Galactic Diplomat (10 page)

“Look here, Your Arrogance! How can we find a demon if
there’s no demon here?”

“That’s
your
broblem!”

There was a yell from the gate. Two guards were man-handling
the bearer with the waste-paper bag, who jerked away, making indignant noises.
The bag fell, split open, spilling garbage from the midst of which the fugitive
Spism burst, sending scraps flying in every direction. With a bound, it was
past the astonished guards, heading for the rear gate. More guards appeared in
its path, jerking long-barreled guns from tooled holsters. A shot seared a long
gouge in the deep grass, narrowly missed other Papal retainers dashing up to
get a crack at the action. The Pope yelled, waving his boneless arms.

Cut off, the Spism veered, dashed for the house, was met by a
squad charging out from inside. A near-miss smashed dishes on the table beside
Magnan, who yelped and hit the dirt.

The Spism skittered, took evasive action, headed for the
flower-decked gate letting onto the drive. The guards were all behind it now,
the way clear. With a tremendous yell, Pope Ai-Poppy-Googy whipped his giant
sword out and leaped to intercept the fleeing creature. As he bounded past
Retief, the latter pivoted, thrust out a foot, hooked the papal leg just above
a flare-topped bejeweled pink leather shoe. His Arrogance dived forward, struck
medals-first, and skidded on his face under the table.

“Why, hi there,” Magnan’s voice piped from under the muffling
canopy of the drooping table cloth. “Just a minute, and I’ll scroonch over—”

The Pope roared and rose up, the table lifting with him;
dishes, glasses, and food cascaded off on Magnan, crouching on the ground. With
a surge, the Pontiff hurled the board aside, roared again, whirling to confront
the dancing figure of Ambassador Straphanger, who flapped a napkin at the mud
on the ornate canonicals of the guest of honor.

“Treason!” Ai-Poppy-Googy bellowed. “Azzazints! Murderers!
Achents of the Unterworlt! Obstructors of chustist! Heretics!”

“Now, now, Your Arrogance! Don’t get upset—”

“Upzet! This iz maybe a choke?” The Pope dashed the muddied
cloth from Straphanger’s hand, bent and snatched up his sword, waved it
overhead. The Papal Guard was closing in quickly now.

“I hereby eggsgommunigate the lot of you!” he Pope yelled.
“No food, no water, no bolice brotection! Alzo, you will be puplicly
eggsecuted! Boys, round them up!”

Guns were suddenly leveled at the huddle of diplomats
surrounding the Ambassador. Magnan yelped. Straphanger’s wattles quivered.

“Ton’t miss this one!” Ai-Poppy-Googy indicated Retief. “It
was his foot I fell over!” A guard poked a gun into Retief’s side.

“Ah, I think Your Arrogance is forgetting that Mr. Retief has
a Papal dispensation,” Straphanger said brightly. “Retief, if you’ll just run
along to my office and send out a code two-oh-three—or is it three-oh-two—or . . . anyway,
a call for aitch ee ell pee—”

“He’ll ko along with the rest of you scoundrels!” the Pope
yelled. Half a dozen armed Hoogans were herding the remainder of the staff up
to join the group now.

“Any more insite?”

“No, Your Arrokants,” the captain of the guard reported.
“Only a few zervants.”

“Poil them in oil for azzociatink with azzazints! As for the
rest of you—”

“Your Arrogance,” Straphanger spoke up. “Naturally, I don’t
mind dying, if it’s Your Arrogance’s pleasure, but then we won’t be able to
give you the gifts and things, will we...?”

“Tamn!” Ai-Poppy-Googy threw his sword down, narrowly missing
Magnan’s foot. “I forgot about the gidtz!” He looked thoughtful. “Look, zuppose
I make arranchmends for you to write a few chegs in your zell pefore the
eggzecution?”

“Oh, I’m afraid that wouldn’t do at all, Your Arrogance. I
need the Embassy seal, and the check verifying machine, and the code books
and—”

“Well . . . bossibly
I might make an egzeption; I’ll defer punishment until the cash arrives—”

“Sorry, Your Arrogance, but I wouldn’t ask you to deviate
from tradition just to accommodate me. No, we’re all excommunicated, so I
suppose we may just as well get comfortable and start starving—”

“Holt it! Don’t rush me! Who’s doing the eggsgommunigatink,
you or me?”

