Retief at Large (21 page)

            "In
this case, the skin is an inch thick and tougher than armorplast. I'm not sure
we can penetrate to the brotherhood layer in time to stop bloodshed."

            "Actually,
I rather look forward to matching epigrams with His Arrogance tonight," Magnan
said loftily, turning to scan the gardens. "As you know, I'm always at my
sparkling best with high-ranking guests—and, of course, mere size and strength
fail utterly to intimidate me."

            Magnan
turned at a sound behind him, uttered a strangled yelp, and trampled a Hoog
waiter's foot as he leaped back from the spectacle of a seven-foot high,
six-foot wide Hoog wrapped in cloth of gold. The monster's gilded features
included one-inch nose holes, huge, watery, reddish eyes and a wide mouth set
in a formal grimace to display polished gold-capped teeth. Two clusters of
ringed fingers gripped the hilt of an immense two-edged sword.

            "Somethink
smells pat!" the apparition bellowed. He leaned forward, sniffed
vigorously at Magnan and snorted.

            "Horriple!"
he announced, elbowing Magnan aside. "Ko away, vellow! You're invested
with an acute P.O.!"

            "Why,
Your Arrogance—it's just a touch of skin bracer in back of my ear."

            "It
smelts like pargain night in a choy house. Where's Ambassador Hapstrinker? I
drust you have blenty of food reaty. I unterstant you Derries take a kreat
interesd in gooking." The Bishop winked a damp, pink eye, rammed Magnan
under the ribs, and guffawed comfortably.

            "Oof!"
Magnan said. "Why, Your Arrogance!"

            The
Bishop was already striding toward the nearest table, his escort of armed and
helmeted guards trailing behind, fingering scimitars and eyeing the diplomats
supiciously.

            "I
...1 think I'll just scoot along and see to the refreshments," Magnan
bleated. "Retief, you accompany His Arrogance and keep him amused until
help arrives—I mean, until the ambassador puts in an appearance!" He fled.

            The
Bishop dipped a boneless finger into a large crystal container of cheese sauce,
studied it at arm's length, sniffed it, then, with a flick of a limber wrist,
spattered it across the ruffled shirt fronts and glassy smiles of the diplomats
strung out in the receiving line.

            "Who
are these loavers?" he demanded loudly. "Bropaply relatives, waitink
arount for handouts. I have the zame proplem. Or had the zame proplem, I should
zay. Two weeks ako wasZelf-Denial Feztival. I made the subreme sagrifize ant
offered the entire lot to the anzestral spirids."

            "Giving
up your relatives for Lent is quite an idea," Retief said. "It could
catch on."

            The
Bishop picked up a plate of dainty sandwiches, spilled the food off, sniffed
the plate, and took a small bite. "I've heard a kreat teal about Derran
tishes," he said, chewing noisily. "A bit too crizp, but not
pat." He took a second nip from the thin porcelain and offered it to
Retief.

            "Have
a bite," he invited genially.

            "No
thanks, I filled up on a beer bottle just before Your Arrogance arrived,"
Retief countered. "Try the dinner plates. They're said to be an epicure's
delight."

            There
was a sudden stir from the vicinity of the wide terrace doors. Ambitious
diplomatic underlings sprang to positions of eager anticipation, their
delighted smiles ready. The squat figure of Career Minister Straphanger,
Terrestrial Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to Hoog
waddled into view, stylishly decked out in a short but heavily brocaded Hoogan
longhi, a brilliant red sash which all but dragged the ground, and jeweled
sandals. At his side puffed a companion of almost identical build and garb, distinguished
only by a mop of vivid orange hair. Magnan trailed by two yards.

            "Ah,
the ambassador is twints?" the Bishop inquired, moving toward the
approaching pair.

            "No,
that's Mrs. Straphanger," Retief said. "If I were Your Arrogance I'd
ditch that saucer; she's fierce when aroused."

            "Ah,
the edernal female, ever conzerned with food gonzervation." The Bishop
tossed a crust of the plate in back of a flowering bush.

            "Ah,
there, Ambassador Strakhumper!" he bellowed. "And your charmink cow!
She will be litterink zoon, I trust?"

            "Littering?
How's that?" Straphanger stared around in confusion.

            "I
azzume you keep your cows pregnant?" the Bishop boomed. "Or possibly
thiz one is over-aged. Bud no matter; doubtless she waz a gread broducer in her
day."

            "Well,
I never!" Mrs. Straphanger snapped, bridling.

            "By
the way," Ai-Poppy-Googy went on, "I hate to diguss finanzes over
food, zo I suggesd we deal with the broplem of an abbrobriate kift ad onze. I
am of gourse quite brebared to vorget the drivial misunterstantink with the
former ampassator ant agcepd any zum in egzess of one million gredits withoud
quibblink."

            "One
million credits?" Straphanger babbled. "Gift?"

            "Of
gourse, if you wish to avoid aquirink a reputation az a piker, an egstra
million would not be taken amiss."

            "A
million credits of Corps funds? But ... but whatever for?"

            "Ah,
ah," the Bishop waggled an admonitory tactile member. "No pry ink
into Hoogan internal matters!"

