Retief-Ambassador to Space (19 page)

 "What
transpires?" he piped. His eye fixed on the prone giant. "What,
Bozdune the Bestial, felled by a mere outworlder?"

 "I'm
afraid I can't claim the glory," Retief said. "He ran out of
gas." He glanced toward the spot where the false Coriale had lain.
"But if you can find the ringer, I may be able to remedy that."

 "He's
here, the infamous dastard," a Sulinorian called, dragging the unfortunate
imposter from a clump of gorse. Retief got a grip on the captive's collar,
assisted him to Bozdune's side.

 "Breathe
on the nice man, Shorty," he ordered.

 A
great gout of brown gas puffed obediently forth.

 "Again."

 The
prisoner huffed and puffed, exhaling the vapor past the fallen fighter's
snoring visage. In a moment, Bozdune twitched, jerked and opened his eyes.

 "You're
still here, eh?" he said to Retief. "I thought I dreamed you."
He sniffed again.

 "Gadzoons,
first good air I've breathed in a couple hundred years. More!" He raised
his voice as Retief withdrew the pseudo-Coriale.

 "Not
unless you agree to lend a hand," Retief countered. "Then I promise
you all the sacred essence you want."

 "Are
you kidding? Just let me get my hands on these Gruckles or whoever they are
that think they can carve my home town up, and I'll grind them into library
paste!"

 "It's
a deal." Retief turned to Therion. "How about it? You in or
out?"

 "If
Bozdune approves the enterprise, then who are we to demur?" the oldster
inquired of the cool night air. "Rise, loyal Sons of Sulinore! For this
night at least, the ancient glories live again!"

 Retief
gave Bozdune another shot of gas, then passed the captive to Therion.

 "Don't
squeeze him too hard," he cautioned. "We've got to make him stretch
as far as we can; if this caper's going to succeed, we'll need all the ancient
glory we can muster."

 From
a shadowy arch half a block from the carved gates of the Terran Embassy,
Retief, seated astride Tussore's broad back, watched as the fifty-Groaci guard
detail sauntered past, their stemmed eyes scanning the street alertly, their
blast rifles ready at port arms. Behind him, the tread of booted Groaci feet
approached relentlessly.

 "Get
ready," he said softly. "Another ten seconds ..."

 There
was a chorus of weak shouts from the rear, a slapping of running feet, the
buzzzz-whapp!
of power guns firing; then a pair of Groaci troopers appeared, pelting
along in advance of a mighty figure in ancient armor. In full stride, he
overtook them, snatched them up by their necks and tossed them aside. Behind
him, a crowd of Sulinorians, toga skirts hitched high, brandished their
ceremonial knives as they followed their massive leader toward the gate. A
moment later, the giant was among the patrollers, flailing with a spike-studded
mace before the gun was fired.

 "Let's
go!" Retief kicked his heel into Tussore's sides, and the mighty
centauroid bounded forward. In an instant, they were in the thick of the melee,
Retief swinging a yard-long club as Tussore reared and struck out with
iron-hard hooves.

 "Cut
your way through!" Retief called to his mount. We can mop up later, after
we've taken care of the main event!"

 "Aiii!
What a lovely squishing sound these Gruckers make beneath my hooves!" the
old warrior yelled, but he wheeled and charged the gate. Half a block away,
Retief caught a glimpse of Bozdune, tossing Groaci troopers aside like straw
dummies. From every dark alleymouth and byway, Sulinorians were pouring. A lone
Groaci in the gatehouse brought up his blast-rifle, loosed a round that missed
by inches; then Retief's club felled him, and they were through, crossing the
lawn toward the lighted entry at full gallop. A startled Marine guard let out a
yell and reached for the lever which would slam the grill in the faces of the
invaders, but a sweep of Tussore's arm sent the sentry sprawling. Inside,
Retief swung down, started up the grand staircase, five steps at a time.
Suddenly Counsellor Clutchplate appeared on the landing above.

 "Retief!"
His eyes took in the massive, sweaty, horse-bodied Tussore, helmeted and
sword-girded, the motley horde of Sulinorians swarming behind.