“Oh, you are—”

“Brecizely! And I zay you’re not eggsgommunigated!” The Pope
stared around truculently. “Now about the gifd! You can deliver the two million
immediately; I juzt happened to pring an armored gar alonk—”

“TWO million? But you said one million!”

“This is touple gift day.”

“But you said Wednesday was double-gift day. This is only
Tuesday.”

“It’s now Wentsday, by Babal decree.”

“But you can’t—I mean, how can
you . . . ?”

“Calendar Reform,” Ai-Poppy-Googy said. “Lonk overdue.”

“Well, I suppose it could be arranged . . .”

“Kood! I herepy grant you a Babal rebrieve. Put that toesn’t
inglude the resd of these untesiraples!” the Pope waved a hand. “Dake them
away, poys!”

“Ah . . . I’m
grateful for the pardon, I’m sure,” Straphanger said, gaining confidence
rapidly; “but of course I won’t be able to process the paper work properly
without my staff . . .”

Ai-Poppy-Googy glared with large, damp, red eyes. “All righd!
Keeb them! They’re all rebrieved egzebd thad one!” he aimed a finger at Retief
like a gun. “I have sbezial blans for him!” The guards shifted their attention
to Retief, ringing him in with aimed guns.

“Maybe His Arrogance would be just a teeny bit lenient this
time,” Magnan suggested, dabbing at a smear of liver paste along his bare arm,
“if Mr. Retief apologized and promised never to do it again.”

“Do whad akain?” the Pope demanded.

“Trip
you,” Magnan said. “You know, like he did just now.”

“He dribbed me?” Ai-Poppy-Googy choked. “On burpose?”

“Why, ah, it must have been a mistake—” Straphanger started.

“Your Arrogance has such a keen sense of humor, I’m sure
you’ll see the comic aspect of it, if you just think about it,” Magnan offered.

“Retief!
Did you—I mean, surely you didn’t—” Straphanger choked.

“Well!” Magnan said indignantly. “I was lying right there—”

“Zearch
him!” the Pope bellowed. Guards jumped forward; busy hands grabbed at Retief’s
kilt-pockets, almost at once came upon the folded paper the Spism had dropped
as it fled his room.

“Ah-hah!” the Pope pounced, opened the paper, read the
message.

“A gonsbirazy!” he yelled. “Unter my fery nose! But the
ironts on him!”

“I must protest!” Straphanger spoke up. “You can’t go about
chaining up diplomats every time a little indiscretion is committed! Leave the
matter to me, Your Arrogance; I’ll see that a sharp entry goes in his record—”

“The
Kods will nod pe denied their tue!” Ai-Poppy-Googy roared. “Domorrow is the
Krant Vestifal of Wentstay—”

“Tomorrow’s Thursday,” Magnan interjected.

“Domorrow is Wentstay! Totay is Wentstay! I herepy teclare a
whole weeg of Wentstays, plast it! Now, as I was sayink—this Derran will
bartizibade in the vestifal! Zuch is the Babal will! No more arkuments!”

“Oh, he’ll be taking part in a ceremony!” Straphanger said in
a relieved tone. “Well, goodness, I suppose we can spare him long enough for
that.” He offered a small diplomatic chuckle. “The Corps is always ready to
promote worship in whatever form, of course—”

“The only dru Kots are the Hookan Kots, py the Kots!” the
Pope boomed. “Any more of your Derran heresy, and I’ll referse my tisbenzation!
Now dake thiz one to the demple and brebare him vor the rides of Wentstay! The
resd of you will remain unter arresd, undil the will of the Kots is known!”

“Mr. Ambassador,” Magnan quavered,
tugging at
Straphanger’s arm. “Do
you think we should allow them—”

“Merely letting His Arrogance save face,” Straphanger said in
a confidential tone. He winked at Retief. “Don’t worry, my boy; good experience
for you. You’ll get an inside view of the Hoogan religious concept at work.”

“But—but, what if they . . . I mean,
boiling in oil is so
permanent
 . . .” Magnan persisted.

“Quiet, Magnan! I’ll have no whiners in my organization!”

“Thanks for thinking of me, Mr. Magnan,” Retief said. “I
still have my good luck charm.”

“Charm?” Magnan looked blank.

“Witchgraft?” the Pope boomed. “I zuzbegted as much!” He
turned a large red eye on Straphanger.

“I’ll pe zeeing you at the zeremony! Ton’t pe lade!” He eyed
Retief. “Are you goming beazevully?”

