Retief at Large (25 page)

            "I
wouldn't make any announcements just yet," he said. "The results
aren't all in."

            "Who
are you?" The Hoogan sidled toward a corner cabinet.

            "If
that's where you keep your prayer books, better let them lie for a while
yet."

            "Look
here, berhabs you are unaware thad I am His Voracity, the Deacon
Um-Moomy-Hooby, ant I have gonnegtions—"

            "Doubtless.
And don't try for the door; I have a confederate out there who's noted for his
ferocity," Retief said.

            Magnan
came through the door, panting. Um-Moomy-Hooby backed away. "Whad—whad do
you wand?"

            "I
understand the god is about to utter oracular statements, as the high point of
the Wednesday services," Retief said.

            "Yez—I
waz jusd goink over my sgribt. Now if you'll eggsguze me I have to—"

            "It
just happens that it's the script we want to talk about. There are a couple of
special announcements I'd like to see inserted."

            "Whad?
Damper with holy sgribture?"

            "Nothing
like that; just a good word for a group of associates of ours and possibly a
short commercial for the CDT."

            "Plasphemy!
Herezy! Refishionizm! Nefer will I pe a barty to zuch zagrileche!"

            Retief
clicked off the pistol's safety catch.

            "—Put,
on the other hant, bosiply somethink gould pe arranched," the Deacon said
hastily. "How much did you hafe in mind offerink?"

            "I
wouldn't think of attempting to bribe a man of the cloth," Retief said
smoothly. "You're going to do this for the common welfare."

            "Jusd
whad is it you hafe in mind?"

            "The
first item is the campaign you've been waging against the Spisms."

            "Ah,
yez! And a wontervul jop our lats hafe peen toink, doo. Uk-Ruppa-Tooty willink,
zoon we will zee them ztambed oud endirely, and virtue driumvant!"

            "The
CDT takes a dim view of genocide, I'm afraid. Now, my thought was that we could
agree on a reasonable division of spheres of influence."

            "A
teal with the Bowers of Tarknezz? Are you oud of your mind?"

            "Now,
now," Magnan put in, "a more cooperative attitude would do Your
Voracity greater credit."

            "You
zugchesd that the jurch should gombromize with zin?"

            "Not
exactly compromise," Magnan said placatingly. "Just work out a sort
of peaceful coexistence plan."

            "Nefer
will I, as deacon, gome oud in vafor of dogetherness with Zatan'z Impz!"

            "There,
there, Your Voracity; if you'd just sit down across the table from them, you'd
find these imps weren't bad fellows at all."

            There
was a soft sound from the door. Jackspurt, a jaunty, two-foot sphere of red
bristles, appeared, waving his eyestalks exultantly. A looming blue Spism
behind him.

            "Nice
going, Retief!" he called. "I see you caught one. Pitch him down
after the other one, and let's clear out of here. This little diversion will
give us time to get clear before the smoke starts."

            "Jackspurt,
do you suppose your fellows could do a fast job of shifting a few hoses around?
You'll have to block off the sewers and feed the smoke off in some other
direction."

            "Say,
that's an idea!" Jackspurt agreed. "And I think I know just the
direction." He gave instructions to the big blue Spism, who hurried away.

            The
Deacon had retreated to a corner, eyes goggling, his hands describing mystic
passes in the air. More Spisms were crowding into the room now, tall blue ones,
tiny darting green ones, sluggish purple varieties—all cocking their eyestalks
at the prelate.

            "Help!"
he croaked weakly. "The minions of the netherworlt are ubon me!"

            Magnan
drew out a chair from the table. "Just have a seat, Your Voracity,"
he said soothingly. "Let's just see if we can't work out a
modus
vivendi
suitable to all parties."

            "Come
to termz with the enemy? Id will mean the ent of the jurch!"

            "On
the contrary, Your Voracity; if you ever succeeded in eliminating the
opposition, you'd be out of a job. The problem is merely to arrange matters in
a civilized fashion so that everyone's interests are protected."

            "You
may hafe somethink there," Um-Moomy-Hooby seated himself gingerly.
"But the nevariouz agtifities of these goplins musd pe kebt unter sdrigd
gondrol—Ebiscobal gondrol, thad is."

            "Look,
my boys got to make a living," Jackspurt started.

            "Zellink
a vew love-botions, zerdainly," the Deacon said. "And the jurch is
willink to zmile at a modezd draffic in aphrodisiags, dope, and raze-drack
tips. But beddling filthy menus to teen-agers, no!

            "The
zame goez vor sdealing withoud a licenze, and the zale of algoholic peferaches,
with the eggzebtion of small amounts of broberly aged sduff for medicinal use
py the glerchy, of gourse."

            "Okay,
I think we can go along with that," Jackspurt said. "But you priests
will have to lay off the propaganda from now on. I want to see Spisms getting
better billing in church art."

            "Oh,
I think you could work out something lovely in little winged Spisms with
haloes," Magnan suggested. "I think you owe it to them, Your
Voracity, after all this discrimination in the past."

