Retief and the PanGalactic Pageant of Pulchritude (13 page)

"Why
not? Anything shameful about honest merchandising, sport?"

"You
were accredited here as an official observer, not a purveyor of novelty
items!"

"Nix,
sport. That was another fellow entirely—or almost entirely; I picked up a nice
used clavicle from him on the way out."

"Where
did he go?"

"He had
to get back home and see to his liver and lights, you know how it is."

"He was
in need of surgery?" Pouncetrifle gasped.

"Are
you kidding? The guy runs a small giblet ranch two islands over."

"Then—what
are
you
doing here?"

"I came
in to get out of the cold wind. Why?"

"What
about your, ah, the other one?" Pouncetrifle demanded, indicating the
second local, who had not stirred during the exchange.

"Him?
That's my sidekick, name of Difnog. I kind of look out for him, you know, since
he lost his wits."

"In an
accident?" the press attaché inquired with morbid interest, craning his
neck for a better look at the victim.

"Nope,
in a game of nine-handed
splung
. Difnog was a shrewd player, but he was
outclassed; he only had seven hands at the time."

"Well,
I'm sure that's all very interesting, Mr., er—"

"Gnudf.
Yeah, but I got to be going. If you'll hand over the cash, I might still be
able to make it down to the body shop before closing time."

"The
effrontery of the fellow," Magnan sniffed as the ambassador and the budget
and fiscal officer went into a huddle. "It's a well-established principle
that the CDT only gives handouts to bona fide enemies."

"Maybe
he's hoping to qualify," Retief suggested.

"It's a
status much sought after, of course," Magnan conceded. "But a
seasoned diplomat like Pouncetrifle will require proof of authentic hostility,
not mere aspiration to the role."

"Maybe
Gnudf can establish that he was part of the gang that broke all the windows out
of the Information Service Library yesterday."

"Nonsense,
Retief, that was merely an expression of youthful impatience with established
social forms."

"What
about the mob that invaded the chancery at gunpoint last week and threw the
classified files out the window along with the code clerk?"

"A
student prank, nothing more."

"And I
suppose the fellows who slipped the stink bombs into the ambassador's kitchen
during the banquet were actually only expressing legitimate minority
aspirations."

"Doubtless—although
the matter nearly got out of hand. The ambassador didn't wish to offend the
cook by complaining of what he assumed was the aroma of native cookery, and the
guests were equally hesitant to appear critical of the ambassadorial cuisine.
We might have all stifled in silence if Ambassador Jith hadn't chosen to take
it as a direct affront to the Groacian state."

"Golly,
I wish I'd been there," the assistant military attaché commented.
"Old Jith didn't care for the smell, eh?"

"On the
contrary, it seems that the effluvium of burning hot-water bottles closely
resembles that of sacred Groacian incense. Pouncetrifle had to promise to book
a troop of Groaci ritual grimacers for the next culturefest before he could
placate him."

"I see
your point, Mr. Magnan," Retief conceded. "It's not easy to qualify
for enemy status these days."

"Precisely.
It's one of the hopeful signs I like to point out to those who complain that
our culture is going downhill."

The B-and-F
officer having departed with the two locals to work out a settlement, the
ambassador gaveled the meeting back to order.

"Gentlemen,"
he said firmly, "my predecessors waged pacification on Lumbaga for six
years with no visible result. The native passion for mutual mayhem rages
unabated. The confounded locals appear to
like
to fight! Now, then, it's
vital at this juncture in my career—vital, that is, to the success of our
mission—that we produce a breakthrough, racial-tolerancewise, without further
delay. Naturally, I have a vastly effective plan all ready for implementation,
but still, I'd be willing to listen to suggestions from the floor. Now, who's
first?"

"I
propose saturation bombing of the entire planet," a Groaci attaché
proposed in a crisp whisper, "followed by mop-up squads armed with
flamethrowers, fragmentation grenades, and other pesticides."

"Why—how
brutal!" Magnan blurted.