“In view of the number of guns aimed at me,” Retief said, “I
sincerely hope so.”

The
cell was narrow, dark, damp, and unfurnished except for a plain table with a
bottle of bitter-smelling wine and
a narrow
bench on which Retief sat, his wrists chained together
, listening to a
muffled tapping which sounded faintly from beyond the walls. It had been going
on now for twelve hours, he estimated—long enough for the Hoogans to have
completed their preparations for the religious ceremonies in which he was to
play a part.

The tapping abruptly changed tone, sounding louder, nearer.
There was a light clatter, as of pebbles tossed on the floor. A moment later,
there was a soft scraping sound, a rasping like fingernails on a blackboard;
then silence.

“Retief, are you there?” a thin voice chirped through the
pitch darkness.

“Sure, Jackspurt! Come on in and join the party. I’m glad to
see you eluded the gendarmes.”

“Those slobs! Hah! But listen, Retief, I’ve got bad
news . . .”

“Press on, Jackspurt; I’m listening.”

“This is Festival Day—and old Googy’s scheduled the big
all-out push for today, to tie in with the mumbo-jumbo. The Hoogs have been
building this king-size fumigator for months—stacking it full of rubbish, old
rags, worn-out tires, and what not. At the height of the big ceremony, they set
the stuff on fire, and start the smoke-pumps going. They got a system of pipes
laid out leading into the burrows, see? There won’t be a safe spot for Spisms
for miles around. Our boys will come stampeding out of their hideaways, some of
which have been in the family for generations, and zowie! the Pope’s troops
lower the boom! It’ll be the finish of Spisms!”

“That’s a heart-rending story, Jackspurt—or it would be, if I
weren’t in such a heart-rending position myself at the moment—”

“Yeah, the Wednesday Rites. You scheduled for the matinee or
the big evening spectacular?” Jackspurt broke off as clanking sounded from
beyond the door.

“Holy Moses, Retief! Time’s up! They’re here! Listen, I was
supposed to brief you in, like, but it took longer’n I figured tunneling
through that wall, and then I got to yakking—”

A key scraped in the keyhole.

“Listen! Did you drink any of what’s in the bottle?”

“No.”

“Good! It’s doped! When I leave, dump it! You’ll have to
pretend you can’t talk or the jig’s up! Put on a kind of zombie routine, see?
Whatever they tell you—do it! If they get the idea you’re putting something
over, it’s zkkk! for every Terry on Hoog! And remember! Keep your head down and
your arms and legs tucked in—”

The lock turned with a rasp of rusty tumblers.

“Got to go! Good luck!” Jackspurt scrambled and was gone.
Retief took a step, grabbed up the bottle, poured it down the three-inch hole
through which his visitor had fled.

Light blazed as the heavy door swung inward. Three hooded
Hoogan pikemen came into the cell, followed by a black-robed priest. Retief
stood holding the empty bottle, his body concealing Jackspurt’s escape route.

“How to you veel, Derry?” the priest inquired, looking Retief
over. He stepped in, thumbed Retief’s eyelid up, grunted, took the empty bottle
from his hand.

“Goked to the eyeprows,” he stated.

“Are you zure?” a pikeman challenged. “I ton’d drust these
voreigners.”

“Nadurally I’m zure; the hypervasgulations of the
subraoccibital whatchamagallids is dypical; a glassic gase. Dake him alonk.”

Hemmed in by pikes, Retief followed along a torch-lit
passage, up winding stone stairs, to emerge abruptly into blinding light and
the susurrus of a multitude of voices, above which one rose like the boom of
surf:

“ . . . azzure you, my tear Ambassador
Hipstinker, our brinzibal teity, Uk-Ruppa-Tooty, is nod only a hantzome
degoration and a gonstand reminter to the bobulaze that the nexd tithe is
tue—he also brotuzes oragular stadements rekularly efery Wentstay at one B.M.
Of gourse, it is nod always kiven to us to undersdant whad he’s dalkink apout,
bud the evvegd on the beasandry is most zaludory . . .”

Squinting against the sudden sunlight, Retief made out the
resplendently-robed figure of the Pope, seated under a vast parasol on a massive
throne of dark wood carved with designs of intertwined serpents, flanked on the
left by the Terran Ambassador and on the right by a huddle of lesser diplomats,
the group ringed in by stony-faced Hoogan guards with bared scimitars.