            "Oh,
no, indeed. Your Arrogance! I only meant ... what's the occasion? For the gift.
I mean."

            "It's
Tuesday."

            "Oh."

            The
Bishop nodded placidly. "Luggy you didn't throw thiz affair on Wentsday;
thad's douple gifd day." He plucked a glass from a tray offered by a
bearer, emptied the contents on the lawn and nipped a chip from the edge with
his polished metallic teeth, munching thoughtfully.

            "Lackink
in flavor," he commented.

            "My
best crystal," Mrs. Straphanger gasped. "All the way from Brooklyn,
yet, and like a goat he's eating it!"

            "A
koat?" The Bishop eyed her suspiciously. "I don't belief I know the
term."

            "It's
a ... a sort of gourmet," Straphanger improvised. Sweat was glistening on
his forehead. "Known for its discriminating tastes."

            "Now,
about the matter of a bension," the Bishop continued. "I zee no neet
of oztentation. A mere thou-sant a day would suvvize as a token of Corps
ezteem."

            "A
thousand what a day?" The ambassador inquired around a frozen diplomatic
grin which exposed old-fashioned removable dentures.

            "Gredits,
of gourse. And then there is the matter of zupzidies to Hoogan industry; zay
vivty thousant a month. Ton'd give a thoughd to atminisdration; just make the
cheggs payable to me perzonally—"

            "Hoogan
industry? But I was given to understand there are no industries here on
Hoog."

            "That's
why we reguire a zupzidy," the Bishop said blandly.

            Straphanger
hitched his smile in place with an effort.

            "Your
Arrogance, I'm here merely to establish friendly relations, to bring Hoog into
the mainstream of Galactic cultural life—"

            "What
coult be frientlier than money?" the Bishop inquired in a loud,
final-sounding voice.

            "Well,"
Straphanger conceded, "we might arrange a loan—"

            "An
oudright krant iz zo much zimpler," the Bishop pointed out.

            "Of
course, it would mean extra staff, to handle the administrative load."
Straphanger rubbed his hands together, a speculative gleam in his eye.
"Say twenty-five for a start."

            The
Bishop turned as a medium-sized Hoog in tight, black and silver vestments came
up, growled in his ear and waved a rubbery arm toward the house.

            "What?"
the Bishop exploded. He swivelled on Straphanger. "You are harporink tapoo
greatures? Givink aid and gomfort to untesirable elements? Sharink your
zubstanze with minions of the opposition?"

            "Your
Arrogance!" Straphanger's voice quavered against the rising roar of the
outraged cleric. "I don't understand! What did that fellow say?"

            The
Bishop bawled commands in Hoogan. His escort scattered and began beating the
bushes which rimmed the garden. The ambassador trotting at his side, the guest
of honor strode to the laden refreshment tables, and began stuffing in fragile
china, muttering to himself.

            "Your
Arrogance," Straphanger panted. "If I could just have some
explanation! I'm sure it's all just a ghastly mistake! What are these men
searching for? I assure you—"

            "Out
of the gootnezz of my heart I welgomed you to Hoog!" the Bishop roared.
"As a great gompliment to you, I abzorbed your language! I was even ready
to agzept cash, the zubreme chesture! And now I find that you openly gonzort
with the enemies of the Kods!"

            Standing
on the sidelines of the verbal fray, Retief glanced around the garden. He
spotted a fountain in the shape of a two-headed Hoogan dwarf with oversized
teeth and belly, and moved over to it.

            There
was a tug at his sandal lace. He looked down. Two bright eyes at the ends of
wirelike stalks stared up appealingly from a clump of grass. He glanced
around—all eyes were on the Bishop.

            "Are
you looking for me?" Retief asked softly.

            "Right!"
a squeaky voice piped. "You're a hard man to have a quiet chat with, Mr
... ahh."

            "Retief."

            "How
do, Retief. My name's Jackspurt. The boys appointed me spokesman to tell you
Terries about what's going on. After all, I guess us Spism's got a few rights,
too."

            "If
you can explain what's going on in this filbert factory, I'll be forever in
your debt, Jackspurt. Speak your piece."

            "It's
the Hoogans; they don't give us a minute's peace. Talk about persecution! Do
you know those psalm-singing hippos are blaming us for everything from sour
milk to loss of potency? It's getting where it's not safe to take a stroll
after sundown."

            "Hold
on, Jackspurt. Maybe you'd better fill me in on some background. Who are you?
Why are the Hoogans after you? And where did you learn to speak Terran with
that flawless enunciation of consonants?"

            "I
used to be a mascot on a Terry trader; I stowed away when she landed here for
emergency repairs. It was a great life; but after a while I got homesick for
good old Hoog—you know how it is—"

            "You're
a native of this charming world?"

            "Sure—us
Spism's have been around longer than the Hoogs. And we got along for thousands
of years with no trouble. The Hoogs took the surface, and we settled in nice
and comfy underground. Then they got religion and it's been hell ever
since."

            "Hold
on, Jackspurt. I always heard that religion exercised a beneficent influence on
those fortunate enough to possess it."

            "That
depends on which side you're on."

            "That's
a point."