"Tour
Director Fiss—" Magnan gulped.
"Planetary
Coordinator Pro-Tern Fiss, if you please," the Groaci hissed. "It is
unfortunate that the large Soft One acted in such haste, but I am prepared to
overlook the incident."
"Why,
ah, very good of you, I'm sure, Pla—"
"You're
out of luck, Fiss," Retief cut in. "You'll have to conduct your
piracy without CDT sanction."
Magnan
tugged at Retief's sleeve. "Here, Retief! This is hardly a time for
truculence!"
"It's
as good a time as any, Mr. Magnan. And Minister Barnshingle might be irritated
if he came back and discovered that these squatters had been recognized as a
legal government."
Magnan
groaned. "I ... I suppose you're right."
"So?
But, no matter, Soft One," Fiss whispered. "Why treat with
underlings, eh? My scouts report a party of terrestrials in difficulty on an
awkward slope some leagues from here. Doubtless the person Barnshingle of whom
you speak will be grateful for relief. A timely rescue by selfless Groaci
homesteaders will establish a correct mood for initiation of formal
relations."
"The
Minister's in trouble?" Magnan squeaked.
"He
is at present dangling over a crevasse of awesome depth by a single strand of
rope. Diplomat muscles appear unequal to the task of drawing him up."
There
was a rending crunch from a shop across the plaza as a barred door collapsed
under the impact of a power ram. Swarms of Groaci were systematically looting
the stalls already opened, loading foodstuffs, glassware and other merchandise
into wheeled vehicles.
"This
is wholesale hijackery!" Magnan yelped. "Open pillage! Highway
robbery! You can't do this without a license!"
"Curb
your tongue, sir!" Fiss hissed. "I shall for a while indulge your
arrogant preemption of Groaci property out of sentimental respect for the
niceties of diplomatic usage, but I shall tolerate no insults!"
"Threats,
Mr. Fiss?" Magnan choked.
"Call
it what you will, Soft One," Fiss said. "When you are ready to
acquiesce, send your word to me. Meantime, leave this building at your
peril!"
Dusk
had fallen. The sounds of shattering locks and maneuvering vehicles continued
in the streets outside.
Beyond
the window, booted Groaci peace-keepers paced monotonously, heavy blast guns at
the ready. Now and then, in a momentary lull, the sound of Yalcan voices raised
in song could be heard from the bog, where torches flared, reflecting from the
mirror-dark waters. The two lesser moons were high in the sky in their slow
orbits; the third had risen above the horizon and cast purple shadows across
the floor of the silent Legation office.
"It's
nearly dark," Magnan muttered. "Retief, perhaps I'd better accompany
you. Fiss may change his mind and batter the door down."
"He
could come in through the window any time he decided to," Retief said.
"He's nicely bluffed for the present, Mr. Magnan. And someone has to stay
here to maintain occupancy of the Legation."
"On
second thought, I'm changing my instructions," Magnan said decisively.
"You'd better not go. After all, if Minister Barnshingle wishes to
recognize the coup, I see no reason—"
"I
don't think the Minister will be reasoning at his most lucid level while
dangling over a precipice. And there's also Miss Braswell to consider. She's
out there somewhere."
"Retief,
you can't hope to find her without being apprehended! The city is swarming with
armed Groaci!"
"I
think I know the back streets better than they do. I'll stay out of sight. If I
can reach Barnshingle before he signs anything, it may save a lot of
embarrassment all around."
"Retief,
as Charge—"
"Don't
give me any instructions I can't follow, Mr. Magnan," Retief took a
hand-light from a desk drawer, clipped it to his belt. "Just lie low and
ignore whatever Fiss says to you. I'll be back in a few hours."
-
Retief
stepped from a doorless opening into the shadows of a narrow alley running
behind the Legation. He waited until a knobkneed Groaci in an elaborate helmet
had strolled past the lighted intersection fifty feet distant, then jumped,
pulled himself up onto the low, tiled roof of the adjacent building. In the
light of the rising fourth moon, he moved quietly to the far side, lay flat
looking down on a side street littered with items discarded by the looters.
One
or two windows showed lights. A single armed Groaci stood under a corner
street-lamp. Silently Retief worked his way along the roofs, jumping gaps
between buildings, until he reached a narrow space leading back into darkness a
few yards from the corner. He groped, found a chip of broken tile, tossed it
down into the alley.
The
Groaci cocked his eyes alertly, swung his gun around and came over to
investigate, Retief tossed down another pebble; as the sentry entered the dark
way, Retief dropped behind him, yanked him backward off his feet and caught the
falling gun. He put the muzzle against the Groaci's pulsating throat sac.
"Tell
me where the Terry female is being held," he growled, "and maybe I
won't tie knots in your eye-stalks."
"Iiiikkk!"
the Groaci said. "To unhand me, demonic one!"
