like
  I'm a little late."
   
    The pilot's head snapped around. "War?" he yelped. "Nobody told me they
  was a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out of
  here."
   
    "Hold on," said Retief. "I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you."
   
    "They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance." He started
  punching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist.
   
    "Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down."
   
    The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retief
  blocked casually. "Are you nuts?" the pilot screeched. "They's plenty
  shootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out."
   
    "The mail must go through, you know."
   
    "Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'll
  tell 'em to pick up the remains next trip."
   
    "You're a pal. I'll take your offer."
   
    The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. "Get in.
  We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lob
  one this way...."
   
    Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over the
  controls. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief a
  heavy old-fashioned power pistol. "Long as you're goin' in, might as
  well take this."
   
    "Thanks." Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. "I hope you're wrong."
   
    "I'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over—one way or another."
   
    The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiff
  dropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from the
  departing mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on the
  manual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine....
   
    A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out.
   
    Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavy
  radiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawed
  but by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on a
  high trajectory and had no connection with the skiff....
   
    Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed.
   
    He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. This
  was going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retief
  threw the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward the
  oncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen,
  correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for no
  more than 1000 yards.
   
    At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed past
  the missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restraining
  harness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, and
  harmless.
   
    Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed.
  Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Points
  of light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinary
  chemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. The
  screen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped on
  its back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series of
  shocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by the
  ping of hot metal contracting.
  Coughing, Retief disengaged himself from the shock-webbing. He beat
  out sparks in his lap, groped underfoot for the hatch and wrenched it
  open. A wave of hot jungle air struck him. He lowered himself to a bed
  of shattered foliage, got to his feet ... and dropped flat as a bullet
  whined past his ear.
   
    He lay listening. Stealthy movements were audible from the left.
   
    He inched his way to the shelter of a broad-boled dwarf tree. Somewhere
  a song lizard burbled. Whining insects circled, scented alien life,
  buzzed off. There was another rustle of foliage from the underbrush
  five yards away. A bush quivered, then a low bough dipped.
   
    Retief edged back around the trunk, eased down behind a fallen log.
  A stocky man in grimy leather shirt and shorts appeared, moving
  cautiously, a pistol in his hand.
   
    As he passed, Retief rose, leaped the log and tackled him.
   
    They went down together. The stranger gave one short yell, then
  struggled in silence. Retief flipped him onto his back, raised a fist—
   
    "Hey!" the settler yelled. "You're as human as I am!"
   
    "Maybe I'll look better after a shave," said Retief. "What's the idea
  of shooting at me?"
   
    "Lemme up. My name's Potter. Sorry 'bout that. I figured it was a
  Flap-jack boat; looks just like 'em. I took a shot when I saw something
  move. Didn't know it was a Terrestrial. Who are you? What you doin'
  here? We're pretty close to the edge of the oases. That's Flap-jack
  country over there." He waved a hand toward the north, where the desert
  lay.
   
    "I'm glad you're a poor shot. That missile was too close for comfort."
   
    "Missile, eh? Must be Flap-jack artillery. We got nothing like that."
   
    "I heard there was a full-fledged war brewing," said Retief. "I didn't
  expect—"
   
    "Good!" Potter said. "We figured a few of you boys from Ivory would be
  joining up when you heard. You are from Ivory?"
   
    "Yes. I'm—"
   
    "Hey, you must be Lemuel's cousin. Good night! I pretty near made a bad
  mistake. Lemuel's a tough man to explain something to."
   
    "I'm—"
   
    "Keep your head down. These damn Flap-jacks have got some wicked hand
  weapons. Come on...." He moved off silently on all fours. Retief
  followed. They crossed two hundred yards of rough country before Potter
  got to his feet, took out a soggy bandana and mopped his face.
   
    "You move good for a city man. I thought you folks on Ivory just sat
  under those domes and read dials. But I guess bein' Lemuel's cousin you
  was raised different."
   
    "As a matter of fact—"
   
    "Have to get you some real clothes, though. Those city duds don't stand
  up on 'Dobe."
   
    Retief looked down at the charred, torn and sweat-soaked powder-blue
  blazer and slacks.
   
    "This outfit seemed pretty rough-and-ready back home," he said. "But I
  guess leather has its points."
   
