The Return of Retief (10 page)

            "You
wait here, Terry," he added in a harder tone, and set off toward a small
partitioned-off room placed inconspicuously in a corner. He tapped diffidently
at the door, over which Retief noted the words 'Liaison Office' and the
equivalent in a variety of scipts, including the Ree ideograms. Gluck
disappeared inside, and reemerged a moment later accompanied by the squat,
cylindrical figure of a Ree in military paint with the rank pips of a field
grade officer. The alien outdistanced his escort to ripple truculently up to
Retief.

            "Gluck
here—where the devil is the fellow?" the Ree interrupted himself to look
around, discovering Gluck just behind him. "—says you got big ideas,
Terry. Better shape up and show the boys your luggage, before I get
tough."

            "Keep
a civil tongue in your talk-box," Retief ordered. "And you may
address me as 'sir'."

            "Well,"
the colonel began hesitantly. "I've got my orders, Terry. It looks like
I'll have to have you thrown in the lockup as a potential enemy alien."

            "Potential?"
Retief inquired. "Are you planning to start a war?"

            "Well,
you never know," the Ree declared. "Anyway, this is free Prutian
soil, and I guess old Gluck's got a right to look through your laundry if he
wants to."

            "Are
you and Gluck really sure you're ready to violate the most-favored-planet
treaty between Terra and Prute?" Retief asked, as if mildly curious.

            "Naw,
nothing like that, Terry. Just routine, you know."

            "Routine
requires that diplomatic personnel in transit to friendly worlds be accorded
duty-free entry of personal effects, and VIP treatment," Retief pointed
out. "But, of course," he added, "we're willing to oil the
routine."

            He
pulled out an envelope (funds, emergency, for good impression) and distributed
a sheaf of GUC. The Ree tentacled up the bulk, and the Purtians scooped the
rest.

            "You
may stamp my passport now," Retief suggested, preferring the blue-covered
booklet. "I'm in transit to Goldblatt's World, you know. Does that feeder
flight originate here?"

            "Suppose
to," Gluck acknowledged, as he stamped a large purple impression on the
blank transit visa page before him and handed the document back. "They'll
make me sign a statement of charges for that pry-bar, you know," he added.

            Retief
allowed an extra five-Guck note to flutter down; Gluck plucked it from mid-air
and whisked it out of sight.

            "You
know, Mister," he commented, "it's a real pleasure to be of service
to a real gent like yourself, who knows where it's at. Lemme check on that
cab." He hurried off toward the street doors.

            When
the porter had tossed Retief's trunk into the cargo bin of the dilapidated hack
which had squealed to a halt at the inspector's imperious hail, and collected
his half-Guck honorarium, the driver, a flabby-looking chap with a battered
Bogan military-style peaked cap half-obscuring his face, leaned over the
divider and said, "Where to, Mac?" in badly-accented Obfuscese.

            "The
Groaci Legation," Retief told him.

            "You
ain't no Groaci," the chauffer stated flatly. Retief agreed that the
assessment was correct.

            "Not
enough eyes," the driver explained. "And no stems on the ones you
got." He started up with a squeal of aged gyros and gunned the antique car
into the traffic stream.

            "Also,
you're too high," he continued. "Look like one of them Terries, no
offense."

            "Flattered,"
Retief reassured his cicerone.

            "I'm
Jake. I've seen 'em all," the driver explained. "Wonder what a feller
like you'd want with them Groaci. Hear old Snith throws anybody out on his can
that comes around the place. Some nice guy, huh? Hope he ain't a friend o'
yours."

            "Not
insofar as I know, Jake," Retief replied to the question. "I'm hoping
he'll transmit a message to CIIU Slive for me."

            "That
sounds like one o' them Rees," Retief's new acquaintance stated. "No
offense," he said, then added, "some folks say I shoot off my mouth
too much. You a pal of them worms?" he queried, peering into his rear-view
mirror at Retief.

            "I
haven't spent enough time with them to find out," Retief told him;
"though they seem at their best when estivating in a sack."

            The
driver braked at a traffic square that opened suddenly between the tall,
jut-front buildings at the end of the narrow street. Apparently they had come
to a traffic roundabout, with individual initiative determining the cyclonic or
anticyclonic flow.

            The
cab joined the majority of the movement, and changed course down another
jut-front traffic slot. The driver took up his thoughts again and complained.

            "You
see them dang worms everywhere these days. I got a feeling they're
infiltrating, giving orders to honest Prutian folks right on their own planet.
Heard they shot some folks who didn't get out of their way quick enough. We got
no navy, you know."

            "Sounds
awkward," Retief commented. "What are you people doing about
it?"

            "Nothing,"
Jake said, "we got a mutual assistance pack with Terra, you know, and
figger you boys'll swat these worms when the time is right. Right?"

            "I
hope so," Retief reassured Jake. "The problem is deciding when the
time is right."

            "Well,
let's say sometime before they clean Prute out of all its food and fuel
reserves," Jake suggested. "Say in about a week, the way they're
going. They already cut my go-juice ration down to subsistence level, barely
six glips a day. Feller'd starve on that, but lucky I got a few contacts."

