Retief and the PanGalactic Pageant of Pulchritude (15 page)

Two and a
half minutes later, after a dizzying run up a tight spiral stair cut into the
thick stone of the keep walls, Retief and Magnan stepped silently out onto the
complex roof. The bright pink light of the two moons cast double shadows across
the rough, tarred planks.

"Looks
like we're first on the scene," Retief noted. "Let's pick an
inconspicuous spot and wait for developments."

"Retief,"
Magnan gasped, breathing hard from his exertions. "What in the world do you
suppose . . . ?"

"This
afternoon someone hired Ignarp to gather us in. Later on, Lilth seemed to have
the same idea. Somebody seems to have an urgent desire to own a Terry."

"But—if
that's true—aren't we playing into their hands?"

"Sometimes
it's the only way to get a look at the other fellow's cards."

"But
what if they catch us here! I suggest we go back at once and file a written
report—"

"Too
late now," Retief said softly as the door through which they had emerged
was thrust rudely open. A short, plump figure emerged, sputtering, closely
accompanied by a trio of hefty individuals in floppy hats and trailing
hemlines.

"Why—it's
the ambassador—and the ladies from DAMP!" Magnan chirped. "Gracious,
what a relief—" Ashe started to step out, Retief pulled him back.

"One
more sound out of you, Terry, and we deliver you in do-it-yourself-kit
form," one of Pouncetrifle's escort barked at the chief of mission in the
native tongue.

"Why—they're
not DAMP members at all!" Magnan whispered. "They're not even ladies!
In fact"—he gulped as one of the trio tossed aside a voluminous frock and
followed it with the hat—"they're not even human!"

"Sit
tight, Mr. Magnan," Retief said, "the party's not complete yet. . .
."

Overhead a
soft whap-whap-whap became audible, grew swiftly louder. A dark shadow floated
across the lesser moon; dust swirled up as a small copter settled gently in at
the far side of the roof.

"No
navigation lights!" Magnan blurted. "That's a violation of the
provisional traffic code!"

As the bogus
pacifists hustled the ambassador toward the copter there was a clatter from the
door, accompanied by a clink of medals. Colonel Warbutton appeared, turned back
to assist a slighter figure through.

"Remarkable
view from up here, my dear," the military attaché said expansively.
"Just savor a lungful of that fresh air!"

"It
smells like turbo fumes to me," Miss Braswell's voice replied. "But I
thought you said we were going up to your office for some emergency dictation.
. . ." Her voice trailed off into a yelp as two dark shapes loomed
suddenly beside her and her escort.

"Here,
what's the meaning of this!" Warbutton boomed, struggling in the grip of
what appeared to be a portly matron. "Are you ladies out of your minds?
Attacking a military man is no way to wage pacifism!"

"It's
an ambush," a Lumbagan voice yelled. "Over the side with the both of
'em!"

"Don't
shoot, Retief!" Magnan blurted as Retief stood and snapped his needier
into his hand. "You'll hit His Excellency!"

As the
kidnappers thrust Warbutton toward the parapet, Retief jumped toward the lone
alien manhandling the ambassador toward the copter. The ersatz dowager whirled
to intercept him; he palmed the gun and rammed a right hook into the local's
midsection, grabbed the ambassador's arm and spun him toward the open door. One
of Warbutton's captors whirled with a yell and dived after the escaping
dignitary, only to trip over Magnan's outthrust foot. Warbutton wrenched
himself from the grasp of the other, dived for the door, bulldozing Miss
Braswell aside into the embrace of the first of the three thugs, now back on
his feet; he lifted her, sprang toward the parapet as the second Lumbagan
caught Warbutton's ankle, bringing the military man down with a resounding
crash. Retief reached the parapet in the same instant that Miss Braswell's
captor, with a hearty heave, tossed her over the side. He dived, caught her
hand as she fell, her weight dragging him half across the parapet. Instantly,
horny hands seized his ankles, lifted, and shoved. As he went over, Retief grabbed
for the coping, hooked his fingers over the edge. With a bone-wrenching shock,
he was brought up short, the girl dangling below him. The Lumbagan appeared
above him, fist raised to smash at his fingers; then Magnan's narrow features
were visible over the alien's shoulder as he brought an elevator shoe down on
the local's skull.