    "Let's get on back to camp. We'll just about make it by sundown.
  And, look. Don't say anything to Lemuel about me thinking you were a
  Flap-jack."
   
    "I won't, but—"
   
    Potter was on his way, loping off up a gentle slope. Retief pulled off
  the sodden blazer, dropped it over a bush, added his string tie and
  followed Potter.
  II
   
    "We're damn glad you're here, mister," said a fat man with two
  revolvers belted across his paunch. "We can use every hand. We're in
  bad shape. We ran into the Flap-jacks three months ago and we haven't
  made a smart move since. First, we thought they were a native form we
  hadn't run into before. Fact is, one of the boys shot one, thinkin' it
  was fair game. I guess that was the start of it." He stirred the fire,
  added a stick.
   
    "And then a bunch of 'em hit Swazey's farm here," Potter said. "Killed
  two of his cattle, and pulled back."
   
    "I figure they thought the cows were people," said Swazey. "They were
  out for revenge."
   
    "How could anybody think a cow was folks?" another man put in. "They
  don't look nothin' like—"
   
    "Don't be so dumb, Bert," said Swazey. "They'd never seen Terries
  before. They know better now."
   
    Bert chuckled. "Sure do. We showed 'em the next time, didn't we,
  Potter? Got four."
   
    "They walked right up to my place a couple days after the first time,"
  Swazey said. "We were ready for 'em. Peppered 'em good. They cut and
  run."
   
    "Flopped, you mean. Ugliest lookin' critters you ever saw. Look just
  like a old piece of dirty blanket humpin' around."
   
    "It's been goin' on this way ever since. They raid and then we raid.
  But lately they've been bringing some big stuff into it. They've got
  some kind of pint-sized airships and automatic rifles. We've lost four
  men now and a dozen more in the freezer, waiting for the med ship. We
  can't afford it. The colony's got less than three hundred able-bodied
  men."
   
    "But we're hanging onto our farms," said Potter. "All these oases are
  old sea-beds—a mile deep, solid topsoil. And there's a couple of
  hundred others we haven't touched yet. The Flap-jacks won't get 'em
  while there's a man alive."
   
    "The whole system needs the food we can raise," Bert said. "These farms
  we're trying to start won't be enough but they'll help."
   
    "We been yellin' for help to the CDT, over on Ivory," said Potter. "But
  you know these Embassy stooges."
   
    "We heard they were sending some kind of bureaucrat in here to tell
  us to get out and give the oases to the Flap-jacks," said Swazey. He
  tightened his mouth. "We're waitin' for him...."
   
    "Meanwhile we got reinforcements comin' up, eh, boys?" Bert winked at
  Retief. "We put out the word back home. We all got relatives on Ivory
  and Verde."
   
    "Shut up, you damn fool!" a deep voice grated.
   
    "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 at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back.
  "You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries."
   
    "Thanks. I'm sure the test would be interesting, but I'm hoping we can
  avoid it."
   
    "Avoid it?" Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in the
  silence. "Well, let us dine," the mighty Flap-jack said at last. "We
  can resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic of
  the Two Dawns."
   
    "I'm Retief." Hoshick waited expectantly, "... of the Mountain of Red
  Tape," Retief added.
   
    "Take place, Retief," said Hoshick. "I hope you won't find our rude
  couches uncomfortable." Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room,
  communed silently with Hoshick. "Pray forgive our lack of translating
  devices," he said to Retief. "Permit me to introduce my colleagues...."
   
    A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver tray
  laden with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled the
  drinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good.
   
    "I trust you'll find these dishes palatable," said Hoshick. "Our
  metabolisms are much alike, I believe." Retief tried the food. It had a
  delicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateau
  d'Yquem.
   
    "It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,"
  said Hoshick. "I confess at first we took you for an indigenous
  earth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion." He
  raised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retief
  returned the salute and drank.
   
    "Of course," Hoshick continued, "as soon as we realized that you were
  sportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing a
  bit of activity for you. We've ordered out our heavier equipment and a
  few trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequate
  show. Or so I hope."
   
    "Additional skirmishers?" said Retief. "How many, if you don't mind my
  asking?"
   
    "For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after ... well,
  I'm sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer a
  contest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Such
  a bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we've come
  upon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you made
  captive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantastically
  keen tracker."
   