 "Good
lord! Treason! Treachery! Hallucinations!" He whirled to run as Retief
caught him, spun him around.

 "Has
the banquet begun yet?" he demanded.

 "J
... j ... just starting now," the counsellor choked. "It happens I
don't like Groaci iodine chowder, so I just stepped out for a breath of
air." He stumbled back as Retief dashed on.

 At
the high double doors to the banquet hall, a Marine in dress blues, polished
helmet and chrome-plated ceremonial .45 departed from his rigid position of
attention sufficiently to roll his eyes as the newcomers surged down on him. At
what he saw, he grabbed for the holster at his hip. Retief slammed a
side-handed blow at his wrist. "Sorry, son," he snapped and sent the
doors flying open on the roomful of startled diplomats. From both sides of a
long U-shaped table, oculars of every description goggled at the spectacle that
burst upon them. Retief pointed to the impassive Sulinorian servitors standing
behind the diners, spaced all along the room, one to a customer.

 "Get
'em" he commanded and reached for the nearest as the troop at his heels
boiled past to carry out his instruction.

 "You've
gone out of your mind, Retief!" Counsellor Clutchplate gazed, white-faced
and shaken, from the broken doorway at the scene of carnage after the capture
of the last of the servitors. "What can it mean, leading this party of
dacoits to violate the Embassy? I must protest, even at risk of my life,
whatever atrocities you plan to visit on these poor chaps! They're under CDT
protection!"

 "They'll
survive—some of 'em," Retief said, and plucking a steak knife from the
table, he stooped over one of the fallen waiters and with a quick stroke, laid
him open from chin to navel. Clutchplate uttered a strangled yelp; Ambassador
Shindlesweet turned pale and quietly collapsed under the table as Retief
reached, extracted a limp, two-foot-tall creature resembling a shelled lobster
from the interior of the pseudoflesh costume.

 "They're
not Sulinorians; they're Blugs." He reached again, pulled out a small
pressure-tank. "This is his air supply; liquid nitrogen."

 "Blugs?"
Clutchplate gaped at the unconscious creature, from whose breathing orifice a
brown exhalation now was issuing. "But what—how—? See here, Retief! even
if these are, er, Blugs, what harm could they have done unarmed, which would
warrant your outrageous behavior?"

 "Blugs
are rock-eaters," Retief explained. "And they seem to have a
remarkable degree of control over their metabolism. Normally, they exhale
innocuous gases; under stress, they start exhaling nitrogen trioxide. But when
occasion demands, they can switch to production of any one of three or four
poisonous oxides of nitrogen. Here in this closed room, all it would have taken
was one good whiff down each guest's neck, on signal, and bingo! Clean
sweep."

 "But
why?" Clutchplate wailed.

 "I
have an idea Ambassador Shith can tell us how they happened to be here, instead
of Coriale's regular table-waiting staff," Retief suggested.

 Shith,
still dangling in Tussore's grasp, emitted a harsh bleat. "Gloat while you
can, Mr. Retief!" he hissed. "True, every word! I commend your
cleverness! But while you spent your efforts in thwarting this feint—yes,
feint!—the squadron of Blug warships which you Terries so naively permitted to
pass your blockade were discharging fifty thousand picked troops, the cream of
the Bluggish navy! Even now these diminutive but doughty doughboys are
spreading out over the town, breathing their deadly halitosis on every living
creature in their paths! By morning, no Sulinorian will be alive to dispute the
Groaci claim to planetary ownership!"

 "Shith—have
you taken leave of your senses?" Shindlesweet had revived sufficiently to
crawl forth, spluttering. "When this is known you'll be hauled before a
Galactic tribunal and dealt with in a manner that will make the name of Groac a
byword to replace that of Doctor Mush!"

 "Mud,"
Shith corrected. "Permit me to contradict you, my dear George! Not one
word of the coup will be noised abroad. My constabulary have already taken the
precaution of securing the only communications facilities on the planet capable
of contacting CDT naval forces; in a matter of moments my chaps will arrive to
put an end to your illusions of success! Don't fret, however. I promise you a
swift and painless demise." He paused, aiming several eyes at Retief.
"Why do you shake your head, sir! My scheme is flawless! My invasion is an
accomplished fact!"

