Retief and the Rascals (19 page)

            Thrash looked sullen. "Yer too fulla
questions, Nance," he growled. "How's come? Why you so nosey,
hah?" He reached for Nance's neck just as Retief stooped to examine a
curiously-shaped object on the ground. He picked it up and rose just behind the
abortive grab, which had closed on the empty space occupied a moment before by
Nance.

            "Stan' still, Nance!" Thrash barked,
and lunged for his putative victim. Nance, preoccupied with his find, took a
step to the right just then, and Thrash's toe accidentally got hooked over
Nance's still extended ankle, causing the attacker to impact, snarl-first, on
the rough tarmac. He spat a yellow tooth and got to his feet, cursing, and
charged again.

            "Gracious," Nance said. "Such
dreadful
language! I always hate to hear anyone using
language!
It reflects
its vileness back on the user, you know." As he chided Nance was peering
wonderingly down the barrel of the 6mm needier he had picked up. Apparently finding
nothing of interest there, he reversed the artifact, so that the heedlessly
aimed weapon was bearing on Thrash's leg, while Nance fingered the trigger.
Thrash halted his advance and put out both spread hands as pushing on a
barrier. "Pernt that six em-em some other place!" he yelled. "I
still got a use for that kneecap! Lookee, Nance," he continued in a
wheedling tone. "So, OK, I got my signals mix up a little. Deal, OK? See,
I got this 'arrangement', he calls it, with Boss Nandy over Ward Nineteen, where
he gets a exclusive on the hot small-arms, and I glom onto the dope traffic,
plus a cut o' the pearl smuggling. OK. Fat deal: them rackets alone would
retire the planetary debt on any six worlds in Tip Space. But what the heck, is
old Sarge Thrash knowed as the greedy kin'? Not me, pal. Say I git you in for a
full five points, and you go con some other poor sucker—"

            Thrash broke off to make a grab for the
carelessly held needier, and found his wrist locked in Retief's grip as if
clamped in a scrap-crusher. He lunged in vain and stopped, red-faced. Leggo my
arm, pal," he growled. "It anybody sees this, it's mutiny and a cheap
space-funeral! I got a reputation to uphold! I'm the toughest mother in space,
that's why I'm Commodore o' this here battle group!"

            " 'Battle group'?' Nance echoed
wonderingly. "I was told, by a
very
reliable source—"

            "Oh, you mean Ferd, the ramp-sweeper,"
Thrash put in. "Well, see, Ferd had this little accident, fergot to get
outa the way when I wanneda walk where he was standing, and—"

            "That's
hardly
germaine to the
issue!" Nance scolded. "What I was trying to say was—"

            "Yeah, about my battle group and all,"
Thrash prompted. "Impressive, hah? Sixteen spaceworthy fleet boats parked
right here, and another one hunrit attack units standing by off-planet, not
counding them fifty Groaci cruisers, which I figger I'll hafta capture them and
put prize crews aboard. Hafta deep-six them Groaci crews, I guess."

            "To hardly find that acceptable,
Commodore!" the breathy voice of Shinth, the Groaci Information Agency
chief, spoke up, as its owner emerged from behind an adjacent rubbish bin.

            "Just to be back here checking for
carelessly disposed-of incriminating material,    he explained offhandedly,
brushing flecks of garbage from his plain GI greaves and the hem of his
rib-sprung hip-cloak.

            "Yes," Retief nodded. "I trust
you got Trash's confession on your taper."

            "To be sure," Shinth agreed, nodding
his lumpy, cartilaginous skull, all five eye-stalks erected in an expression
reflecting On the Ball This Time, You Betcha (21-c).

            "Hold it right there!" Thrash barked.
"I ain't gave no confession! I was onney bragging a little; maybe I won't
even be able to con Admiral Thilth into the deal; I figgered to offer him a cut
o' the pearl traffic, see, but maybe the guy don't
like
pearls, so where
does that leave me? Just another dreamer with busted dreams, eh?" Thrash
paused to assume the tragic expression of a dreamer of busted dreams; he
stifled a sob. "Sad, ain't it, when a boyhood dream o' martial glory goes
pftt!
in the face of growed-up disillusionment and all? Who'd of figgered Nance
here to throw down on me, eh? I ast you, Shinth, does it figger?"

