Galactic Diplomat (19 page)

Retief felt of his jaw, moved his shoulders gingerly. “A
little dazed by the speed with which the boys work, but otherwise fine,” he
replied.

“You speak Poon like a native, by Hoop!” the alien said.
“Here, sit down. How about a drink of yiquil?” He indicated a low couch heaped
with varicolored cushions, turned to a cupboard, wide webbed feet in bright
yellow sandals gripping the swaying floor.

“You fell off a catwalk, eh?”

“Something like that,” Retief accepted a deep two-handled
porcelain jug, delicately shaped. He sniffed the drink, then sipped.

“My name’s Url Yum. I’m a netter for Matwide
Fooderies.”

“I’m Retief. I’m with the Terran Consulate.” He glanced
around the room. “Handsome apartment you have here.”

“Oh, it’s all right—” There was a sharp whistle at the door.

“You feel like meeting a bunch of people? I guess they saw
you fall, and they’ll be crowding in now to take a look at you; we don’t often
see Terries here in town, you know.”

“I’d rather not go on exhibit right now, Yum.”

“Sure, I know how you feel. I had to go over to Dryport on
business a few months back, and every other do-gooder wanted to have me in for
tea and look me over.”

The whistle sounded again at the door. Url Yum padded across
to the closet, brought out a large satchel, pulled out bright-colored gear of
plastic and metal.

“I was just about to go for a swim. Why don’t you join me?
You don’t want to go back up tonight—in this wind. We can go down the back way.
How about it?”

“A swim? In this weather?”

“The
best time. Hunting’s good; the small stuff shelters under the Mat, and the big
stuff is in there hunting them—and we hunt the big stuff.” He held up a
polished spear-head.

“Look, Yum, I’m just a Terry; I can’t hold my breath more
than a minute or two.”

“Neither can I. That’s what the gear’s for. You burn oxygen,
same as we do, don’t you?”

The whistle came again, more peremptory now. “Hey, Yum!” a
voice called.

Retief finished his drink. “That yiquil’s great stuff, Yum;
it’s already affecting my judgment. Let’s go!”

They stood in a narrow way that wound between high walls hung
with lights and signboards, studded with balconies from which pennants
fluttered, crowded with brilliantly mantled and jeweled Pupoony, filled with
the shriek of wind, the chatter of whistled conversation, and over all the
polyphonic creaking of the city.

“I’ve heard of twisting roads,” Retief called. “This is the
first time I ever saw one that fit the description.”

Yum put his mouth close to Retief’s ear. “You know the
whistle dialect?”

“I can understand it,” Retief shouted back. “But I can’t
whistle it.”

Yum motioned, led the way down a side alley to a sea-shell
ornamented hanging, pushed into a low room with couches along one wall, open
shelves on another. A portly Poon waddled forward.

“Oi, Yum! Oi, stranger.”

“Oi,” Yum said. “Gipp, this is Retief. We’re going down. Can
you fix him up with a spray job?”

“Lucky you came to my place, Yum. I happen to have a compound
specially prepared for Terry requirements, a fresh batch, just concocted
yesterday.”

“Good. Retief, put your stuff over
there . . .” Yum opened his satchel, took out equipment, laid it
out on a low table. He selected a pair of goggles, handed them to Retief.
“These are a little big, but I think they’ll seat all right.” He handed over a
heavy cylinder the size and shape of a beer bottle, added other items.

“OK:
propulsion, communication, lights, breathing apparatus, emergency gear. Now,
after you strip and get your equipment buckled on, Gipp will fit you with water
foils, and spray you in.”

Retief donned the gear, watched with interest while the
portly proprietor shaped a putty-like material to his feet, forming large fins
which stiffened to a rubbery consistency, then brought out a portable apparatus
with a tank, compressor, and hose with a wide nozzle.

“Give him a Striding Devil job, Gipp,” Yum ordered.

Gipp hesitated, looking at Retief. “I suppose you’ve had a
lot of experience . . . ?”

“He’ll be all right,” Yum put in. “He catches on fast, and
he’s got a good arm.”

