Retief-Ambassador to Space (17 page)

 "Enough,
presumptuous Terry!" Shluh's eyestalks were whipping in an agitated
manner. "In your panic, you rant nonsense!"

 "And
with the CDT discredited," Retief continued, "Groac would have to
step in to straighten out the confusion; and they just might find it necessary
to call on someone like their friends the Blugs to help keep the peace during
the emergency. And maybe, before things got back to normal, the few remaining
Sulinorians might just sort of go into a decline and die off, leaving an empty
world for an enterprising power like Groac to latch onto."

 "What
fever fancies are these?" Shluh hissed. "It is known to all that you
Terries, ever suspicious of the pure motives of others, have installed Mark XXI
surveillance devices at the port and throughout the Conference rooms, thus
making impossible the introduction of any weapons other than the handful
allotted to my Security patrols!"

 "A
good point, Shluh. The Mark XXI's will frisk every attender from socks to
hair-piece. Of course, a little poison in the caterer's salt-shaker wouldn't
trip the detectors, but the metabolic monitors would catch that on the routine
analysis that's run on food to be sure it's safe for alien consumption. So the
Borgia approach is out, too."

 "I
tire of your theorizing!" Shluh was on his feet. "Think what you
will! I tell you in confidence: Even now your Chancery is surrounded by my
troops— ostensibly as honor guard—but none can leave or enter! By this hour
tomorrow no Terry will dare to show his naked face in any capital in the
Sector—"

 "Tomorrow,
eh?" Retief nodded. "Thanks for giving me your timetable."

 "Have
done, infamous meddler in the destinies of Groac! But before you die, tell me
the name of the spy who sold you our secrets, and I shall personally supervise
his impalement on the wall of one thousand hooks!"

 "Secrets,
eh? I guess that confirms my guesswork," Retief said. "One more
question: What pay-off do the Blugs get—"

 "Silence!"
Shluh keened. "Be assured your brief remaining hours will be devoted not
to questioning matters of policy beyond your grasp, but to supplying detailed
answers to a number of queries of my own!"

 "Wrong
again," Retief said and took a step toward the desk on which the police
officer leaned, shaking a gloved fist. Shluh jumped back, motioned to the armed
guard standing by, who swung his power gun to the ready, aimed at Retief's
face.

 "Haven't
your lads been told that you can't fire a blaster in an enclosed space like
this without incinerating everything in it, including the shooter?" Retief
asked casually, and took another step. The guard lowered the gun hesitantly,
his eyes twitching in confusion.

 "He
lies, cretinous hive-mate of broodfoulers! Fire!" Shluh screeched, and
ducked to snatch at an open drawer. Retief reached him in a bound, caught the
unfortunate captain by the neck, sent him skidding toward the guard as a
belated shot lit the room like a photoflash. As the two Groaci went down in a
heap, Retief caught up the dropped gun.

 "Well,
another myth exploded," he said. "Shluh, take off your belt and strap
him up." With the gun covering the two aliens, he seated himself at the
desk, flipped up the OUT key on the desk field-phone, punched in a number. A
moment later, the glum face of Counsellor of Embassy Clutchplate appeared on
the screen. He gaped.

 "Retief!
What—how—Do you realize—? Did you actually—? How could you have ..."his
voice faltered as he took in the scene in the background. "Isn't that
Chief Shluh? What's he doing?'

 "He
just ran into an old acquaintance," Retief soothed, ignoring a sharp rap
at the door. "Mr. Clutch-plate, how far along are the arrangements for
Blug participation in the Conference?"

 "Why,
their delegation will arrive within the hour. The convoy just 'vised Port
Authority for landing clearance. But see here—"

 "Convoy?"
Retief glanced up as pounding sounded at the door.

