Retief at Large (20 page)

            With
a yell, Magnan dived for the door and flung it wide. "Guards! Help!
Goblins! Spooks!" His voice receded along the hall, mingling with the
clank of accoutrements, and the slap of wide Hoogan feet.

            The
intruder hesitated at the outcry, dithered for a moment, then, emitting a cry
like a goosed fairy, fumbled with two of its limbs at something attached to its
back.

            Beyond
the door, Magnan's voice supplied a shrill counterpoint to the rumble of Hoogan
questions.

            "Then
get someone who speaks Terran!" he yelped. "At this moment my
associate is being savaged by the monster!"

            Retief
crossed quickly to the window, pulled the drapes aside and unlatched a panel,
letting in a draft of damp night air.

            "This
way out, fellow," he said. "You'd better get going before the cops
arrive."

            The
fluffball darted across the room and came to a shaky stop before Retief. He
made quick, nervous motions. A folded square of paper fell to the floor at
Retief's feet. Then the creature sprang for the opening and was gone as Hoogan
feet clumped at the door.

            "Where
Spism?" a heavy voice demanded in thick Terran. A conical Hoogan head in a
flaring helmet swivelled to scan the room.

            Behind
the guard, Magnan craned for a view. "Where is the beast?' he shrilled.
"It was at least four-feet high, and its tusks were four-inches long at
the very least!"

            The
Hoogan advanced into the room. He pointed to the open window with his
broad-headed seven-foot pike.

            "It
was a mouse after all," Retief said. "It got away."

            "You
let Spism ko?"

            "Shouldn't
I have?" Retief inquired mildly, pocketing the paper.

            "Spism
bad imp from nether rechions; might bite Derry, get blood boizonink."

            "I
think you're being impertinent," Magnan said sharply. "Biting Terrans
is perfectly safe—"

            The
Hoogan turned to him, his pike lowered ominously.

            "You
will gome with me," it ordered. "The benaldy for consortink with
minions of Unterworlt is poilink in oil."

            "Here,"
Magnan said, backing up. "Stand back, my man—"

            The
Hoogan reached for Magnan with a long, snaky hand; Retief stepped up behind
him, selected a spot, and struck a sharp blow with bunched fingertips. The
guard stumbled, fell past Magnan, and hit chin first with a resounding slam.
His pike shattered against the wall.

            "Retief!"
Magnan gobbled. "What are you thinking of? You've laid hands on a member
of the Episcopal Guard!"

            "I
had the distinct impression that this fellow hooked a toe on the rug and fell
down. Didn't you notice?"

            "Why,
you know very well—"

            "Just
before he reached you, Mr. Magnan."

            "Ah
... why yes, now that you mention it, he did trip," Magnan's tone was
suddenly brisk. "Nasty fall. I rushed up to support him, but alas, too
late. Poor fellow. Served him right, the brute. Shall we go through his
pockets?"

            "Why?"

            "You're
right; there isn't time. That crash was doubtless heard throughout the
palace."

            A
second Hoogan appeared at the open door, his helmet bearing the fanged angel,
which was indicative of officer rank. He eyed the fallen pikeman.

            "You
addacked this one?" he demanded.

            Magnan
glanced at the victim as though noticing him for the first time. "He seems
to have fallen down," he observed brightly.

            "Against
rules to kill Hoogan," the captain said ominously.

            "He
... ah ... broke his spear," Magnan pointed out helpfully.

            "Very
bad crime, defile ceremonial spear," the captain said sternly.
"Require burification zeremony. Very expenzive."

            Magnan
fumbled in a money pouch at one hip. "I'd love to contribute a little
something."

            "Ten
Hoogan gredits, forget the whole thing. For extra five dizpose of body."

            The
felled Hoogan stirred, mumbled, sat up.

            "Ha!"
the captain said. "Look like no teal. But for another extra five—" he
lifted a short, ugly club from his belt, "—finish off unfortunate victim
of Derry violence."

            "Stop!"
Magnan yelled. "Are you out of your mind?"

            "Inzult
to overseer castle Driest
cosd you two more gredits. For you I mage
zpecial brice, three for five."

            "Bribery?"
Magnan gasped. "Corruption?"

            "Three
it is," the Hoogan nodded. "How about you?" he turned to Retief.
"You sbort like other Derry?"

            "Look
here, I'm paying you nothing!" Magnan barked. "Just assist this
unfortunate chap out of here, if you please, and we'll get on with our
dressing!"

            "Small
religious contributions fine old Hoogan gus-tom!" the overseer protested.
"You want to fiolate local tapoos?"

            "We
Terrans have a few customs of our own," Retief put in smoothly. "We
feel that graft should only be paid voluntarily." He offered a note which
the officer palmed deftly. The guard was on his feet now, swaying. The captain
barked an order, his subordinate gathered up the spear fragments, shot Magnan a
poisonous look and departed, followed by the captain.

            Retief
closed the door behind the departing visitors, fished out the scrap of paper
dropped by the fleeing Spism and opened it.

