Retief at Large (23 page)

            "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 Ebiscobal decree," the Bishop said, raising his sword.

            "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 an Ebiscobal rebrieve. Put that toesn't inglude the resd of
these untesire-aples!" the Bishop waved a hand. "Drake 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 right! Keep them! They're all
reprieved 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 Bishop 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 Bishop bellowed. Guards jumped forward; busy hands grabbing 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 Bishop pounced. He opened the paper and read the message.

            "A
gonsbirazy!" he yelled. "Unter my very nose! Put 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 be denied their tue!" Ai-Poppy-Googy roared. "Domorrow
is the Krant Vesti-fal of Wentstay—"

            "Tomorrow's
Thursday," Magnan interjected.

            "Domorrow
is Wentstay! Today is Wentstay! I herepy teclare a whole weeg of Wentstays,
plast it! Now, as I was sayink—this Derran will bartizibate in the vestifal!
Zuch is the holy will! No more arku-ments!"

            "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 drue Kods are the Hookan Kods, py the Kods!" the Bishop boomed.
"Any more of your Der-ran 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 Kods is known!"

            "Mr.
Ambassador," Magnan quavered, tugging at Straphanger's arm, "do you
think you 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 Bishop boomed. "I zuzbegted as much!" He turned a large, red eye
on Straphanger.

            "I'll
pe zeeing you at the zeremony! Ton'd 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 were chained together, and he was 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 and sounded 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 Bishop's troops lower the boom!
It'll be the finish of us 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 clankings 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.

            "Gotta
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, and took the empty bottle from his
hand.

            "Goked
to the eyeprows," he stated.

            "Are
you zure?" a pikeman challenged. "1 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 Ampassador Hipstinker, our brinzibal tiety, Uk-Ruppa-Tooty,
is nod only a hantzome degoration and a gonstand reminter to the bobulaze that
the nexd tithe is tue—he also broduzes oragular stadements rekularly effry
Wentstay at one B. M. Of gourse, it is nod always kiven to us to untersdant
what he's dalkink apout, bud the evvegd on the beasan-dry is most
zaludory."

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

            The
priest who had accompanied Retief bowed unctuously before the Episcopal throne.
"Your Arrokanze, the Zoon-to-pe-Alefated One is here," he indicated
Retief with a wave of the hand.

            "Is
he ... ah ...?" Ai-Poppy-Googy looked inquiringly at the escort.

            "A
glassig gase of hypervasgulations of the thinkamapops," a pike man spoke
up.

            "Poil
thad one in oil," the Bishop said, frowning. "He dalgs doo
mudge."

            "You
appear a bit peaked, Retief," Straphanger commented. "I trust you
slept well last night? Comfortable quarters and all that?"

            Retief
stared absently past the ambassador's left ear.

            "Retief,
the ambassador's addressing you," Magnan said sharply.

            "Brobably
he's losd in mentations," Ai-Poppy-Googy said hastily. "On with the
zeremony."

            "Perhaps
he's sick," Magnan said. "Here, you'd better sit down."

            "Ah-ah,"
Ai-Poppy-Googy held up a limber hand. "The mosd imbortand bortion of the
zeremony yed remaints to pe zeleprated."

            "Ah,
yes, of course," Straphanger sat back. "I'd quite forgotten, Your
Arrogance." He glanced around. "We'll have a magnificent view of the
proceedings from here."

            At
a prod from an Episcopal Guard, Retief turned— and found himself staring
directly into the vast brass smile of the Hoogan idol.

            From
Retief's elevated viewpoint atop the two-hundred foot high ziggurat, the head
of the god reared up another fifty feet. It was an immense stylized Hoogan face
of polished yellow metal, the vast hand upraised beside it. The eyes were deep
hollows at the back of which a sullen red glow gave an impression of malignant
intelligence. The noseholes, a yard each in diameter, drooled a thin trickle of
smoke which coiled up past soot-streaked cheeks to dissipate in the clear air.
The mouth which split the massive head, gaped in a crocodile smile set with
spade-shaped teeth with spaces between them beyond which was visible a curve of
polished esophagus agleam with leaping reflections from inner fires below.