 "Just
fifty first-class cruisers; as escort for the transport. The Blug never travel
unarmed, you know. But—"

 "See
if you can get the ambassador to turn them down," Retief rapped.
"Failing that, meet 'em with an armed guard and—"

 "Mr.
Retief!" the counsellor barked. "I don't know what mad scheme you've
embarked on, but it won't work! I know how you feel about the Blugs, and the
Groaci too, for that matter. But taking the law into your own hands—"

 "No
time for any long discussions, Mr. Clutch-plate," Retief cut in as a heavy
thud rocked the door. "I'd ask you for a squad of Marines if I knew where
I was, but—"

 "Turn
yourself in," Clutchplate blurted. "It's the only way. You can plead
guilty due to temporary insanity brought on by outraged political convictions,
and get off with no more than half a dozen years on a penal satellite."

 "It's
an interesting proposal." Retief ducked as splinters of door whined past
his head. "What am I guilty of?"

 "Murder,
of course," Clutchplate yelped. "Two Sulinorians, remember?"

 "It
slipped my mind," Retief said. "But see if you can hold the charge
open a little longer. I may have a few Groaci to add to it." He flipped
off the screen as the door shuddered and bulged inward.

 "Time
for you to talk fast, Shluh," he said crisply. "I've decided to slip
out the back way to avoid the autograph hounds. There are three doors I could
use. You'll tell me which one's the best route."

 "Never!"

 Retief
fired a bolt from the hip past the Groaci.

 "On
the other hand," Shluh hissed quickly, "what matter if you
temporarily elude my overzealous troops? Our plans will proceed—and the
measures you sought to set in motion will avail naught to stop them!" He
darted to a side door, keyed it open.

 "Go,
then, Retief! But take what path you will, a dreadful end awaits you!"

 "In
that case, you'd better go first." Shluh hissed and tried to dart aside,
but Retief caught him, propelled him ahead with a foot in the seat. He slammed
and barred the panel behind him, as the outer door fell in with a crash.

 They
followed dim, dusty passages, ascended winding stairways, moved silently along
dark, lofty halls lined with ancient armor and hung with rotted banners. Half a
dozen times Retief eluded Groaci search parties by a hair's breadth. In a wide
room decorated with painted murals showing centauroids cavorting on purple
grass, Shluh gestured toward a high-arched, doorless opening through which pale
moonlight gleamed.

 "There
is your exit to the night, Retief!" he keened sardonically. "Make
what use of it you will! The way is clear!"

 Retief
crossed the room, stepped out onto a tiny balcony, thick with the droppings of
the tiny bat-like creatures that wheeled and
skree!
ed
at his
appearance. Ragged vines grew over a low balustrade, beyond which darkness spread
to a skyline of tower-encrusted hills. He looked down. The wall dropped sheer
into inky shadows far below.

 "Thanks
for everything, Shluh." He threw a leg over the stone railing. "I'll
see you at your trial—if your bosses let you live that long, after the way
you've botched your assignment."

 "Stop,
impetuous outworlder!" Shluh keened, as Groaci feet clicked in the room
behind him. "Even should you survive the descent, you know not what you
do! Not even you would I urge on to to what waits in the darkness below!"

 "You
mean your short patrols?"

 "Not
my patrols, nor the Marines of your own embassy which even now seek you,
warrant in hand, will ever find you, if once you set foot in those
demon-haunted byways!"

 "So
that's
where you set up your jail-house?" Retief looked thoughtful.
"Still, I'd rather mingle with spooks than go back to your little party.
Ta-ta, Shluh. Stay as sweet as you are." Shluh hit the deck as Retief
-raised the gun and fired a burst toward the approaching search party, slung
the blast rifle over his shoulder and started down toward the silent streets of
the Forbidden City.

 It
was an easy climb. Once a pair of Groaci heads appeared over the balcony rail
above, but they drew back quickly. The wall was deeply carved, and the stout
vines provided ample hand-and foot-holds. It was less than ten minutes before
Retief swung down and dropped the last few feet into a mass of unpruned
shrubbery from which he emerged in an avenue of marble mansions like abandoned
funeral homes. The two pale moons of Sulinore came from behind a cloud and
shone down ghostly white. Something small and dark flitted overhead, emitting
thin cries. Far away, a mournful wail sounded. Retief set off at a brisk walk,
his footsteps echoing hollowly on the worn mosaics that paved the way.