    "Oh, by all means," Retief said. "No atomics. As you pointed out,
  spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops."
   
    "Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics.
  Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of my
  Mosaic...."
   
    "Delicious," said Retief. "I wonder. Have you considered eliminating
  weapons altogether?"
  A scratchy sound issued from the disk. "Pardon my laughter," Hoshick
  said, "but surely you jest?"
   
    "As a matter of fact," said Retief, "we ourselves seldom use weapons."
   
    "I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved the
  use of a weapon by one of your units."
   
    "My apologies," said Retief. "The—ah—the skirmishform failed to
  recognize that he was dealing with a sportsman."
   
    "Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons...." Hoshick
  signaled and the servant refilled tubes.
   
    "There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned," Retief went on. "I hope
  you won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishforms
  think of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certain
  specific life-forms."
   
    "Oh? Curious. What forms are those?"
   
    "Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, but
  lacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of such
  worthy adversaries as yourself as varmints."
   
    "Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you to
  point it out." Hoshick clucked in dismay. "I see that skirmishforms are
  much the same among you as with us: lacking in perception." He laughed
  scratchily. "Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints."
   
    "Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up against
  a serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.
  Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actions
  so dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end to
  these contests altogether...."
   
    Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.
  "What are you saying?" he gasped. "Are you proposing that Hoshick of
  the Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....?"
   
    "Sir!" said Retief sternly. "You forget yourself. I, Retief of the Red
  Tape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with the
  newest sporting principles."
   
    "New?" cried Hoshick. "My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'm
  enthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate."
   
    "It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and the
  two individuals settle the issue between them."
   
    "I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance could
  one attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms?"
   
    "I haven't made myself clear," said Retief. He took a sip of wine. "We
  don't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe."
   
    "You don't mean...?"
   
    "That's right. You and me."
  Outside on the starlit sand Retief tossed aside the power pistol,
  followed it with the leather shirt Swazey had lent him. By the faint
  light he could just make out the towering figure of the Flap-jack
  rearing up before him, his trappings gone. A silent rank of Flap-jack
  retainers were grouped behind him.
   
    "I fear I must lay aside the translator now, Retief," said Hoshick.
  He sighed and rippled his fringe tentacles. "My spawn-fellows will
  never credit this. Such a curious turn fashion has taken. How much
  more pleasant it is to observe the action of the skirmishforms from a
  distance."
   
    "I suggest we use Tennessee rules," said Retief. "They're very liberal.
  Biting, gouging, stomping, kneeing and of course choking, as well as
  the usual punching, shoving and kicking."
   
    "Hmmm. These gambits seem geared to forms employing rigid
  endo-skeletons; I fear I shall be at a disadvantage."
   
    "Of course," Retief said, "if you'd prefer a more plebeian type of
  contest...."
   
    "By no means. But perhaps we could rule out tentacle-twisting, just to
  even it."
   
    "Very well. Shall we begin?"
   
    With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, and
  leaped on the Flap-jack's back ... and felt himself flipped clear by
  a mighty ripple of the alien's slab-like body. Retief rolled aside
  as Hoshick turned on him; he jumped to his feet and threw a right
  hay-maker to Hoshick's mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringe
  around in an arc that connected with Retief's jaw, sent him spinning
  onto his back ... and Hoshick's weight struck him.
  Retief twisted, tried to roll. The flat body of the alien blanketed
  him. He worked an arm free, drumming blows on the leathery back.
  Hoshick nestled closer.
   
    Retief's air was running out. He heaved up against the smothering
  weight. Nothing budged.
   
    It was like burial under a dump-truck-load of concrete.
   
    He remembered the rangerform he had captured. The sensitive orifice
  had been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area....
   
    He groped, felt tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missing
  skin tomorrow ... if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orifice
  and probed.
   
    The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping with
  the other hand. If the alien were bilaterally symmetrical there would
  be a set of ready made hand-holds....
  There were.
   
    Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on,
  scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell on
  top of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, flopped
  in terror, then went limp.
   
    Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard.
  Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and moved
  gingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assisted
  him into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily,
  adjusted the volume.
   
    "There is much to be said for the old system," he said. "What a burden
  one's sportsmanship places on one at times."
   