“Whatever you say, Yum—but you ought to warn him that a Death
Angel will jump a Strider on sight.”

“Sure—that way we don’t have to go looking for ’em.”

“Well, if you get one, remember I’m paying top sprud for
stones.”

“You’ll get first crack.”

Gipp started up the compressor, twiddled knobs, then directed
a heavy spray of viscous, greenish fluid on Retief’s chest, working it in a
pattern that covered him to the knees, then shut down and set about changing
hoses.

“What’s this stuff for?” Retief inquired, studying the thick,
soft layer hardening on his skin.

“Protective covering; it’s tough as yuk skin. And it has an
osmotic action; passes oxygen in, and CO
2
 out. The color disguises you so you don’t scare off the
game—and the finished job holds all your gear in place. It’s a good insulation,
too. That water’s cold. It strips off easily when you come back in.”

Gipp worked for another five minutes. Retief craned his neck
to look at himself. His back, he saw, was a dull black, with red and white
flecks, separated from the glossy green front by pale grey sides. Broad pink
gill-flaps flared from throat to shoulders. The ankles and fin-covered feet
were a vivid red-orange.

“He’s got the build for it,” Gipp said, looking him over. “If
I hadn’t done the job myself, I’d swear he was a Strider, by Hoop!”

“That’s
the idea, Gipp. Now just give me a straight Big Mouth outfit.” Yum took a flask
from a side pocket, offered it to Retief, who took a generous pull, then passed
it to Gipp, busy with his apparatus.

“No thanks; I don’t need any delusions of grandeur tonight. I
hope to do a good volume of business before the storm hits its peak.” He worked
carefully, covered Yum with a uniform dull grey, added a peaked crest of garish
yellow.

“All right, Retief.” Yum handed him a light, short-barreled
rifle from the muzzle of which a razor-edged spear head protruded. “Let’s go
down.”

Gipp led the way to a back room, opened a wide wicker cover
set in the floor. Retief looked down at the sloping surface of a three-foot
tube of close-woven strips.

“Follow me,” Yum said, and dived, head first, out of sight.
Retief gripped his spear-gun, waved Gipp a cheery farewell, and dived after
him.

The water was ink-black, alive with darting lights in red and
yellow, ponderous-moving patterns of green and blue, and far below, dull gleams
of violet. Retief kicked his feet, watched lights scatter before him in a boil
of phosphorescence.

A dark shape darted from the gloom, hovered before him; he
recognized Yum’s yellow crest, waving gently in the moving water.

“Only peaceful place in town, when the wind’s working,” Yum’s
voice crackled in Retief’s ears. “Let’s work our way east to get clear of the
activity around here; then we’ll see if we can’t bait an Angel up.”

“How deep are we?”

“The Mat’s thirty meters thick here; we’re going to work
Underside first; if that’s no go, we’ll move down.”

Yum darted off with a flick of webbed feet. Retief followed.
Above, the mass of the floating continent of weed was a fairyland tangle of
waving fronds, fantastically shaped corals, moving lights.

“Use the knob on your left hip as a jet control,” Yum said.
“Steer with your feet—and keep your rifle ready. If you see anything that looks
like you, let him have it.”

Retief tried the knob, felt water churn past his knees; he
leaped ahead, driving through the water with a speed that blurred the weedscape
above. A slight twist of the ankles sent him angling sharply toward the depths;
a minute adjustment brought him back to Yum’s side. His eyes adjusted to the
darkness, picked out the shapes behind the lights now. Massive, sluggish
swimmers cruised, wide jaws open. Slim torpedo shapes darted and wheeled. A
nebulous form, glowing with a nacreous pink, rose up, reached out with feathery
arms; Yum swerved away, Retief following fifteen feet to one side of his
bubble-trail.

After a ten-minute run, Yum slowed, rose until he brushed the
tops of the coral trees, then reached up with his feet, planted them in a swirl
of smoky mud, and stood, inverted. Retief came alongside, twisted, felt the
soft ooze under his feet.

“It’s a little confusing at first,” Yum’s voice came clear in
Retief’s ears. “But you’ll get used to it.”

