Retief at Large (51 page)

            "Let's
see, your name is—"

            "Prinkle,
milord. Ipstitch Prinkle DC, at your service." The Twilpritt turned as a
slightly plumper, grayer version of himself bustled up, bobbing his head and
twitching his ears in a manner expressive of effusive gratitude. "And
this, Milord, is Uncle Binkster, in the flesh."

            "Your
servant, sir," Uncle Binkster squeaked, mopping at his face with a large
striped handkerchief. "Wouldst honor me by accepting a cooling draft of
pring-lizard milk and a lardy-tart?"

            "In
sooth, Uncle, he needs something stronger than whey," Prinkle objected.
"And in sooth,
The Plump Sausage
offers fine ale—if your Grace can
manage the approaches," he added, comparing Retief's six foot three with
the doorway.

            "I'll
turn sideways," Retief reassured the Oberonian. He ducked through, was led
across the crowded room by a bustling eighteen-inch tapman to a corner table,
where he was able to squeeze himself onto a narrow bench against the wall.

            "What'll
it be, gents?" the landlord inquired.

            "Under
the circumstances, I'll stick to small beer," Retief said.

            "Ale
for me," Uncle Binkster said. " 'Tis vice, perhaps to tipple ere
lunch time, but with Tsuggs roaming the Quarter and battering down walls, one'd
best tipple while opportunity presents itself."

            "A
sound principle," Retief agreed. "Who are these Tsuggs, Uncle
Binkster?"

            "Lawless
rogues, down from the high crags for easy pickings," the elderly baker
replied with a sigh. "After you Terrans sent the Groaci packing, we
thought all our troubles were over. Alas, I fear me 'tis not the case. As soon
as the ruffians got the word the Five Eyes were pulling out, they came swarming
down out of the hills like zing-bugs after a jam-wagon—'tis plain they mean to
elect their ruffianly chief, Hoobrik the Uncouth. Bands of them roam the city,
and the countryside as well, terrorizing the voters—" He broke off as the
landlord placed a foaming three-inch tankard before Retief.

            "Away
with that thimble, Squirmkin!" he exclaimed. "Our guest requires a
heartier bumper than that!"

            "
Tis an Emperor-sized mug," the landlord said, "but I allow his
dimensions dwarf it. Mayhap I can knock the top out of a hogshead ..."He
hurried away.

            "Pray
don't mistake me, milord," Uncle Binkster resumed. "Like any patriot,
I rejoiced to see the Sticky-finger go, leaving the conduct of Oberonian
affairs to Oberonians. But who'd have guessed we normal-sized chaps would at
once be subjected to depredations by our own oversized kith and kin exceeding
anything the invaders ever practiced!"

            "A
student of history might have predicted it," Retief pointed out. "But
I agree: being pushed around by local hoodlums is even less satisfying than
being exploited from afar."

            "Indeed
so," Prinkle agreed. "In the case of foreigners one can always gain a
certain relief by hurling descriptive epithets, mocking their outlandish ways
and blaming everything on their inherent moral leprosy—an awkward technique to
use on one's relatives."

            The
landlord returned, beaming, with a quart-sized wooden container topped by a
respectable head. Retief raised it in salute and drank deep.

            "And
if what my nephew o'er-heard be any indication," Uncle Binkster went on,
wiping foam from his whiskers, "the worst is yet to come. Hast related all
to our benefactor, lad?"

            "Not
yet, Uncle." Prinkle turned to Retief. "I was sweeping up crumbs in
the VIP breakfast room, my mind on other matters when I heard the word Tsugg'
bandied among the company still stilting at the table. I cocked an auricle,
thinking to hear the scoundrels roundly denounced, only to catch the
intelligence that their chief, that brawling bravo Hoobrik, representing
himself to be spokesman and natural leader of all Oberon, withal, hath demanded
audience of His Impressiveness, Ambassador Clawhammer! 'Twas but natural that I
undertook to disabuse their Lordships of this impertinent notion, accidentally
overturning a pot of chocolate in process thereof—"

            "Alas,
my nephew is at times too enthusiastic in his espousal of his views,"
Uncle Binkster put in. "Though 'tis beyond dispute, in this instance he
was sorely tried."

            "In
sooth, so was his honor, Mr. Magnan, when the cocoa landed in his lap,"
Prinkle admitted. "Happily, 'twas somewhat cooled by long standing."

            "A
grotesque prospect," Uncle Binkster ruminated. "Those scapegrace villains,
lording it over us honest folk! Perish the thought, Sir Retief! I trow I'd
sooner have the Five-eyes back!"

            "At
least they maintained a degree of control over the ne'r-do-wells," Prinkle
said, "restricting them to their hills and caves."

            "As
will we, lad, once the election is consummated," Uncle Binkster reminded
the youth. "Naturally, we Twilpritt stand ready to assume the burden of
policing the rabble, as is only right and natural, as soon as our slate is
elected, by reason of our supervisor virtues—"

            "Hark
not to the old dodderer's maunderings, Giant," a tiny voice peeped from
the next table. A miniature Oberonian, no more than nine inches tall, raised
his one-ounce glass in salute. "We Chimberts, being nature's noblemen, are
of course divinely appointed to a position of primacy among these lumbering
brutes, saving your presence, milord—"

            "Dost
hear a dust-cricket chirping in the woodwork?" a medium-sized Oberonian
with black circles resembling spectacles around his eyes inquired loudly from
three tables away. " 'Twere plain e'en to an outworlder that we Choobs are
the rightful inheritors of the mantle of superiority. Once in office we'll put
an end to such public rantings."

