Retief at Large (56 page)

            "Why,
ah—"

            "We'll
appreciate your accrediting him as permanent Political Advisor to Oberon,"
Hoobrik continued. "We'll need him handy to pose."

            "To
be sure," Clawhammer gulped.

            "Now
I think it's time we betook ourselves off to more private surroundings, Dir
Tief," the President said. "We need to plot party strategy for the
by-election."

            "You're
all invited to sample the hospitality of the
Plump Sausage,"
Binkster
Druzz spoke up. "Provided I have your promises there'd be no breeching of
walls."

            "Done!"
Hoobrik cried heartily. "And by the way, Dir Druzz—What wouldst think of
the idea of a coalition, eh?"

            "Hmm—Twilprit
sagacity linked with Tsugg bulk might indeed present a formidable ticket,"
Binkster concurred.

            "Well,
Retief," Magnan said as the party streamed toward the gate, "yours
was surely the shortest administration in the annals of representational
government. Tell me confidentially—how in the world did you induce that band of
thugs to accept you as their nominee?"

            "I'm
afraid that will have to remain a secret for now," Retief said. "But
just wait until I write my memoirs."

-

            A
DRIVING rain lashed the tarmac as Retief stepped from the shuttlecraft that had
ferried him down to the planetary surface. From the direction of the low,
mushroom-shaped reception sheds a slight figure wrapped in a voluminous black
rubber poncho came splashing toward him, waving excitedly.

            "You
got any enemies, Mac?" the shuttle pilot asked nervously, watching the
newcomer's approach.

            "A
reasonable number," Retief replied, drawing on his cigar, which sputtered
and hissed as the rain struck the glowing tip. "However, this is just
Counselor Magnan from the Embassy, here to welcome me to the scene with the
local disaster status, no doubt."

            "No
time to waste, Retief," Magnan panted as he came up. "Ambassador
Grossblunder has called a special staff meeting for five pee em—half an hour
from now. If we hurry we can just make it. I've already seen to Customs and
Immigration; I knew you'd want to be there, to, ah—"

            "Share
the blame?" Retief suggested.

            "Hardly,"
Magnan corrected, flicking a drop of moisture from the tip of his nose.
"As a matter of fact, I may well be in line for a word of praise for my
handling of the Cultural Aid Project. It will be an excellent opportunity for
you to get your feet wet, local scenewise," he amplified, leading the way
toward the Embassy car waiting beside the sheds.

            "According
to the latest supplement to the Post Report," Retief said as they settled
themselves against the deep-pile upholstery, "the project is scheduled for
completion next week. Nothing's gone wrong with the timetable, I hope?"

            Magnan
leaned forward to rap at the glass partition dividing the enclosed passenger
compartment from the open-air driver's seat. The chauffeur, a rather
untidy-looking local who seemed to consist of a snarl of purple macaroni topped
by a peaked cap with a shiny bill, angled what Retief deduced to be an ear to
catch the Terran's instructions.

            "Just
swing past the theater on your way down, Chauncey," Magnan directed.
"In answer to your question," he said complacently to Retief, "I
don't mind saying the project went off flawlessly, hitch wise. In fact, it's
completed a week early. As Project Director, I fancy it's something of a
feather in my cap, considering the frightful weather conditions we have to
contend with here on Squale."

            "Did
you say theater? As I recall, the original proposal called for the unusual
Yankee Stadium-type sports arena."

            Magnan
smiles loftily. "I thought it time to vary the program."

            "Congratulations,
Mr. Magnan." Retief sketched a salute with his cigar. "I was afraid
the
Corps Diplomatique
was going to go on forever inflicting bigger and
better baseball diamonds on defenseless natives, while the Groaci countered
with ever-larger and uglier Bolshoi-type ballet arenas."

            "Not
this time," Magnan stated with satisfaction. "I've beaten the scamps
at their own game. This is Top Secret, mind you—but this time
we've
built
the Bolshoi-type ballet theater!"

            "A
masterful gambit, Mr. Magnan. How are the Groaci taking it?"

            "They've
come up with a rather ingenious counterstoke, I must concede. Informed opinion
has it the copycats are assembling an imitation Yankee Stadium in
reprisal." Magnan peered out through the downpour. The irregularly shaped
buildings lining the winding avenue loomed mistily, obscured by sheets of
wind-driven precipitation. Ahead, a gap in their orderly ranks was visible.
Magnan frowned as the car cruised slowly past a large erratically shaped bulk
set well back from the curb.

            "Here,
Chauncey," he called. "I instructed you to drive to the project
site."

            "Thure
shing, moss-ban," a voice like a clogged drain replied placatingly.
"Weer we har."

            "Chauncey—have
you been drinking?"

            "Woe,
nurse luck." Chauncey braked to a stop; the windshield wipers rotated
busily; the air cushion sighed heavily, driving ripples across the puddled
street.

            "Book,
loss—we're right astreet the cross from the Libric publary,
nicht
vahr?"