"Of
course, you may not know," Retief said. "In that case I'd have to
regretfully kill you and strike up a new acquaintance, which would be a
nuisance for both of us."
"The
impropriety of assaulting an innocent tourist! To lodge a complaint with the
Travellers Aid Society!"
"No,
that was this morning," Retief corrected his prisoner. "This afternoon
you're a peaceful homesteader. You can think of me as an unpacified aborigine,
if it will help any." He jabbed with the gun. "Make up your mind. I'm
on a tight schedule."
"The
ghastliness of your fate," the Groaci hissed.
"Well,
I have to hurry along," Retief said. "Pardon my thumbs; shooting is
such a messy business, and noisy, too."
"To
restrain yourself, prowler in the night! To show you the way to the Soft
She—and to savor the moment when you writhe on the hooks!"
"That's
right," Retief said agreeably. "Think about something cheerful."
He prodded the captive guard to his feet. "In the meantime—" he
switched to Groaci—"to play your cards right and maybe to live to see the
dawn."
In
a shadowy arcade running beside a rare two-story structure, Retief studied the
dark windows in the wall opposite. Faint light gleamed behind two of the
glass-less openings.
"I'll
have to leave you here, I'm afraid, Tish," Retief said softly. "I'll
just pop you into one of these convenient garbage storage units. They have
nicely fitted airtight doors, but you'll be all right for an hour or so. If
your information is accurate, with luck I'll be back in plenty of time to let
you out before you suffocate. Of course, if anything happens to delay me— well,
that's just the little risk we have to run, eh?"
"To
... to try the rear window first," Tish whispered.
"Whatever
you say." Retief opened the door to the refuse bin and urged the Groaci
inside. The alien clinched his olfactory sphincters tight and perched disconsolately
on a heap of fruit rinds, locust carapaces and pottery shards, his head ducked
under the low ceiling.
"To
remember this trusting one," he said shakily. "To carefully avoid
being killed before returning to release me."
"With
a motivation like that, I'm sure to survive." Retief clamped the door
shut, looked both ways, and darted across the street.
The
wall tiles were deeply incised with decorative floral motifs. He found finger
and toeholds, climbed quickly to the level of the windows, eased through into a
dark room. He paused to listen; there were faint Groaci voices somewhere. In
the dim-lit hall, they were more distinct. He moved silently along to the
nearest room. The door opened at a touch.
Miss
Braswell jumped up from a long, low Yalcan couch, her mouth open for a scream,
cut off as she recognized Retief in the gloom.
"Why—Mr.
Retief!"
"Shhh."
He crossed to her. A length of rope was tied firmly to her ankle and looped
around a massive clay sculpture. She was barefooted, and her brown hair was in
a state of mild disarray; there was a streak of dirt along one cheek.
"What
in the world is it all about?" she whispered. "I was just about to
buy the darlingest hand-decorated chamber pot when all of a sudden a whole
bunch of these nasty little creatures popped out of nowhere waving their eyes
at me."
"How
many are in the building now?" Retief attacked the heavy knots in the
rope.
"Heavens,
I have no idea. It's been pretty quiet for the last hour." She giggled.
"That tickles. I tried to untie it, but I only broke a fingernail."
The
knot yielded and Retief tossed the rope aside.
"Do
you feel equal to a short climb?"
Miss
Braswell came close to Retief. "Whatever you say, Mr. Retief," she
murmured.
"Where
are your shoes?"
"I
kept kicking them when they were tying me up, so they took them. Ugh! Those
creepy, damp hands!"
"If
we should get separated, head for the Legation. Mr. Magnan is holding the
fort."
"You
mean—these awful little Groaci are there, too?"
"Haven't
you heard? They're colonizing the place."
"Why,
the nerve!"
There
was a sudden hiss of nearby voices. Retief flattened himself against the wall
just inside the door. Miss Braswell whirled and sat on the chaise-lounge. There
was the soft clap of Groaci feet. A small figure stepped into the room.
"Ah,
young woman," a soft Groaci voice hissed. "Time to be going
along."
"Where?"
the girl demanded loudly.
"To
more comfortable quarters in more attractive surroundings."
"If
it wasn't so ridiculous, I'd think you were on the make, you sticky little
monster. Keep away from me!"
"You
mammals are all alike," the Groaci whispered. "But it's pointless to
flaunt those ugly objects at me, my girl." Two more Groaci had followed
the first, who signalled. "To make fast its arms," he snapped.
"To mind its talons—"
Miss
Braswell jumped up and swung an open-handed slap that sent the flimsy alien
reeling back; Retief stepped quickly behind the other two, cracked their heads
together sharply, thrust them aside and chopped a hand across the leader's
neck.
"Time
to go," he breathed. At the window, he glanced out, then swung a leg over
the sill. "It's easy; just hang on with your toes."