           
BY
THE OGRE FOUNTAIN AT SECOND MOONRISE; WEAR A YELLOW DUNG FLOWER.

            Magnan,
busy at the mirror again, heaved a deep sigh.

            "Hardly
an auspicious beginning," he commented. "Heavens! It's twenty-thirty!
We're late!" He gave his sarong a final tug and smoothed a thinning lock
across His forehead.

            He
led the way along the echoing hall and down a spiral stair to an archway
debouching onto wide steps above a ragged lawn. Blue lanterns hanging in the
branches of skeletal trees shed a wan radiance on the fungus-like ornamental
plants. Sculptures representing souls in torment were placed near wide tables
laden with Terran delicacies hastily unloaded from the Corps transport for the
occasion. A dozen grotesquely shaped fountains spread a fine mist and an odor
of sulphur across the festive scene.

            Beyond
the high spike-topped wall, the ominous shape of an immense brass-colored idol
reared up half a mile away. Its ferocious sculptured grin glowing in the glare
of spotlights, its right arm raised in the Hoogan royal salute—elbow straight
out, forearm pointing upward with fingers spread, the left hand gripped the
right biceps.

            Magnan
shuddered.

            "That
beastly idol—it's sub-Hoogan," Magnan commented, 'isn't that smoke coming
out of its nostrils?"

            Retief
sniffed. "Something's burning," he agreed.

            A
dark figure stepped from dense shadow at Magnan's elbow. "Only old
newsbabers you scent," it rumbled. "Our Hoogan Kods are uzeful; they
serve as gommunity inzinerators."

            "Odom-Glom!
You startled me!" Magnan chirped. He slapped at an insect that buzzed
about his face. "I do hope the evening is a big success. It was so
thoughtful of his Arrogance to allow the Corps to act as host tonight; such a
gesture of acceptance—sort of."

            "Reverze
hosbitality iz an old Hoogan gustom," Odom-Glom said. "It would be a
kood itea to know all our old Hoogan gustoms, zo az not to end up lige the lasd
Derran Tiplomat."

            "Yes,
it was unfortunate about Ambassador Straphanger's predecessor getting
excommunicated, and all. But really, how was he to know he was supposed to fill
the Episcopal begging bowl with hundred-credit notes?"

            "It
wasn't zo much not contributink; but pourink the canned beans in spoiled the
bill His Arrokanze had planted as a hint."

            "A
bad scene," Magnan agreed. "But I'm sure this evening will smooth
everything over."

            The
orchestra began tuning up and lugubrious notes groaned across the lawn. Armed Episcopal
guards were taking up their posts, and sarong-clad diplomats were forming a
receiving line by a stone arch opening through which the dignitaries would
arrive.

            "I
must hurry alonk now and zee to the kun emplazements," Odom-Glom said.
"One lasd suggestion: wordly goods of course mean nothing to His
Arrokanze, but the deadliest of the zinz is Ztinchinezz. His Arrokanze detests
a tightwad." He moved off, chains clashing.

            "The
ambassador's not out yet," Magnan noted nervously. "Gracious, I hope
he puts in an appearance before Bishop Ai-Poppy-Googy arrives. I dread the
prospect of having to engage His Arrogance in light chit-chat."

            "According
to the Post Report, dealing with the Bishop is very simple," Retief said.
"Just give him everything in sight, and if that doesn't satisfy him, give
him some more."

            "I
can see that you're finally getting the hang of diplomacy, Retief," Magnan
said approvingly. "Still, I'm worried."

            "Since
it's your job as protocol officer to soften up difficult guests," Retief
said, "why not meet the Bishop at the gate and try out a few racy stories
on him?"

            "I
hardly imagine that the Chief of State of a Theocracy would react to biological
anecdotes," Magnan said stiffly.

            "Oh,
biology is a perfectly clean subject here on Hoog; but don't bring up cooking
in polite conversation. According to the handbook, there's an unspoken
agreement among the cultured element that the stork brings the goodies."

            "Really?
Heavens, and all the cookies are stamped 'Made in Hong Kong'! I'll have to tell
the cook to substitute blintzes. While I'm attending to that, you'd best take
your post at the gate. You'll handle the first shift tonight. I'll send String
whistle along to relieve you in an hour."

            "I
could delay the Bishop a few minutes for you," Retief offered as they
crossed to the gate. "Suppose I start by demanding to see his
invitation."

            "None
of your ill-timed japes, Retief! After the last mission's fiasco, establishing
a friendly rapport with the Bishop tonight could mean promotions all around."

            "I
think the traditional lawn party is a little too subtle for a fellow like the
Bishop. We should have used a simple symbolism—like a few rounds of heavy
artillery lobbed into the palace grounds."

            "Hardly
the diplomatic approach," Magnan sniffed. "For centuries now it's
been understood that if enough diplomats go to parties, everything will come
right in the end."

            "I
wonder if the Hoogans understand that tradition?"

            "Certainly;
after all, we're all fellow beings— brothers under the skin, as it were."