            "I'll
make a note of it," Retief assured the anxious Prutian. "The short
ration, I mean, not the contacts."

            "There
goes one of them worms now," Jake said, as the squat figure of a Ree
enlisted trooper appeared ahead, hurrying across the crowded street, thrusting
civilians aside as he went.

            "Got
a good mind to run the sucker down," Jake said, steering for the now
isolated Ree, who had paused in mid-wriggle to light up a dope-stick.

            "Better
not," Retief suggested. "Wait for bigger game, like an Intimidator.
Might as well get all the mileage you can, since it will be an interplanetary
incident in either case."

            Jake
agreed and slowed; a moment later he swerved the cab sharply to pass between
the baroquely ornamented columns flanking the gravelled drive of the Groacian
Mission to Prute, jolting to a halt before the polished plastic plate with the
words 'Legation of the Groacian Autonomy' and the fanciful armorial bearings of
the Great Seal of Groac. Two uniformed Groaci Marines in smartly ribbed hip
cloaks and silver-chased greaves snapped their eye-stalks and tentacles to
attention as Retief disembarked from the wheezing vehicle and offered ten Guck
to the driver, who grabbed the coin and gave the grimace of gratitude.

            One
of the guards lunged toward Retief, who put a finger under the Marine's third
eye, the latter's momentum causing him to rebound, lose his balance, and fall
heavily.

            "You
boys saw that," the Groaci yelled toward the driver and the other Marine.
"Assault
and
battery, that's what it was! And maybe kidnapping,
too, depending," he added, as his comrade helped him up.

            "Don't
worry," Retief counselled the Groaci. "If you don't accidentally
blurt it out, nobody will ever know you tried it."

            As
the cab gunned away, the Marines closed ranks to bar Retief's entry.

            "Who
are you, Terry?" the aggressive one demanded.

            "Special
Terran Envoy Retief to see His Excellency," he informed the guards.
"He's expecting me."

            "To
doubt that His Excellency has time for distressed Terry tourists," one
guard offered, as the other vibrated his throat-sac in the Groaci equivalent of
a snicker.

            "No
doubt." Retief agreed. "But I'm not a sightseer." He brushed the
nearer guard aside and, as the second Marine came to port arms, standing his
ground, Retief plucked the weapon from his grasp and snapped the breech open.
He glanced down the pitted barrel and tossed the blaster back to its owner.

            "You
forgot to clean that piece this year, Lance Corporal," he told the
indignant Groaci. "Fire the thing in that condition and it's likely to
blow your head off. Now let's see you get that door open."

            The
chastened guard, his crest adroop, moved quickly to comply with Retief's order.
His partner erected all five eye-stalks in an expression of Ferocity Restrained
(Z-21) and resumed his place at one side of the door. Retief passed between the
two alert sentries into the gloomy, smoked gribble-grub smell of the Groaci
Mission. A pert receptionist at a small desk looked up brightly.

            "To
inquire your business," she said as sharply as her weak Groaci voice would
permit.

            "Just
want to see his nibs, sweetheart," Retief told her.

            "The
Consul is receiving no callers without a proper appointment," she returned
sharply.

            "That's
good," Retief replied calmly, "because I've got one that was made by
Undersecretary Snaffle personally. Via closed screen, that is."

            "Oh."
The young Groaci female said contritely. "You'd think the old sourpuss
would tip me off." She checked a small computer terminal, came up with a
print-out card which she handed over.

            "The
Chancery is one floor up, to the left; second door on your left. I'm supposed to
tell you not to snoop. But I'm sure you're too nice for that, anyway."

            "I'm
sure His Ex will tell me all I need to know, with no necessity for snooping,'
Retief reassured her.

            The
lift was an antique Otis, formerly installed in Macy's, Retief noted, from the
ornate wrought-iron monogram worked into the cage ceiling. It wheezed and
clanked its way upward like an exhausted alpinist making the last few yards to
the survival hut. When precisely between floors, it came to an abrupt halt.

            Retief
pushed the appropriate buttons. They elicited no response. He stood still and
listened. He heard a distant thumping and the faint sound of shouting. The
words were impossible to distinguish, but the intonation was definitely Terran.
Retief pushed open the escape hatch on the ceiling of the car, and pulled
himself up and out on the six-foot-square roof. The thumping and yelling were
louder here. Above, he saw a small hinged panel set in the wall of the elevator
shaft. He was able to reach it by climbing the greasy cable which supported the
elevator car. A sharp kick against the latch mechanism caused the panel to pop
open. Now the thumping and shouts sounded clearly.

            "...
let us
out!
Let us out!" the shout was repeated, in frontier
Terran. The pounding went on monotonously. Looking into the cramped crawl-space
the panel had covered, Retief saw light leaking from somewhere at the far end
of the passage. He worked his way in, and proceeded on elbows and toes, through
dust and arachnid-webs, complete with arachnids, until he reached a crudely
boarded-over opening in the side wall, through which the light was leaking.

            "Let
us
out!"
the chant went on, accompanied by thumps. "Let us
out!
Ah, hell, Andy, what's the use? Nobody can hear us, and even if they did,
who's around to give a hang what happens to a bunch of Terry POW's?"