Retief at Large (60 page)

            "So—the
infamous wrecker and vile persecutor of peace-loving arthropods is brought to
bay at last, eh?" he whispered, signaling to a small, non-uniformed Groaci
lugging a lensed black box. "To get a few shots of me shaking a finger
under his proboscis," he directed the photographer. "To preserve this
moment for posterity, before we impale him."

            "A
little to the right, your captaincy," the civilian suggested.' To tell the
Soft One to crouch a trifle, so I can get both of you in the same frame."

            "Better
still, to order it to lie on its back so the captain can put a foot on its
chest," a corporal offered.

            "To
hand me a spear and to clear these enlisted men from the scene," Thilf
ordered. "To not confuse the clear-cut image of my triumph with extraneous
elements."

            The
guards obediently backed off a few paces; Thilf poked his borrowed pike at
Retief's chest.

            "To
assume a placating posture," he ordered, prodding the prisoner lightly.
Abruptly the captain's expression changed as a sinuous loop of tough-looking
rope shot out of darkness and whipped around his slender neck. All five eyes
shot erect, causing two of his semi-VIP zircon eyeshields to fall with a tiny
clatter. Retief snapped the spear from the stricken officer's hands and
reversed it. The encircling guards jumped forward, weapons poised; Thilf seemed
to leap suddenly backward, to burst through their ranks and hurtle across the
courtyard, heels dragging. Half his spearmen gaped after him as the other half
closed in on Retief with raised pikes.

            "Drop
those stig-pickers!" Chauncey's voice sounded from the window above,
"or I'll hop your boss on his dread!"

            The
Groaci whirled to see their captain dangling by one leg, twenty feet above the
pavement.

            "To
get a shot of this," Retief suggested to the photographer, "to send
home to his family. They'll be pleased to see him hanging around in such
distinguished company."

            "Help!"
Thilf keened. "To do something, culling-season rejects, or to be pegged
out in the pleasure pits!"

            "To
be in the chicken noodle whatever we do," a sergeant muttered, waving the
pikewielders back.

            "Mr.
Retief," Chauncey called. "Shall I nop him on his drob, or bust jash
his brocks out on the rain?"

            "I
propose a compromise, Captain," Retief called. "Instruct your lads to
escort us out of here and Chauncey will leave your internal arrangements
intact."

            "To
never yield—" Thilf started—and uttered a thin shriek as the Squalian
allowed him to fall a yard, or two, caught him in mid-air and hoisted him up
once more.

            "But
on the other hand, to what end to die in the moment of victory?" the
captain inquired reasonably, if shakily. "To be nothing the meatfaced one
can do now to halt the unveiling."

            "To
stick this Terry and take the consequences," a corporal suggested
furtively to the sergeant. "To suffer the loss of the captain
philosphically."

            A
flash-bulb winked. "To not worry," the cameraman said blandly.
"To distribute a few prints here and there if His Captaincy tries to throw
his weight around."

            The
sergeant signaled; the Groaci formed up in two ranks, spears grounded. He
motioned Retief through.

            "To
leave by the side exit," he said. "And to not hurry back."

            "Better
hand me your side arm," Retief suggested. The NCO complied silently.
Retief backed to the gate.

            "See
you outside, Chauncey," he called. "And hurry it up—we're on a tight
schedule."

            "Shoe
would have lean the sook on his face when I deft him langling from a fedge
lifty feet up," Chauncey was saying exuberantly as he gunned the car along
the wet night street of the Squalian capital. "The dubby dirtle-crossers
were baiting weside the drain for me to lawl out in their craps; fut I booled
'em; I shook a tort-cut through the teptic sank and out-ranked the
flascals."

            "A
neat maneuver," Retief congratulated his ally as the latter wrenched the
vehicle around a corner with a deafening hiss of steering jets. Just ahead, a
clump of Terran officials stood under the marquee of the Terran Embassy. The
car slid to a halt behind the gleaming black Embassy limousine. Magnan leaped
forward as Retief stepped out.

            "Disaster!"
he moaned. "Ambassador Grossblunder got back half an hour ago; he was
furious when I told him about the Groaci unveiling their project at midnight—so
he ordered our Grand Opening moved up to 11:59 tonight! He'll be down in a moment
in full formal regalia, with all media in attendance, on his way to upstage
Shinth. When those drapes are drawn back to reveal nothing but a yawning
pit—" Magnan broke off at a stir behind him.

            The
imposing figure of the Terrestrial Ambassador appeared, flanked by a covey of
bureaucrats. Magnan uttered a stifled wail and scuttled to attend his chief.
Retief stepped to the limousine chauffer's window.

            "Drive
straight to the Groaci project site, Humphrey," he ordered. "Make it
snappy."

            "Mate
a winute," the Squalian demurred. "Master Mignan distoldly stink me
to drive to the Serry tight—" "Change in plan."

            "Well—oh
say if you kay so," the driver grunted. "Wish somebody'd mind up
their makes."

            As
the limousine pulled away, Retief jumped back into the staff car.

            "Follow
them, Chauncey," he said. "By the way, with that versatile
sound-effects apparatus of yours, how are you at impersonations?"

