Retief and the PanGalactic Pageant of Pulchritude (14 page)

"Too
bad," he murmured. "It's getting so you just can't trust a lackey
anymore."

There was a
stealthy rap at the door; Retief went to it, swung it open. The visage of the
Groaci counselor appeared, all five eyes canted alertly to scan the interior of
the room.

"Neatly
executed, Lilth," he started—and froze at the sight of Retief, casually
puffing a dope stick alight.

"Evening,
Nish," the Terran greeted his informal caller. "Looking for your code
clerk? I'm afraid he just stepped out."

"You?
What—that is, how—I mean to say—murderer!" Nish rushed to the window to
stare down in dismay at his landsman floundering among the imported carp.
"Mayhem! A wanton attack on the person of a diplomatic member of His
Groacian Excellency's staff! Seize the miscreant!"

A number of
persons, both Terran and Groaci, attracted by the cries of the deputy chief of
the Groaci Mission, were now thrusting their heads into Retief's apartment. The
choleric features of the Terran counselor, Career Minister Bite-worse, appeared
amid the press.

"What
seems to be the trouble here?" the plump senior officer demanded in a
penetrating nasal tenor.

"I
demand the instant arrest of this . . . this ruffian!" Nish whispered, his
feeble voice shaking with emotion.

"Why,
er, certainly," Biteworse agreed. "That is to say, ah, what's he done
this time?"

"This
time he's gone too far! His reputation for the flaunting of the niceties of
diplomatic usage is notorious—but the defenestration of my colleague, junior
rank notwithstanding, is the final anvil!"

"You
mean—he threw someone out the window?" Bite-worse looked disconcerted.

"Even
now the unhappy chap sinks for the third time!" Nish declaimed.

"Hadn't
we better, er, throw him a rope?" Colonel Warbutton suggested from the
window, craning to observe the still-struggling figure far below.

"Don't
seek to alleviate the gravity of the offense by ill-timed salvage
efforts!" Nish hissed. "Clap the criminal in irons! In fact,
Biteworse, I suggest you declare your entire staff under arrest until a
properly constituted Groaci Board of Inquiry has sifted the matter to the
bottom!"

"Now,
now, let's not be hasty," Biteworse demurred. "Why don't you just
settle for Retief for now, and hold off on the mass incarceration until our
respective chiefs of mission have had time to review the matter—"

"No
quibbling! I'll settle for half the Terran Mission in durance vile and the
remainder stripped of diplomatic privilege and confined to quarters!"

"Why,
that's generous of you, Nish." Biteworse pursed his lips judiciously.
"But I'm not prepared to go farther than Retief plus a couple of third
secretaries, and the revoking of snack-bar privileges for all personnel below
Class Three rank—"

"Before
you commit yourself, sir," Retief spoke up casually, "I'd like to
point out that Mr. Nish seems to be laboring under a false impression."

"What?"
The Groaci whirled, his throat sac vibrating in expression of total
indignation. "You suggest that the spectacle of my underling even now
perishing in the moat is a nonobjective phenomenon?"

"Oh,
he's down there, all right," Retief confirmed. "But he couldn't have
fallen from
this
window, as I'm sure you'll agree."

"Indeed?
And why could he not?"

"It's
my apartment. And my
Do Not Disturb
sign is lit. So, obviously, Lilth
couldn't have been in my room—unless, of course, you'd like to stipulate that
he was guilty of trespass, unauthorized entry, burglary, and a number of other
irregularities."

"Why—the
very idea," Nish said weakly.

"Clearly
a simple case of mistaken identity," Biteworse announced briskly.
"Now, if it had been Retief who fell, it would be logical to assume he had
effected egress through this window. . . ." His voice trailed off.
"By the way, Nish—just how did it happen that you were on the spot so soon
after Lilth was pushed—fell, that is—out of, ah, some other window, I mean to
say?"

"I but
nipped up to borrow a book," the discomfited Groaci snapped.