Retief looked around. The undulating surface of the weed mass
stretched away into deep gloom, studded with waving fronds, stiff-branched
trees of red-violet, orange and chartreuse coral, feathery banks of leafy
undergrowth set with multi-colored flowers as big as dinner plates, among which
moving lights sparkled and played.

“I’ll pace you, off to the left,” Yum said. “Move along with
big, leaping strides. Anything your size except another Strider will give you a
wide berth. If you see one, hit him fast. Aim for the mid-section. Now, if we
pick up an Angel, you’ll notice the shadow first. Just keep moving; I’ll get
under him and hit him where it hurts. When he turns, give it to him near the
big red spot on his back. Got it?”

“How many rounds in this rifle?”

“Five in the magazine, and a spare magazine on your left
shoulder.”

“How do we know there aren’t other hunters around? I’d hate
to spear a friend of yours by mistake.”

“You’ll
get a recognition tone in your phones if anybody gets within fifteen yards—maybe.
That’s part of the game. I got a nice barb cut out of my left leg last
year—some joker wanted a Big Mouth for cut bait.” Yum waved and flicked away.
Retief picked an open avenue between towering corals and started off. Walking
was not too difficult after the first few steps; rather like tramping the dusty
surface of an asteroid, he reflected—except that the diving gear was
considerably less bulky than a space suit.

There was a movement to Retief’s right. A tall biped stalked
into view ten yards distant, barely visible in the glow of phosphorescence.
Retief halted, brought the gun around. The newcomer moved on in great floating
leaps. Retief turned to follow.

“Never mind the Strider,” Yum said. “He didn’t see you; must
have just fed. We’ll work off to the right here and let him have this
territory.”

Retief watched as the biped bounded off into the gloom, then
moved on. Ahead, the darkness seemed deeper; a cow-sized creature with warts
and glowing rings around wide eyes blundered past, rocking him with a surge of
water. Tiny fish flashed past. The gloom deepened.

“Action!” Yum’s voice came, tense in the earphones. “Keep
going; we’ve got a big one coming up to take a look . . .”

Retief twisted to look toward the depths, like a black sky in
which a dark cloud moved. He went on.

“That’s the stuff, act like you don’t notice him; otherwise
he’ll let fly with his musk, and we’ll be working in the
dark . . .”

The shadow moved, spreading. All around, the scene darkened.
A last sluggish sea-creature humped past, raising a trail of mud-fog.

“Hey,” Yum’s voice came. “He’s by-passing us, moving
on . . .”

“Maybe he’s just not hungry tonight—”

“It’s that Strider we saw; he’s after him. Let’s go!”

Retief turned, saw a swirl of phosphorescence, jetted after
it. The surface of the weed sloped, an inverted hill. Retief moved up beside
Yum, following the immense shadow that fled across the rolling surface. The
Strider came into view, leaping back toward the two hunters.

“Take him!” Yum barked. “I’ll get under the big boy . . .”
He swirled away. Retief brought the rifle to his shoulder, aimed—

A brilliant light flashed from the Strider’s chest. The
creature reached, grabbing at its back . . . 

“Hold it!” Yum’s voice snapped. “That’s no
Strider . . . !”

The long greenish beam of the searchlight swung, flashing
from coral trees, glowing through drifting mud-clouds.

“The damned fool! He’d better douse that
light . . . !”

The Death Angel closed, like a hundred-foot blanket of black
jelly settling in; the stranger backed, worked frantically to fit a magazine to
his rifle, bringing it up—

The Angel struck; for a moment it hugged the surface of the
weed, rippling its edges—then it heaved, recoiling violently—

“Good-O!” Yum yelled. “I planted one fair and square! Move in
and hit the hot-spot, Retief, and we’ll be up half the night counting gold over
a bottle of hundred-year yiquil!”

Retief hurled himself forward, kicked clear of the weed-bed,
centered his sights on a foot-wide patch of luminous red at the center of the
vast writhing shape, and fired, fired again, then went tumbling as the
turbulence caught him and bowled him over.