"But
effective," the Groaci pointed out. "One cannot deny: No
population—no popular unrest!"

"Heavens,"
Magnan confided to Retief, "it wouldn't do to say so for the record, but
one must concede there is a certain directness about Groaci methods."

"Possibly
someone can offer a less spectacular alternative," Pouncetrifle said
grimly. "Perhaps one designed to preserve an electorate for the new world
government to govern!"

"Ah—what
about a contest, sir?" Magnan piped up. "Cash prizes for snappy
integration jingles, say."

"/
know," the assistant military attaché cried, "cash rewards for
defectors, deserters, scabs, AWOLs and turncoats!"

"What
about straight cash grants to all who'll come and stand in line for them?"
the senior economic attaché proposed grumpily. "If they're standing in
line they can't be out participating in raids."

"Splendid
notion, Godfrey," Colonel Warbutton spoke up. "We can stall them
along until we have the majority of the able-bodied personnel queued up. Then—a
lightning swoop, and we round up all the troublemakers at a stroke!"

"Don't
we run the risk of accidentally scooping up a percentage of innocent
noncombatants?" the press attaché said doubtfully.

"You
can't break eggs without dropping a few on the floor, or however the old saying
goes," Warbutton stated curtly. "In any event, since the majority of
the population are activists, part-time guerrillas, undercover commandos,
and/or weekend warriors, the risk is statistically negligible."

"But—what
do we do with them, once we've clapped them all in concentration camps?"

"Pension
'em off," Warbutton stated firmly.

"There
appears, gentlemen," Pouncetrifle cut in coldly, "to be an emphasis
on the materialistic in your proposals. While I recognize that massive
handouts—monetary aid to the deserving, that is to say—have long been a staple
of Terran policy, I feel in this instance an approach on a loftier level is in
order."

"Oh—oh,"
the commercial attaché muttered. "That sounds like budget-cut to me."

"Gentlemen.
. . ." The chief of the Terran delegation looked bleakly along the table.
"Unless we achieve a discernible advance toward planetary unification
within the next thirty days, I suspect a number of promising diplomatic careers
will be nipped in the bud."

"Frankly,
Mr. Ambassador," Magnan spoke up, "unless the local anti-Terran
prejudices can be overcome in the near future, we may be nipped before we can
be fired. Why, only today—"

"Anti-Terran
prejudice? Nonsense, Magnan! Mere rumor! I've already pointed out how popular
we Terrestrials are—"

With a loud
crash, the window on the ambassadorial left burst inward, scattering a shower
of glass chips over the table, while a paper-wrapped brick thudded to the
floor. An eager vice-consul retrieved the latter.

"Why—it's
a message," he exclaimed. "It says: A GOOD TERRY IS A DEAD
TERRY!"

"You
see?" Pouncetrifle said heartily. "Only a dear friend would feel free
to perpetrate such a broad practical joke. And now"—he rose
hastily—"we'll adjourn and make ready for tonight's reception."

"Good
idea," Warbutton said sourly as the meeting broke up. "Before our
unknown prankster decides to lob a grenade through and really bring down the
house."

Standing
before the mirror in his apartment in the Terran wing, Retief flicked a speck
of dust from the chrome-plated lapel of his celery-top-green, midevening,
hyperformal cutaway and checked the effect in the rippled surface.

"Wow,
Mr. Retief, quel splendor," his valet commented with an envious sigh.
"Jeez, youse don't happen to have a old suit like this one you don't need
anymore, I guess?"

Retief
surveyed the five-foot figure of the local youth, vaguely humanoid except for
the unusual number and variety of eyes, ears, and snoof-organs adorning his
cranium, plus the circumstance that his shoulders seemed to spring directly
from his hips without the intervention of a torso.

"Not
precisely, Fnud," the diplomat replied, opening the closet door. "But
how about a banana-yellow, demi-informal jumpsuit, appropriate for croquet, mah
jong, and ouija board sessions during the hours twelve noon to three pee em
inclusive?"