"Indeed?"
Biteworse purred, back in command. "I wasn't aware Terran literature was a
fancy of yours, my dear Nish. You must drop by and browse over my modest
collection some evening—when you're not engaged in, ah, other duties, here in
the Terry wing."

"Meanwhile,
don't forget your book," Retief said, offering a fat volume titled
How
to Tell Your Friends from Your Enemies with Virtual Ninety-Percent Accuracy
.

"Bah!"
Nish muttered, spurning the proffered tome. "We'll all be late for the
gala." He shouldered his way through the crowd.

"Just between
us, Retief," Second Secretary Magnan inquired confidentially, after the
others had left, "what was that little sneak Lilth after?"

"I
didn't get a chance to ask him," Retief said. "However, he left this
as a memento of his visit." He held up a small disk-shaped object dangling
from a strap of imitation alligator hide. "I found it by the window."

"It
looks like an ordinary Mickey Mouse watch," Magnan said doubtfully.
"However, I assume from your enigmatic expression it's something more
arcane. Dare I ask what?"

"That's
what I propose to find out, Mr. Magnan, at the first opportunity."

"I
don't like it, Retief," Magnan said behind his hand, half an hour later,
surveying the gala crowd of Terran and alien diplomats thronging the ballroom
from his position near the hundred-gallon punchbowl, cut from a single crystal
of red quartz mined in the interior.

"It
could stand a little more gin," Retief agreed judiciously.

"Not
the punch—the atmosphere!" Magnan corrected. "And I don't refer to
the air conditioning; I mean the ominous feeling that something dreadful is
about to happen."

"Relax,
Mr. Magnan," Retief said soothingly. "The ambassador won't be making
his speech for half an hour yet."

"Kindly
spare me your ill-timed japes, Retief! As you know, I'm extremely sensitive to
extrasensory vibrations of all sorts—a trick I fancy I inherited from my Aunt
Prudelia—"

"That
is a neat trick," Retief acknowledged, raising his glass en passant to a
well-shaped stenographer waltzing past in the grip of Colonel Warbutton.

"Retief!
Kindly attend to my remarks! After all, a diplomat learns to rely on his
hunches—"

"A
telling point, Mr. Magnan," Retief said, and deposited his glass on a
passing tray. "And I have a hunch Miss Braswell would be grateful for a
few civilian anecdotes, after two and a half waltzes' worth of military
reminiscences."

"Quite
possibly," Magnan said icily. "However, I suggest you defer your
mission of mercy until we've dealt with the more substantive problem of
incipient skulduggery in the air!"

"If
you're referring to the fact that Ambassador Nith has been in a huddle with his
military attaché for the past twenty minutes, I agree it bodes no good for
joint peacemaking efforts," Retief conceded.

"It's
not only that—I've observed that Counselor Lilth seems to be exceptionally
clubby with the Bogan military observer."

"So he
does. While Ambassador Pouncetrifle has been cornered for the past forty
minutes by three of our guests from the Dames Auxiliary for Militant
Pacifism."

"I
doubt that the dowagers have any fell intent," Magnan said. "However,
that sneaky little Groaci cultural attaché—Fink, or Sneak, or whatever his name
is—"

"Snink;
he seems unusually absorbed in whatever it is that Counselor Biteworse is
holding forth on. He's had him backed in among the potted frogfronds for the
past half hour."

"Ever
since the arrival of the provisional Minister of Illegal Activities, to be
precise," Magnan pointed out. "And at the same time, the pro tern
Chief of Police has been huddling with Captain Thilth—even among the Groaci,
not one whom one would care to entrust with assisting one's grand-mere across
the street."

"Not if
she were carrying more than jelly-bean money," Retief concurred. "All
of which suggests that there are plans afoot that have nothing to do with the
tranquillity of Lumbaga."

"In
that case, how can you stand there ogling the female clerical help?"
Magnan demanded indignantly. "It's perfectly obvious that the Groaci and
their toadies are up to no good!"