 Ahead,
a lofty obelisk reared up. The inscription, nearly effaced by time, seemed to
commemorate a battle fought with giants. At the next corner, the carved heads
of ogres peered blindly down at him from an ornate cornice. He passed a
fountain, dry and silent, where finned and tailed maidens of stone disported
themselves amid marble waves. The dank wind blew dead leaves along the street.
As Retief paused, a sound as of small feet pattered for a moment, then fell
silent.

 "Come
on out," Retief called. "There's some news you ought to hear."

 There
was a ghostly laughter—or perhaps it was only the wind, searching among the
fluted columns of a temple. Retief went on. Rounding an abrupt angle, he caught
a glimpse of movement—a darting shape that disappeared into a gaping doorway.
He followed, found himself in a hall, open to the sky. From its walls, giant
frescoed figures stared down with empty eyes.

 "I
need a guide," Retief called. "Any volunteers?"

 "Tears
... tears ... tears," the echoes rolled back from every side.

 "There's
a small matter of an invasion to deal with right now."

 "Now
... now ... now ..." the sound faded and died, and as if the word were a
signal, a creak sounded from the high doors through which Retief had entered.

 He
spun in time to see them clash shut with a dull
boom
that echoed and
re-echoed. He went to them, found them jammed tight, immovable. He turned back
to the interior of the roofless room. A wide passage was visible at the rear.
Skirting a black pool that reflected a shattered moon, he entered the passage,
emerged after twenty paces on a terrace above a flight of wide, shallow steps.
Below a dark and wild-grown park spread out, a wilderness of untrimmed shrubs
and lofty, black-leaved trees.

 He
descended to the foot-high sward; soft rustlings from the shadows retreated as
he advanced along a weed-obscured path winding among the buttressed trunks of
patriarchal trees. Carved faces leered at him from the shadows. The eerie
shapes of stone monsters gleamed through the unpruned foliage. He emerged onto
a broad mall along the center of which a double rank of what appeared to be
painted statues of heroic size were drawn up along an aisle that led away into
the night. Near at hand, a small collonaded shrine was almost hidden among the
low-sweeping boughs of a giant conifer. Silently, Retief approached the
building from the side.

 Through
a latticed opening, faint moonlight fell on the vine-entwined effigy of an
oversized Sulinorian in the armor of an ancient warrior. In the darkness behind
the graven hero, something moved minutely. Retief tossed a pebble through the
window, flattened himself against the wall by the doorway. A moment later, a
head poked cautiously from the entry—and Retief's hand clamped on the slender
Sulinorian neck.

 "Pardon
my interrupting the game," he said. "But it's time we had a
talk."

 "The
price of entrance into the Sacred Grove of Heroes is death, Terran!" the
tenor voice of the alien shrilled.

 "So
I understand," Retief said holding his catch at arm's length to avoid the
wildly kicking feet. "However, my little intrusion is nothing compared
with what the Groaci have scheduled. Maybe you'd better listen to what I have
to say before you carry out the sentence."

 "Tomorrow
is nothing; the past is all," the Sulinorian declaimed. "Why struggle
against Destiny, outworlder?"

 "We
can give destiny a run for her money if you'll spread the word that I need a
few hundred able-bodied Sulinorians to distract the Groaci patrols long enough
for me to get through to the Terry Embassy—"

 "Offer
your final devotions to your gods, man of Terra," the Sulinorian cut in.
"Your fate is sealed."

 "You're
consistent, I'll concede that," Retief said. "it looks as though I'll
have to look a little farther for a public-spirited citizen." He released
the native, who jerked his varicolored toga straight and faced him defiantly.

 "Not
so, Terran!" The local folded his knobby arms. "Never will you leave
these hallowed precincts!"

 Rustlings
sounded behind Retief. He turned. From every shadowed clump of shrubbery, a
Sulinorian emerged; light winked from the foot long stilettos in their hands.
Silently, the ring of aliens closed in. Retief backed to the shrine, unlimbered
the blast rifle, swung it to cover the throng which halted, facing him.