           
"The Lublic Pibrary, you
mean—I mean the pubic lilberry—"

            "Yeah,
mats what I thean. So—there's the piblary—so buts the weef?" Chauncey
extended the cluster of macaroni that served as his hand, to wave like seaweed
in a light current.

            "Visibility
is simply atrocious here on Squale." Magnan sniffed, rolling down the
window and recoiling as a blast of rain splattered his face. "But even
so—I shouldn't think I could get confused as to the whereabouts of my own
project."

            "It
looks like a collapsed circus tent," Retief commented, studying the
half-acre of canvas apparently supported by a half-dozen randomly placed props.

            "An
optical illusion," Magnan said firmly. "The structure is under wraps,
of course; it's a secret, you know. It's just the lighting, no doubt, that
makes it look so—so sort of squatty and unplanned." He was squinting
ferociously into the rain, shading his eyes with a hand. "Still, why don't
we just pop out and have a closer look?"

            Magnan
thrust the door open and stumbled out; Retief followed. They crossed a walk of
colored, glazed tile, skirted a bed of footwide green blossoms. Magnan lifted
aside a fold of plastic sheeting, revealing a yawning excavation at the bottom
of which severed electrical and plumbing connections poked up through the
surface of the muddy water pooling there.

            "A
treat nick," Chauncey said admiringly over his shoulder. "Do'd you
how it, Master Mignan?"

            "Do'd
I how what?" Magnan croaked.

            "Dis
it makappear," Chauncey amplified. "The meaning, I build."

            "Retief,"
Magnan whispered, blinking hard. "Tell me I'm seeing things; I mean, that
I'm not seeing things."

            "Correct,"
Retief said, "either way you phrase it."

            "Retief,"
Magnan said in a breaking voice. "Do you realize what this means?"

            Retief
tossed his cigar down into the empty pit, where it hissed and went out.
"Either you were kidding me about the project—"

            "I
assure you—"

            "—or
we're standing on the wrong corner—"

            "Absolutely
not!"

            "Or
someone," Retief said, "has stolen one Bolshoi-type ballet
theater."

            "And
I was dreaming of feathers in my cap," Magnan moaned as the car braked to
a halt before the imposing facade of the Terrestrial Embassy. "I'll be
fortunate to salvage my cap from this fiasco—or my head, for that matter. How
will I ever tell Ambassador Grossblunder I've misplaced his pet project?"

            "Oh,
I'm sure you'll be able to pass the incident off with your usual
savoir
faire,"
Retief soothed him as they stepped out into the drizzle. The
Squalese doorman, loosely packed in a regulation CDT-issue coverall, nodded a
cluster of writhing violet-hued filaments at the Terrans as they came up.

            "Jowdy,
hents," he said as the door whooshed open. "Rice nain, eh?"

            "What's
so rice about it?" Magnan inquired acidly. "Harvey—has His Excellency
gone in?"

            "Men
tinutes ago—in a masty nude. Didn't even hey sello."

            Inside,
Magnan groaned, put a hand to his brow. "Retief—I seem to have come down
with a splitting headache. Why don't you nip along and mention this development
just casually to the Ambassador. Possibly you could play it down a trifle. No
need to upset him unduly, eh?"

            "Good
idea, Mr. Magnan," Retief said, handing his weather cape into the check
room. "I'll hint that it's all a publicity trick you dreamed up to
publicize the grand opening."

            "Excellent
notion! And if you could subtly plant the idea that you'll have it back in
place in time for the festivities—" Magnan looked hopefully at Retief.

            "Since
I just arrived fifteen minutes ago I think that would be rather pushy of me.
Then, too, he might want to know why you were lying down at such a critical
moment in Terran/Squalian relations."

            Magnan
groaned again, resignedly.

            "Let's
hurry along, gentlemen," a short, black-eyebrowed man in uniform called
from the open elevator door across the lobby. "We're holding the car for
you."

            Magnan
straightened his narrow shoulders. "Coming, Colonel Otherday," he
croaked. "Remember, Retief," he added in an undertone, "we'll
behave as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a
ten-million-credit building to vanish between breakfast and lunch."

            "Did
I hear someone mention lunch?" a portly diplomat inquired from the back of
the car.

            "You
just ate, Lester," a lean commercial attache said. "As for you, Mr.
Retief, you picked an inauspicious moment to put in an appearance; I gather the
Ambassador's in a towering pet this evening."

            Magnan
glanced nervously at Retief. "All—any idea what's troubling his
Excellency?"

            "Who
knows?" the attache shrugged. "Last time it was a deteriorating
man/bean ratio in the Embassy snack bar."

            "This
time it's even bigger than the bean crisis," Colonel Otherday stated
flatly. "I have a feeling that this time heads will roll."

            "Does
it have anything to do with, ah, anything that might be—missing?"

            "Ah-hah!"
the lean attache pounced. "He knows something, gentlemen."

            "Come
on, Magnan," the portly First Secretary urged. "Let us in on
it."