            "Nitty
prifty, Chief, if I sue day so myself. Thet giss: it's a Baffolian bog-fellow
crying for his mate—"

            "Later,
Chauncey. Can you do Ambassador Grossblunder?"

            "Just
between the tee of us, me and the boys have a lillion maffs taping the old
boy's owns."

            "Let's
hear you do Shinth."

            "Lessee:
To joil in your own booses, tile Verry ...
How's that?"

            "It'll
have to do, Chauncey," Retief said. "Now, here's what I want you to
do ..."

-

            "What's
this?" Ambassador Grossblunder was rumbling as Retief joined the Terran
delegation alighting before the bunting-draped, flood-lit entry to the
tarpaulin-covered structure looming against the dark Squalian sky. "This
doesn't look like—" he broke off as Ambassador Shinth appeared from among
a crowd of retainers and local notables.

            "Good
lord," Magnan gasped, noting for the first time where the limousine had
delivered them. "Your Excellency—there's been a mistake—"

            "Ah,
so delighted to see you, Mr. Ambassador," the Groaci Chief of Mission murmured.
"Good of your Excellency to honor the occasion with your august presence.
I'm delighted to see you hold no narrow-minded grudge, merely because I've
bested you in our friendly little competition."

            "Hah!"
the bulky Terran snorted. "Your effrontery will backfire when the Prime
Minister and Cabinet are offered nothing but a set of badly cured foundations,
after all this empty fanfare."

           
"Au
contraire,
Mr. Ambassador," Shinth replied coolly. "The edifice
is complete, even to the pennants atop the decorative minarets, a glowing
tribute to Groaci ingenuity which will forever establish in the minds of our
hosts an unforgettable image of the largesse-bestowing powers of the Groacian
State."

            "Nonsense,
Shinth. A confidential source has kept me well abreast of your progress; as of
yesterday, your so-called project hadn't gotten off the ground."

            "I
assure you the deficiency has been rectified. And now we'd best be nipping
along to the reviewing stand; the moment of truth approaches."

            "Magnan,"
Grossblunder said behind his hand. "Did he say pennants atop the minarets?
I thought that was one of the unique details of our project."

            "Why,
what a coincidence," Magnan quavered.

            "Ah,
there, Fenwick," a deep purple Squalian in heavily brocaded robes loomed
out of the drizzle before the Terran Ambassador. The local's already imposing
bulk was enhanced by the ropes of pearls and golden chains intertwined with his
somatic elements, producing an effect like an immense plate of multi-colored
lasagna. "I hardly exceeded to speck you here. An inspaying displire of
inter-aiming specity!"

            Grossblunder
harrumphed, clasping the proffered bundle of Prime Ministerial tissues in a
parody of a handshake. "Yes, well, as to that—"

            "You'll
poin my jarty, of course?" the Squalian Chief Executive urged cordially,
turning away. "Pee you on the sodium."

            Grossblunder
looked at the impressive timepiece strapped to his plum wrist.
"Hmmph!" he muttered to Magnan. "We may as well. It's too late
now for me to stage my unveiling ahead of Shinth, a grave disappointment,
regarding which I'll have words with you later."

            "Retief,"
Magnan hissed as they accompanied the group toward the brightly lit platform.
"If we slip away now we may be able to sign on as oilers on that tramp
freighter I saw at the port this afternoon. It looked unsavory enough for its
skipper to be willing to dispense with technicalities—"

            "Don't
do anything hasty, Mr. Magnan," Retief advised. "Just play it be
ear—and be ready to pick up any dropped cues."

            On
the platform, Retief took a position at Ambassador Shinth's bony elbow. The
Groaci gave a startled twitch when he saw him.

            "Captain
Thilf didn't want me to miss anything," Retief said. "He decided to
let me go after all."

            "You
dare to show your face here, after assaulting my—"

            "Kidnappers?"
Retief suggested. "I thought under the circumstances perhaps we could
agree to forget the whole incident, Mr. Ambassador."

            "Hmm.
Perhaps it would be as well. I suppose my role might be subject to
misinterpretation—" Shinth turned away as the orchestra, composed of two
dozen Squalians doubling as brass and strings, struck up a rousing medley of
classic Elvis Presley themes. As the music ended a spotlight speared out,
highlighting the slender figure of the Groaci Ambassador.

            "Mr.
Prime Minister," he began, his breathy voice rasping in the PA system, 'it
gives me great pleasure—"

            Retief
made an unobtrusive signal; an inconspicuous strand of pale purple that had
glided snake-like across the platform slithered up behind Shinth, and unseen by
any but Retief, deftly whipped around the Groaci's spindly neck, quite
invisible under the elaborate ruffs sported by the diplomat.

            A
soft croak issued from the speakers spaced around the plaza. Then the voice
resumed.

            "It
grates me pleazh givver, as I was saying, to tray pibute to my escolled
teamleague, Amblunder Grossbaster, by ungaling the Verran tift to the palion
Squeeple." The Groaci's spindly arm, assisted by a tough length of
Chauncey, reached out and yanked the tripline holding the tarps in place.

            "What
in the world did he say?" Grossblunder growled. "I had the distinct
impression he called me something unprintable—" He interrupted himself as
the canvas tumbled away from the structure to reveal the baroque pile dazzling
under the lights, pennants awave from the minarets.