            "The person you refer to as 'Nance',"
the Groaci intoned impressively, "is none other than Jim Retief, the
notorious wrecker, spoilsport and sworn enemy of the Groacian people! Had you
laid him by the heels, proud Groac would have shown herself to be not
ungrateful. Instead, you allow him to reduce you to lachrymose impotence! Bah!
The deal is off, Sergeant! I mean all the way off!"

            "You mean, no brevet Admiralty inna Groach
Reserves?" Thrash mourned. "No personal pleasure-planetoid? No fully
restored genuine Deusenberg Model J, with body by Hibbard and Darrin, which
there's only the one in the known Universe? No bevy o' unmutated Terry hookers,
no villa onna Shallow Sea? No purty suit wid like Austrian knots and them gold
epaulettes an' a fake jool sword? No play-purties atall?" His voice turned
accusatory: "You led me downa garden path, you five-eyed sapsucker!
Wait'll I get my han's on you—" Thrash took a step toward the cowering
Groaci newshawk, and was jerked up short by Retief's grip on his arm. He turned
to expostulate, but threw himself flat as a resounding
Ka-boom!
threw
dirt and rubble up in a boiling column while the pressure-wave knocked the
baggage shed flat. Shinth and Retief, also flat on the pavement as the dust
went whipping over them, looked at each other. Rubble rained down all around.
Among the debris pattering down Retief noticed pink pearls.

            "Treachers!" Shinth spat. "I
could have been killed!" He scrambled up, brushing ramp-dust from his
ruined hip cloak, and grabbing for the few unshattered pearls gleaming amid the
debris.

            "You planned it this way!" he charged,
aiming all five eyes at the protesting Thrash. "Have you forgotten it was
Shinth yelled as loudly as his inadequate vocal apparatus allowed, "who
endowed you with the sacred trust of leadership of this superb fleet, along
with the glorious tide of Temporary Acting Assistant Deputy Cadet Grand Admiral
of Reserves? And this is how you repay my largess! You detonate my personal
cache of blood-pearls, cleverly secreted yonder in the dummy firefighting
apparatus—and you very nearly destroyed myself as well! Fool! Renegade! I wash
my hands of you!" The irate Groaci turned and started toward the perimeter
fence, where a crowd of irate locals had gathered behind Wim Dit's army,
pressed against the fence shaking their fists.

            Retief grabbed the Groaci. "Not so fast,
Shinth!" he cautioned "I think that's Gad Bye's bunch over there
backing up Dit. They have a grudge against you Groaci, remember, ever since
Filsh ran one of them down on the highway yesterday, when the poor fellow was
only trying to hijack him.

            "To be sure," Shinth  muttered, 
attempting to reassemble his dignity. "To be going to forget the matter
for now, and instead of prosecuting the devious Thrash, to instead make further
use of his brute abilities! Release me, Jim. To be acting in the best interest
of all civilized entities, a category which does not include the inhabitants of
this vile planet!"

            Retief thrust him back toward Thrash. "Go
ahead," he urged. "Use him."

        "Sergeant!" the
Groaci diplomat hissed with as much menace as his breathy voice could muster. I
call upon you now to expiate your high crimes against the Groacian state in the
person of myself by bringing under your de facto control the treacherously
surrendered vessels under your nominal command and deploying them in battle
array off-planet, ready to strike at my command! Do it!"

            "How'm I s'pose to do
that?"
Thrash
inquired guilelessly. "That feller name of Magnan had the hatches
welded!"

            "I notice Captain Rooch of
Unreliable
descending
to the ramp only now," Shinth pointed out, referring to the lone figure
just disentangling himself from the rappel-lines at the stern of the tarnished
hull of the condemned armed freighter a hundred yards distant.

