Retief-Ambassador to Space (18 page)

 "Welcome
to the party," he said. "Now that we've got a quorum, maybe we'll get
somewhere."

 "You
outrage the glorious past, Terran," a wizened Sulinorian quavered, staring
up at Retief. "You heap outrage on outrage!"

 "The
outrage the Groaci are planning is the one I'm concerned with," Retief
said. "You people don't seem to care much, but from the Terry viewpoint,
it might set an unfortunate precedent for other budding empire-builders."

 "Terry,
gone are the days when we of Sulinore were mighty warriors. If now it falls our
lot to die, we face our fate in dignity."

 "There's
nothing dignified about being scragged by the Groaci, or strung up by the heels
by a platoon of Blugs," Retief cut in. "I hear they have a curious
sense of humor when it comes to dealing with anyone who's proved his
inferiority by getting conquered by them."

 "Kill
this alien at once, isn't it?" a scratchy-voiced Sulinorian in the front
rank called. "After, everybody die nicely, as scheduled."

 "Enough
talk," the elderly Sulinorian declared.

 "Let
the disturber of the sleep of heroes suffer the penalty!"

 The
Sulinorians eyed the gun in Retief's hands, shuffled their feet. No one
advanced.

 "Maybe
you'd better call the penalty off," Retief suggested. "Then you can
divert your righteous indignation into doing something about the
invasion."

 "Hmmmm."
The elderly spokesman beckoned to a couple of his fellows; they put their heads
together.

 "We
have decided," the oldster stated as the conference ended, "that the
matter must be referred to the Old Ones for decision." He raised a
trembling hand. "Not that we fear to fall under your murderous weapon,
Terran—but it is a death which lacks elegance." He waved a hand and an
avenue opened up through the dense ranks of armed locals.

 "Terran,
I give you temporary safe-conduct and the honor of confrontation with the
Ancient Lords of Sulinore, who will themselves dispose of this case. Come, if
you fear not!"

 "Fair
enough," Retief said. "When you want fast action, there's nothing
like going direct to the top brass. Where do we find them?"

 "Behold
the Lords of Sulinore!" the ancient piped feebly. The locals made sweeping
bows to the ranks of still figures about them. Retief inclined his head
respectfully .

 "They
cut an impressive figure," he said. "I'll be interested to see how
they go about dealing with the problem at hand."

 "Simplicity
itself," the old Sulinorian said. "One waft of the sacred incense,
and a faint shadow of their vanished vitality will energize them. Then will
they hear our pleas and hand down justice in the ancient way."

 Retief
walked slowly along the row of motionless effigies, noting the worn trappings,
the realistically scarred limbs and fierce visages, the tarnished armor of the
ancient warriors. In spite of their size and varied forms, all bore some
resemblance to the shrunken Sulinorians who followed, silent and awed.

 "Once
the races of Sulinore were many," the ancient said as he noticed Reliefs
questing gaze. "And mighty was their prowess.

 "There
stands Zobriale the Intense, Requiter of Wrongs. Beyond, we see proud
Valingrave, victor at Har and Jungulon and Spagetwraithe. Here—" he
indicated the modest crypt "—behold the shrine of Bozdune the Restial,
known also as Bozdune the Baresark, of ferocious memory. And there—" he
pointed to a four-legged barrel-chested creature with a typical Sulinorian
torso and head "—stand the mortal remains of Great Tussore, he who
single-handed vanquished the hordes of Doss, on a world so distant that even
now the sunlight of his day of battle has not yet reached the face of
Sulinore!"

 "He
looks like a tough boy," Retief commented. "Too bad he's not still
around. He might take a dim view of the way things are going."

 "Did
I not say Mighty Tussore would give his judgment? Aye, and Cranius the August,
and Maglodore the Swift, and Belgesion, and Vare, and High Pranthippo, King of
Kings—"

 "A
most august assemblage," Retief conceded. "But they seem a rather
taciturn group."

 "You
jape at the Lords of Sulinore, Terran?" The oldster drew himself up, made
an imperious gesture. A pair of locals nearly as old as himself came forward,
bearing a large case which they placed on the grass, opening the lid. Inside
was a cylindrical tank fitted with valve and a coil of flexible plastic tubing.
The dodderer lifted the nozzle of the hose, advanced to the pedestal on which
the centauroid stood.