            "You
in office?" Prinkle yelped. "O'er my corpse, varlet!" He leaped
up, slopping beer as he cocked his arm to peg the mug at the offender.

            "Stay,
nephew!" Uncle Binkster restrained the youth. "Pay no heed to the
wretch, doubtless he's in his cups—"

            "Drunk,
am I, you old sot!" the Choob yelled, overturning the table as he leaped
up, grabbing for the hilt of his foot-long sword "I'll ha' a strip o' thy
wrinkled hide for that allegation—" His threat was cut off abruptly as a
tankard, hurled from across the room, clipped him over the ear, sending him
reeling into the next table, whose occupants leaped up with indignant shouts
and flailing fists.

            "Gentlemen,
time, time!" the landlord wailed, before diving behind the bar amid a
barrage of pewter.

            Retief
finished his beer in a long swallow and rose, looming over the battle raging
about his knees.

            "A
pleasure, gentlemen," he addressed the room at large. "I hate to
leave such a friendly gathering, but Staff Meeting time is here."

            "Farewell,
Sir Retief," Prinkle panted from under the table, where he grappled with a
pale-furred local of about his own weight. "Call around any time for a
drop and a bit of friendly political chat."

            "Thanks,"
Retief said. "If things get too slow in the front line trenches I'll
remember your invitation."

            As
Retief entered the conference room—a converted packing room in the former
warehouse temporarily housing the Terran Mission to the newly liberated planet
Oberon—First Secretary Magnan gave him a sour look.

            "Well—here
you are at last. I'd begun to fear you'd lingered to roister with low
companions in your usual manner."

            "Not
quite my usual manner," Retief corrected. "We'd barely started to
roister when I remembered Staff Meeting. By the way, what do you know about a
fellow called Hoobrik the Uncouth?"

            Magnan
looked startled. "Why, that name is known only to a handful of us in the
inner security circle," he said in a lowered tone, glancing about.
"Who leaked it to you, Retief?"

            "A
few hundred irate locals. They didn't seem to know it was a secret."

            "Well,
whatever you do, act surprised when the Ambassador mentions it," Magnan
cautioned his junior as they took seats at the long table. "My," he
went on as the shouts of the crowd outside the building rose to a thunderous
level, "how elated the locals are, now they realize we've relieved them of
the burdens of Groaci overlordship! Hear their merry cries!"

            "Remarkable,"
Retief agreed. "They have a better command of invective than the Groaci
themselves."

            "Why,
Wilbur," Magnan said as Colonel Saddle-sore, the Military Attache slipped
into the chair beside him, avoiding his glance. "However did you get that
alarming discoloration under your eye?"

            "Quite
simple, actually." The colonel bit off his words like bullets. "I was
struck by a thrown political slogan."

            Magnan
sniffed. "There's no need for recourse to sarcasm."

            "The
slogan," Saddlesore amplified, "was inscribed on the rind of a
bham-bham
fruit of the approximate size and weight of a well-hit cricket ball."

            "I
saw three small riots myself on the way in to the office," the Press
Attache said in a pleased tone. "Remarkable enthusiasm these locals show
for universal suffrage."

            "I
think it's time, however," the Counselor put in ponderously, "that
someone explained to them that the term 'political machine' does not necessarily
refer to a medium tank."

            The
chatter around the long table cut off abruptly as Ambassador Clawhammer, a
small pinkfaced man with an impressive paunch, entered the room, glowered at
his staff as they rose, waved them to their seats as he waited for silence.

            "Well,
gentlemen," he looked around the table. "What progress have you to
report anent the preparation of the populace for the balloting?"

            A
profound silence ensued.

            "What
about you, Chester?" Clawhammer addressed the Counselor. "I seem to
recall instructing you to initiate classes in parliamentary procedure among
these riffraff—that is to say, among the free citizens of Oberon."

            "I
tried, Mr. Ambassador. I tried," Chester said sadly. "They didn't
seem to grasp the idea quite. They chose up sides and staged a pitched battle
for possession of the chair."

            "All—I
can report a teentsy bit of progress in my campaign to put across the idea of
one man, one vote," a slender-necked Political Officer spoke up.
"They got the basic idea, all right. "He paused. "The only
trouble was, they immediately deduced the corollary: one
less
man, one
less
vote." He sighed, "Luckily, they were evenly matched, so no
actual votes were lost."

            "You
might point out the corollary to the corollary," Retief suggested,
"the lighter the vote, the smaller the Post Office."

            "What
about your assigned task of voter registration, eh, Magnan?" the Chief of
Mission barked. "Are you reporting failure too?"

            "Why,
no indeed, sir, not exactly failure; at least not utter failure; it's too soon
to announce that—"

            "Oh?"
The Ambassador looked ominous. "When do you think would be an appropriate
time?
After
disaster strikes?"

            "I'd
like to propose a rule limiting the number of political parties to P minus 1, P
being the number of voters," Magnan said hastily. "Otherwise we run
the risk that no one gets a majority."