 "True—but
you missed one small point," Retief said. "The Sulinorians were
gradually fading off the scene due to the exhaustion of the planet's supply of
a certain element vital to their well-being. But instead of dying, after about
the age of five hundred, they'd drift off into a comatose state. You and your
nitrogen-fixing Blugs have changed all that, Mr. Ambassador. Thanks to you,
Sulinore has a new lease on life."

 "You
seek even in the eleventh hour to delude yourself!" Shith hissed.
"Hearken! Even now my occupation forces approach the door!"

 There
was a noisy clump of feet from the hall outside.

 Then
the mighty figure of Bozdune the Bestial, broad and bronzed, appeared in the
entry. He plucked a shattered door from its hinges with one hand and tossed it
aside.

 "Nice
going, Retief," he boomed. "I don't know how you worked it, but the
place is swarming with those lovable little guys you called Blugs. All the boys
are catching 'em and making pets of 'em. I've got one in my pocket, and he's
keeping me supplied like a tall glunthound!" The behemoth's ochre eyes
fell on the laden table. "Chow!" he bassooned. "I haven't had a
square meal in eight hundred years!"

 "Then—this
means my invasion has failed?" Shith wailed. "My so meticulously
planned invasion, spoiled in the eleventh hour by one trivial oversight?"

 "Oh,
your invasion is a huge success," Retief said comfortingly. "But this
time the invadees are the winners."

 "I
really must protest this flagrant interference in the internal affairs of a
sovereign world, George," Ambassador Shith whispered vehemently from his
position on the platform where the group of local and foreign dignitaries
stood, awaiting the appearance of the parade organized by the Sulinorians to
celebrate the invasion. "I demand the immediate return of the impounded
units of the Blug navy and the repatriation of all Blug nationals!"

 "Spare
me your threnodies, my dear Shith." Ambassador Shindlesweet raised a
remonstrative hand. "We'd have a sticky time of it were we to attempt to
dislodge the Blugs now. You're aware, I'm sure, that as their breathing tanks
ran low, they escaped their captors and burrowed their way down half a mile to
a nitrogen-rich stratum and are busily digesting rock and releasing free
radicals—that, and reproducing. I think you might be said to be fortunate to be
sharing the honors today as co-sponsor of the Blug Immigration Plan, rather
than languishing in the VIP suite of a CDT brig, awaiting trial."

 "Pah!"
the Groaci envoy vibrated his throat-sac in indignation. "In that
case," he changed tack, "I see no reason why Groac should share
credit for this enlightened program under which, at no cost to these ungrateful
locals, their atmosphere is being so rapidly renewed!"

 "Really,
Shith," the Terran chief of mission said in a low voice, "it's only
the fact that a full disclosure of the events leading up to the present
rapprochement
might tempt certain petty critics at Sector to the faulty conclusion that I
had been in some way remiss, that prevents me from releasing the transcript of
the rather excited pronouncement which you so providently delivered into the
recorders set up to capture the after-dinner speeches ..."He cupped an ear
as distant bugles sounded. "Gentlemen, I think I hear them coming
now."

 Along
the ancient street, a procession was advancing, banners awave. In the front
rank were Tussore and Bozdune, grim and gigantic, CDT-supplied nitrogen tanks
slung at their hips, their armor sparkling in the red rays of the swollen sun.

 Behind
them, rank on rank, marched the revived immortals of Sulinore, a column that
stretched away out of sight along the shadowy street.

 "This
matter of allowing these chaps to seize the Blug ships as spoils of war and set
off on a raiding expedition is an irregularity that I'm going to have
difficulty glossing over in my report," Shindlesweet said behind his hand
to Therion. "But off the record," he added, "I suppose I'll
manage—so long as you're sure they'll do their raiding in Groaci-mandated
territory."

 "Indeed,
I hope you'll interpose no obstacles to the ruffians departing Sulinore as
expeditiously as possible," the elder whispered loudly.

 "We're
well rid of the smelly brutes. They have no conception of the dignity
appropriate to legendary heroes."