"Gangbusters,
Mr. Retief." Fnud fondled the gleaming garment. "I'll get my tailor
to stitch the sleeves right onto the waistband, and then watch me shine at the
neighborhood booze-and-knife bust tonight!" He snapped two of the nine fingers
on his right hand. "Say—why don't you drop around, Mr. Retief? Plenty of
straight grain formaldehyde and bloodshed—all the markings for a memorable
night on the town. What do you say?"

"Sorry,
Fnud. The joint ambassadors are staging the annual Victory Ball tonight, and I'll
have to be there to keep an eye on the silverware. Maybe next week."

"It's a
date." Fnud studied his employer's six-foot-three-inch physique, wagging
his asymetrical head admiringly. "You know, that's kind of a neat
arrangement you Terries use at that, Mr. Retief. A nifty idea, having just the
two of everything, like eyes and ears and all. But how come only one
nose?"

"Just
for contrast. You can overdo a good thing, you know."

"Yeah.
You know, a nose ain't a bad idea at that. Maybe I'll invest in one when I get
my next step increase. What does a deluxe job like the ambassador's run?"

"I see
you have an eye for a noble organ, Fnud. I'd say the cost in brandy alone would
be well up into three figures."

"I
guess it's outa my reach then. Oh, well—I'll settle for a more modest shnozz
and maybe install a spare kidney. A fellow can't have too many kidneys, they
say."

The valet
seemed suddenly to recollect himself. "But Jeez, Mr. Retief, I don't guess
you got time to waste talking about my development program. The shindig starts
in a few minutes, and I'm due in the kitchen."

"You go
ahead, Fnud. I'll make it on time."

When the
door had closed behind the local, Retief opened the casement window and lifted
a potted jelly-flower from the planting box on the sill, extracted from beneath
it a flat 2mm needier which he tucked under his gold-satin cummerbund. As he
turned away, something caught his eye, dangling just beyond the window. It was
a heavy-gauge rope ladder, swaying slightly in the breeze. At that moment there
was a soft sound from the direction of the hall door, as of stealthy fingers
examining the latch. Retief turned swiftly to the open closet, lifted a formal
black coverall from the rod and crossed the room to hang the garment from the
curtain rail above the open window. He switched off the light and stepped
silently behind the bathroom door as the outer door swung open soundlessly. A
small, spindle-legged Groaci in a drab-colored hip cloak and plain eye shields
slipped into the room, pushed the door shut, and headed directly for the
closet. He was halfway there when the wind stirred the empty suit hanging in
the window. The intruder snatched a bulky power gun from his tunic and aimed it
at the garment.

"So—to
have mistakenly judged your chambers to be unoccupied, Soft One," the
alien hissed in his native tongue. "To place your manual extremities above
your organ cluster and to prepare to go quietly!"

The hanging
garment stirred. The Groaci jumped backward. "One more move, Soft One, and
jsssp! to join your forebears in the Happy Burrowing Ground!"

The suit
seemed to edge sideways as the breeze thrust at it.

"To
make no move to escape!" the Groaci keened. "To turn slowly and mount
the ladder thoughtfully provided by a trusted lackey. . . ." The alien's
faint voice faded out as he apparently noted something amiss with the supposed
target. "Retief . . . ?" he whispered, advancing cautiously. A yard
from the window, he uttered a hiss of annoyance and lowered the gun.

"Not
bad technique, Lilth," Retief said, emerging from concealment, the needier
leveled at the Groaci. "Except that your draw was a little on the slow
side—"

With a soft
cry, the startled intruder whirled, leaped to the window, thrust aside the
hanging coverall and lunged, checked himself too late. For a moment, he
teetered on the sill; then with a despairing cry he toppled outward and dropped
from view. Retief arrived at the window in time to observe the splashdown in
the moat five stories below, marked by an imposing column of stagnant water and
fruit rinds fountaining upward. The rope ladder, he noted, was gone.