            "To explain to the captain," Shinth
went on, "that he is to ready his vessel for immediate liftoff. You may
then proceed to the second vessel in line, yourself climb to the welded
hatches, and free them up, using the line equipment just there." He
pointed to an abandoned red-painted line-cart, fully stocked with emergency
gear. "Remember to be diplomatic," he enjoined, "since much
depends on your former officers' willing, nay, eager cooperation! You'll find
both hull-cleats and a cutting torch aboard" the officious Groaci reminded
the protesting Sarge, who trotted off obediently, and after rummaging, began to
fit the hull-climbing cleats to his well-worn boots. Captain Rooch gave him a
wide berth, but Thrash yelled, and his subordinate approached hesitantly. As
soon as the latter reached him, Thrash felled him with a haymaker amplified by
the heavy wrist-cleat strapped to his left forearm.

            "Drat! Shinth spat. "An inauspicious
beginning, eh, Jim?"

            "Just about right, I'd say," Retief
replied. "Sarge is savvy enough to communicate with his boys in a language
they can understand. Let's see what his next diplomatic maneuver is."

            " 'Diplomatic', indeed!" Shinth
whispered contemptuously. "The lout knows no more of the high art of
diplomacy than does a mud-crab from Krako Eight!"

            " 'The art of the possible', someone has
called our profession," Retief reminded his Groaci colleague. "Now,
shall we get back to the down-and-dirty?"

            " 'The possible'?" Shinth hissed.
"What is possible, sir, is that the miscreant you have so casually
dispatched as your emissary to the captive crews will turn his coat yet again,
and make off with the fleet to commit further nuisances on
our
persons,
to say nothing of the innocent bystanders!"

            "He's passing over number two in
line," Retief pointed out. "Smart move. That's Jack Raskall's tub.
Number three looks more promising." By then Sergeant Thrash was halfway up
the keel and just aft of the coil compartment.

            "To kill himself, the cretin!" Shinth
objected. "Doesn't he realize we need him alive, to deal with these
piratical crews?"

            "It probably slipped his mind," Retief
suggested, "when he saw the antipersonnel orifices tracking him."

            "But Ben Magnan distinctly told me the
vessel's offensive capabilities were neutralized!" the Groaci carped.

            "Not the close-in defensive circuits,"
Retief explained. "Let's see how Sarge handles this."

            Thrash paused momentarily, clinging to his
dizzying perch, while he awkwardly unclamped and reclamped in a new orientation
the heavy magnetic climbing cleats, so as to approach the stern emergency
hatch.

        "Surely the hatch to
be sealed!" Shinth offered.

            "Should have been," Retief agreed as
Thrash reached and opened the inconspicuous entryway.

            "I trust you will invoke dire yet equitable
administrative action upon the slacker who failed in his duty," Shinth
announced. "As a caution to others tempted to slack their
responsibilities!" the Groaci added, remembering the Groaci Image.

            "Lucky he was lazy," Retief commented.
"Otherwise our apostle to the barbarians would be peeking down from ten
stories up, with no place to go."

            "To be sure," Shinth conceded
grumpily. "Look, he's gained ingress."

            A moment later, the unguarded hatch snapped open
again, and a man was thrust violently out: he fell, arms and legs windmilling,
to impact on a heap of builder's sand left carelessly, and luckily, in the
parking area, by a paving crew.

            "Was that the good sergeant?" Shinth
gasped. "Or ...?"

            " 'Or'," Retief told him. "It's
Skunky, one of the Indestructibles' less civilized fellows."

            "Less than what?" Shinth breathed.
"The etiquette of the most polished of their senior officers would rival
the table-manners of a mud-pig!"

            "Skunky's OK, I think," Retief
commented, as the fallen gang-leader got to his feet, unholstered his side-arm,
and took aim at the aft insulator box. Retief yelled, "Hold it,
Skunk!"

        The burly evictee spun to
cover the two diplomats.

        "You guys come over
here," he ordered.

        "To assure you, vile
miscreant," Shinth hissed. "To have had no other intention! You are
to remain where you are and aim that piece at your own foot!"

            "Wiseguy, hah?" Skunky came back
breezily. "I heard about you little five-eyed sharpies. Getting a little
too big fer yer britches, ain't you? Now, you, Mister," he changed targets
to Retief. "Don't be ascairt, I won't hurt you none, less it works out
thata-way. Just you grab aholt o' that there Groaci's neck, OK, so's to remind
him to mind his manners and all. Hurry up! I got Sarge Thrash to deal with
yet!" He fired a bolt into the pavement at their feet, sending hot vinyl
spattering.