"Very
probably, Mr. Magnan. However, if we stand here with our heads together,
looking gloomy, they're likely to deduce that we're onto them—"

"And a
good thing, too! The very idea, plotting right under our noses!"

"Better
there than in some place less easy to observe," Retief suggested.

"The
gall of the scoundrels! Come, Retief—let's report our suspicions to His
Excellency at once—"

"I
suggest we wait a few more minutes, Mr. Magnan. There are a pair of Groaci administrative
aides edging past the Marine guards over by the French doors; let's give them
time to get in the clear."

"Whatever
for?" Magnan gasped. "So they can rifle the chancery safe?"

"We
won't let them get that far. But it would be interesting to know what they've
got in mind."

"But—what
if they plant a bomb—or set fire to the building—or insinuate a set of
falsified documents into the voucher files?"

"That
last item is pretty scary," Retief conceded. "Still, maybe we can
stop them before any real damage is done—" He broke off as the drapes
twitched shut behind the aliens whom he had been observing. "Shall we
trail along and see what they're up to, Mr. Magnan?"

"Well—we
really ought to refer the matter to the appropriate authorities . . . still,
they'd hardly dare anything really drastic right here in the complex—and it
would
be rather a coup to lay them by the heels unassisted." Magnan twitched the
multiple lapels of his grapejuice-colored, early mid-evening, hyperformal
cutaway into line, assumed a stern expression, and followed Retief as he made
his way through the crowd.

On the
terrace, they caught a glimpse of their quarry just disappearing over the
balustrade into the shrubbery below.

"Just
as I thought!" Magnan gasped. "And there's a
Keep Off the Grass
sign in plain view! I'll report them at once, and—"

"Wait."
Retief motioned Magnan back. There were sounds of threshing in the bushes, then
soft footfalls along a flagstoned path. Suddenly a brilliant beam of greenish
light sprang up, shining vertically up through the foliage. It blinked once,
twice, three times. There was a pause; then the signal was repeated.

"The
plot thickens," Retief said softly as Magnan clutched his arm. "Let's
see what's next."

Again they
heard footfalls, this time approaching. The shrubbery rustled. A pale Groaci
visage appeared over the balustrade. A moment later the two aliens had regained
the terrace and were sauntering casually back toward the French doors, puffing
dope sticks in an insouciant manner.

"Why,
the very idea," Magnan whispered from the shadow of the pilaster where he
and Retief were concealed. "They're rejoining the party just as though
nothing at all had happened!"

"You'd
hardly expect them to skulk back in just because they skulked out," Retief
pointed out. "Also, nothing much has happened—yet."

"You
mean—you think there'll be more?"

"I
suspect that what we saw was a modulated light signaler. They could have
conveyed an unabridged set of Corps regulations in the time they had."

"But—whatever
would they want with a set of CDT regs?"

"A
figure of speech, Mr. Magnan—" Retief broke off as a faint
Bee-beep!
sounded from his wrist. He turned back his cuff; the tiny figure of Mickey was
glowing softly in the dark; his arms whirled against the disk, semaphoring
frantically.

"Come
in, Lilth!" a tiny, harsh voice rasped in badly accented Lumbagan.
"Why haven't you reported in as scheduled?"

Retief
brought the device close to his face. "Alas," he whispered in a
passable imitation of the Groaci's breathy tones, "I was detained by
certain unscheduled natatorial exertions—"

"You've
been advised how important split-second timing is! Where are you now?"

"On the
south terrace, catching a breath of revivifying night air from the rigors of
the receiving line," Retief hissed.

"Cretin!
To the roof at once! It's now M—minute minus four! Get going!"

"Roger
and out," Retief breathed.

"Just a
minute! You're not Lilth!" The glow died from the watch face. Mickey's
hands came to rest at twenty fifty-six. "It was useful while it
lasted," Retief said, and tossed the deactivated communicator aside.
"Let's go, Mr. Magnan. It looks like we're running late for a hot
date."