 "Awaken,
Great Tussore!" he cried in his cracked voice. "Rouse from thy long
dreams to render judgment on one who comes unbidden to the Place of
Heroes!" He raised the hose and waved it under the flared nostrils. Retief
heard a faint hiss of escaping gas.

 "Give
us of thy ancient wisdom, as in days of old, O Tussore," the old fellow
exhorted. He shoved the hose closer. "Almost is the sacred effluvium
exhausted," he muttered. "I'll bet a pretty some of these backsliders
have been tapping it on the sly."

 Suddenly
one pointed ear of the statue twitched. The flared nostrils quivered. The
eyelids fluttered. As Retief watched the lips parted.

 "Glop,"
the mighty figure said, and fell silent. "Drat it, what a time for the
tank to run out," someone beside Retief muttered.

 "How
does he work it?" Retief inquired softly as the Keeper of the Sacred Fumes
waved the hose agitatedly, vainly invoking the unmoving demigod.

 "We
work nothing, interloper," the Sulinorian said sullenly. "A good shot
of sacred gas, and their metabolism starts ticking over fast enough to start
them talking, that's all."

 Abruptly
Tussore stirred again. "The devil take the blackguards," a deep voice
suddenly rumbled from his chest. "Where's my greaves? Where's my fetlock
powder? Where's my confounded mace? Blast that butter-fingered squire ..."

 "Great
Tussore, wake from thy dreams!" The hosewielder redoubled his efforts.
"Hear me! Even now there stands in our midst a stranger who violates the
honored rest of the Lords of Sulinore with his presence!"

 "Oh
... it's you, Therion," Tussore mumbled. His eyes were open now, bleary
and dull. "You look terrible. Been a long time, I guess. And it's not the
stranger who disturbs my rest—it's you, with your infernal babbling!" He
reached, plucked the hose from the oldster's hand, jammed it under his nose,
drew a deep breath. "Ahhhh! That's what the doctor ordered."

 "Even
so, Great Tussore!" The Sulinorian proceeded to relate the circumstances
surrounding Retief's presence. Halfway through the recital, Tussore's eyelids
drooped. The hose fell from his hand. He snored.

 "So
the problem, Great One, is how to administer the prescribed rituals without
suffering the indecorum of being mowed down like ripe beer-corn by the
condemned one," the oldster concluded. "Great Tussore? Mighty
one?" He waved the hose frantically, but his efforts this time were
unavailing. The still figure stood, unmoving as a sphinx.

 "So
much for the wisdom of the ages," Retief said. "Nice try, Therion,
but it looks like the oracle's not interested. Let's go."

 "Make
silent this one, plenty quick!" a small Sulinorian rasped—the same one,
Retief thought, who had spoken up earlier. "No more time for pulling
string on wooden god! Cut away the head of this Terry, yes! And soon after,
fates proceed on schedule!"

 "Silence,
impertinent oaf!" Therion rounded on the speaker. "Your cacophonous
squeakings impugn the majesties of Sulinore! Give me your name, for later
disciplining!"

 The
one addressed backed away, looking flustered, as if suddenly conscious of being
conspicuous. Retief studied his face.

 "Well,
if it isn't my old friend Coriale," he said. "You ought to be an
expert on the subject of dying. Seems to me I've seen you expire twice already
this evening."

 The
Coriale-faced alien whirled suddenly, plunged for the rear rank.

 "Seize
him!" Therion called. The quarry ducked, dodged, dived through a gap in
the suddenly surging ranks, scuttled sideways as his retreat was cut off, made
a dash for the shrubbery. The chase pounded off into the underbrush. Retief
seated himself on a convenient pedestal and lit a dope-stick. Five minutes
passed before the crowd again surged into view, the darting quarry still in the
lead. He put on a sprint, scuttled to the shrine, dived inside.

 "His
impiety passes all bounds!" Therion puffed, coming up to Retief. "Now
the mad creature seeks shelter in the very crypt of Bozdune!"

 "Let
him be fetched out and dealt with!" someone shrilled.

 "Stay!"
Therion piped as the aroused crowd closed in. "We'll not bring dishonor to
the hero by scuffling about his feet. Come! Let us withdraw and leave this
fevered maniac to regain his sense among the shadows of the greatness which was
his race's!"