            "Tevils
with winks?" Um-Moomy-Hooby groaned.

            "It
will blay hop with our zympolizmz—put I zubboze it can pe done."

            "And
you'll have to have guarantees that everything from two feet under the surface
on down belongs to us," Jackspurt added. "Weil leave the surface to
you, and throw in the atmosphere, just so you dedicate a few easements so we
can come up and sightsee now and then."

            "Thad
zeems egwidaple," the Deacon agreed. "Supchegd to vinal abbrofal py
His Arrokanze, of gourze."

            "By
the way," Jackspurt asked casually, "who's next in line for the
Bishop's job if anything happens to Ai-Poppy-Googy?"

            "Az
it habbenz, I am," Um-Moomy-Hooby said. "Why?"

            "Just
asking," Jackspurt said.

            A
loud thumping started up from the wide floor below.

            "What's
that?" Magnan yelled.

            "The
pumps," the Deacon said. "A bity so many Spisms will tie, but it is
manivezdly the will of Uk-Ruppa-Tooty."

            "I
guess old Uk-Ruppa-Tooty had a last-minute change of heart," Jackspurt
said callously. "We shifted the pipes around to feed the fumes back up
into the city plumbing system. I guess there's black smoke pouring up out of
every John in town by now."

            "Touple-grozzer!"
the Deacon leaped up, waving his arms. "The teal'z off—"

            "Ah,
ah, you promised, Your Voracity," Magnan chided. "And besides, Mr.
Retief still has a gun."

            "And
now, if youil just pick up the microphone.

            Your
Voracity," Retief said. "I think we can initate the era of good
feeling without further delay. Just keep our role quiet, and take all the
credit for yourself."

            "A
pity about poor Ai-Poppy-Googy falling off the ziggurat when the smoke came
boiling out of Uk-Ruppa-Tooty's mouth," Ambassador Straphanger said,
forking another generous helping of Hoogan chow mein onto his plate.
"Still, one must confess it was a dramatic end for a churchman of his
stature, shooting down the slide and disappearing into the smoke as he
did."

            "Yez,
alreaty the canonization papers are peing bre-bared." His newly installed
Arrogance, Bishop Um-Moomy-Hoopy, shot a nervous glance at the Spism seated
beside him. "He'll pe the batron zaint of re-hapilidated tevilz, impz, and
koplins."

            "A
pity you missed all the excitement, Magnan," Straphanger said, chewing.
"And you, too, Retief. While you absented yourselves, the Hoogan
philosophy underwent a veritable renaissance—helped along, I humbly assume, by
my modest peace-making efforts."

            "Hah!"
the Bishop muttered under his breath.

            "Frankly,
what with all the smoke, I hadn't expected the oracle's pronouncement to be
quite so lucid," Straphanger went on, "to say nothing of its
unprecedented generosity—"

            "Chenerosity?"
interrupted Um-Moomy-Hoopy, his heavy features reflecting rapid mental
recapitulation of his concessions.

            "Why,
yes, ceding all mineral rights to the formerly persecuted race here on Hoog—a
charming gesture of conciliation."

            "Mineralts
rightz! Whad mineralts?"

            Jackspurt,
splendid in the newly tailored tunic of Chief Representative for Spismodic
Affairs to the Episcopal court, spoke up from his place along the table set up
on the palace terrace.

            "Oh,
he's just talking about the deposits of gold, silver, platinum, radium, and
uranium, plus a few boulders of diamonds, ruby, and so forth that are laying
around below ground. The planet's lousy with the stuff. We'll use our easements
to ferry it up to the surface where the freighters will pick it up, so we won't
put you Hoogs out at all."

            The
Bishop's alligator-hide features purpled. "You—you knew apout theze
mineralts?" he choked.

            "Why,
didn't His former Arrogance mention it to you? That was what brought the
mission here; the routine minerals survey our technical people ran from space
last year showed up the deposits."

            "Ant
we puilt our Brincible Kod oud of prass— imborted prass at thad," the
Bishop said numbly.

            "Too
scared of a few Spisms to dig," Jackspurt said in a stage whisper.

            There
was a flicker of lightning in the sky to the east. Thunder rolled. A large
raindrop spattered on Straphanger's plate, followed by another.

            "Oh-oh,
we'd better head for cover," Jackspurt said. "I know these flash
squalls; lightning out the kazoo—"

            A
brilliant flash cast the looming figure of the god Uk-Ruppa-Tooty into vivid
silhouette against a blue-black sky. Dishes rattled on the table as sound
rumbled across the sky on wooden wheels. The Bishop and his guests rose
hastily, as a third jagged electrical discharge ripped across the sky—striking
the giant idol full on the shoulder.

            A
shower of sparks flew; the Hoogan gesture of salute, pivoted slowly at the
elbow. The yards-wide hand, seen edge-on with the fingers extended, swung
slowly in a great arc, came to rest with the extended thumb resting firmly
against the snub nose. Sparks flew as the digit was welded firmly in place.

            The
Bishop stared, then tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, long and
searchingly.