    "Great sport, wasn't it?" said Retief. "Now, I know you'll be eager to
  continue. If you'll just wait while I run back and fetch some of our
  gougerforms—"
   
    "May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms!" Hoshick bellowed. "You've
  given me such a sprong-ache as I'll remember each spawning-time for a
  year."
   
    "Speaking of hide-ticks," said Retief, "we've developed a biterform—"
   
    "Enough!" Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on his
  hide. "Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I had
  hoped...." He broke off, drew a rasping breath. "I had hoped, Retief,"
  he said, speaking sadly now, "to find a new land here where I might
  plan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a crop
  of paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. But
  my spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerforms
  without end. I am shamed before you...."
   
    "To tell you the truth, I'm old-fashioned myself. I'd rather watch the
  action from a distance too."
   
    "But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude."
   
    "My spawn-fellows aren't here. And besides, didn't I mention it? No
  one who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition by
  mere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling the
  sand, raising lichens—things like that—"
   
    "That on which we dined but now," said Hoshick, "and from which the
  wine is made."
   
    "The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition.
  Now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'll
  promise to stick to the oases and vegetables."
   
    Hoshick curled his back in attention. "Retief, you're quite serious?
  You would leave all the fair sand hills to us?"
   
    "The whole works, Hoshick. I'll take the oases."
   
    Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. "Once again you have outdone
  me, Retief," he cried. "This time, in generosity."
   
    "We'll talk over the details later. I'm sure we can establish a set of
  rules that will satisfy all parties. Now I've got to get back. I think
  some of the gougerforms are waiting to see me."
  IV
   
    It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreed
  on with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stood
  up.
   
    "There you are," he said. "We been wonderin' whether to go out after
  you."
   
    Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out a
  raw-boned hand. "Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, I
  thought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT."
   
    Bert came up behind Lemuel. "How do you know he ain't, Lemuel?" he
  said. "Maybe he—"
   
    Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. "Next
  cotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse'n that."
   
    "Tell me," said Retief. "How are you boys fixed for wine?"
   
    "Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe's
  fatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker."
   
    "Try this." Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork,
  sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel.
   
    "Mister, where'd you get that?"
   
    "The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would you
  concede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peace
  guarantee?"
   
    At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief.
  "We'll make any reasonable deal," he said. "I guess they got as much
  right here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split.
  That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side."
   
    "What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them the
  desert?"
   
    Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. "Keep talkin',
  mister," he said. "I think you got yourself a deal."
  Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper.
   
    "Sit down, Retief," he said absently. "I thought you were over on
  Pueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert."
   
    "I'm back."
   
    Passwyn eyed him sharply. "Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speak
  up. Don't expect me to request any military assistance, no matter how
  things are...."
   
    Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. "Here's the
  Treaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement."
   
    "Eh?" Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leaned
  back in his chair, beamed.
   
    "Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled." He stopped, blinked at Retief.
  "You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you've been conducting
  yourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff."
   
    "I attended a sporting event," Retief said. "One of the players got a
  little excited."
   
    "Well ... it's one of the hazards of the profession. One must
  pretend an interest in such matters." Passwyn rose, extended a hand.
  "You've done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of following
  instructions to the letter."
   
    Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough to
  take from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and drop
  it in the slot.
  End of Project Gutenberg's Retief of the Red-Tape Mountain, by Keith Laumer
  
  
question_text: Where does the story take place?
response: The story takes place on Adobe. The Terrestrials have recently started farming there, and the Flap-jacks are also farming, but they are using the sand hills to grow lichens to make wine. The Flap-jack’s side is desert, and the Terrestrial’s side is more of a jungle. There are dwarf trees, song lizards, and insects, as wells as foliage and bushes. 
  
  The Terrestrials are using the land to keep their cattle, and they also value the dozens of oases. The ponds are a mile deep with excellent topsoil. 
  
  In the desert portion of the land, the leader of the Flap-jacks holds court in a cave surrounded by thorn branches. The cave’s ceiling is not very tall, and it is decorated with silk rugs, polished red granite, silver dishes, and rose-crystal drinking glasses. 
  
  Adobe is a place that both Flap-jacks and Terrestrials can use to their advantage, and they have nothing to fight over because the resources they desire to not overlap at all.
  