 Retief
took out his pocket light and played the beam between the columns of the
refugee's hiding place. Between the great steel-toed boots of Bozdune, a
smaller pair of feet was visible. He directed the light higher.

 "Correction,"
he said. "Not
his
race's; that's no Sulinorian. Look." The
light revealed a cloud of brown mist coiling upwards around the rigid features of
the preserved hero. "The meeting's been infiltrated by a masquerading
alien—an alien who exhales brown gas when he gets excited."

 "What's
this? Brown gas—?" Therion's question was interrupted by a startled cry
from a Sulinorian near the temple entry, followed a moment later by a snort
like a teased bull.

 "He
stirs! Bozdune rouses!" Suddenly Sulinorians were running in every
direction. Retief caught Therion's arm as the elder turned to follow the
general flight.

 "Unhand
me, fellow!" the oldster screeched as a bellow sounded from the shrine.
"Death I face with a proud smile—but there's something inappropriate about
being ripped limb from limb by an ancestor!"

 "Is
that the kind of fellow you make a hero of?' Retief inquired as smashing sounds
emanated from the crypt, followed by the hurtling body of the Coriale double,
which skidded to Retief's feet and lay moving feebly.

 "Unfortunately
Bozdune lost his wits as a result of three month's exposure to the Tickling
Torture at the hands of the infamous Kreee," Therion explained hastily.
"He's prone to rages, when suddenly aroused, and prudence demands my swift
removal hence!" He pulled free and bounded away with an agility remarkable
in a being of his age. Retief turned as a rumble of falling stone sounded from
the shrine. A mighty figure had appeared between the columns, stood with hands
pressed against them. Great cords of muscle stood out on his neck; his biceps
bulged; his
latissimi dorsi
strained. The column buckled and went over,
bringing down a section of the arhictrave. Bozdune roared as the marble slab
bounced from his back. With a final thrust he toppled a second column, stepped
forth as stone collapsed behind him. Eight feet high, massive as a buffalo, he
stood in the moonlight, snarling. His wild gaze fell on Retief.

 "Kreee!"
he bellowed. "I have you now!" and charged the lone Terran.

 Retief
stood his ground as Bozdune closed in.

 "You've
got me confused with someone else. Bozdune," he called. "I'm just a
Terry doing a little job of planet-saving."

 With
a bellow, the ancient fighter thundered past the spot where Retief had stood a
moment before. He fought his way clear of the underbrush into which the
momentum of his dash had carried him, rounded up his elusive prey.

 "And
in that connection, I'd like to ask a little favor of you," Retief
continued. "A group of opportunists called the Groaci are planning to
massacre all the foreign diplomats in town—"

 "Arrrrghhh!"
Bozdune roared and closed in swinging roundhouse swipes sufficient to
decapitate a horse. Retief leaned aside from one wild swing, ducked under
another, planted his feet and drove a solid left-right to the giant's stomach,
an effect like punching a sea-wall. He jumped aside as Bozdune grunted and made
an ineffective grab, landing a blow in his own midriff that staggered him.

 "Now,
the Groaci have the streets cordoned off," Retief went on. "And since
it's important that I get through to the Embassy with the news, I'd like to ask
you to lend a hand." He stepped back as Bozdune ripped his six-foot blade
from its sheath, whirled it overhead. Retief tossed the last rifle aside,
plucked a wrist-thick spear from the grip of a horned warrior which loomed
immobile beside him. Bozdune made a bound, brought the massive claymore down in
a whistling arc that cleaved air an inch to Retief's right as he faded aside.

 "Now,
if you'd just say a word to your descendants, I think they might consent to
lend a hand." Retief poked the spear hard against Bozdune's breastplate.
"How about it?"

 Bozdune
dropped his sword, grabbed the spear shaft with both hands, and gave a
prodigious pull—and as Retief let go, tottered backward, tripped over a
fragment of shattered column and went down like a fallen oak. Retief heard the
dull
thonk!
as his head struck the marble steps of his erstwhile
shelter. He stepped quickly forward, used the warrior's own harness straps to
bind his wrists together, then his ankles. At that moment, the bushes parted
and Therion's aged faced appeared.