As the
Lumbagan crumpled, Retief pulled himself up, hauling Miss Braswell over the
parapet beside him, to see the other two Lumbagans wrestling Warbutton toward
the copter. He charged them, hurled one aside—and collided with Warbutton as
the colonel tore free and dashed for freedom.

"Help!"
Warbutton yelled, grappling Retief. "I demand protection!

Retief
thrust him aside, lunged for the copter as it lifted suddenly, rotors beating
furiously. He was too late; the machine rose swiftly, bore away to the west
across the dark rooftops. As he turned back, the two still-present Lumbagans
plunged through the door a scant inch in advance of Warbutton. Retief caught
the colonel by the collar and dragged him back, too late. The fugitives were
gone.

"I'll
have you court-martialed for this, you whippersnapper!" Warbutton yelled.

"Oh,
Mr. Retief, you were wonderful!" Miss Braswell sighed, and sagged against
him.

"I'd
have nabbed the lot of them if you hadn't interfered with my pursuit just
now!" Warbutton ranted. "Actually, I've been well aware of the
ruffians' plans for some weeks now—"

"In
that case, maybe you know where they're taking him," Retief cut in.
"Taking who?" the colonel snorted. "Magnan," Retief said.
"They got him."

"Out of
the question, Mr. Retief," Ambassador Pouncetrifle snorted, yanking his
rumpled lapels into line. "No one leaves the embassy until the present
crisis is past! Having lost one diplomat, through no fault of my own. I have no
intention of blotting my copybook further!"

"Why,
even while I was manning the barricades on the roof," Warbutton stated
indignantly, "a coup, by the way, which would have succeeded brilliantly
but for the interference of Retief—even as I manned the barricades, I say, a
mob of irresponsibles invaded the courtyard and pelted the chancery's north
facade with overripe frinkfruit!"

"It
would be as much as our lives were worth to sally forth in the midst of the
disorders," an Information Service man spoke up. "I say let's
acknowledge the failure of the mission and get busy concocting an alibi—"

"Conducting
an analysis in depth of the unforeseen factors necessitating a rethinking of
Corps policy anent the timetable for Lumbagan unification, I presume you
mean," Biteworse amended. "Make a note of that phrase, Miss Braswell.
It will do nicely as a title for my report."

"I'll
handle the report end, Fenwick," Pouncetrifle snapped. "I hereby
assign you the chairmanship of a task force to turn up evidence proving me
blameless in the fiasco."

"I
think you're all mean," Miss Braswell spoke up, netting shocked stares
from the great men present. "Poor Mr. Magnan was just marvelous when he
conked that big, ugly brute over the head—"

"He
assaulted Colonel Warbutton?" Pouncetrifle barked. "Obviously the
man's in the pay of the enemy!"

"How
perfectly silly!" Miss Braswell exclaimed. "Those big bullies dragged
him into that copter and took off while Mr. Retief was trying to unglue the
colonel from his neck! He—"

"That
will do, Miss Braswell!" Pouncetrifle barked. "The situation is
deteriorating hourly, gentlemen." He turned a choleric gaze on his staff.
"And if Mr. Retief's to be believed, the Groaci are back of the
skulduggery, as usual—"

"Don't
believe a word of it," Warbutton snapped. "The fellow's making a
transparent attempt to cover up—"

"Be
that as it may, Colonel—I decree no further contact with our Groaci colleagues.
Also, no contact with Lumbagans. In addition, no contact with offworld
representatives of any stripe!"

"W—will
it be all right if I cable Sector?" the communications officer inquired
diffidently. "Just to keep them informed?"

"Better
not," Warbutton said. "We don't know how far the rot has
spread."

"I'm
not certain I'd go that far," Pouncetrifle said sternly. "However, I
see no point in unduly alarming the department with premature reports which my
critics might distort so as to imply some culpability on my part. We'll wait
for cheerier tidings."

"B—but
if the embassy is surrounded by hostile mobs . . . and under air attack by
native commandos . . . and threatened from within by fifth columnists . . . and
we can't even tell anyone . . . how in the world are we going to get any cheery
tidings—to say nothing of getting ourselves out of this pickle?" the
political officer queried.

"We'll
employ a wait-and-see strategy," Pouncetrifle decreed. "We'll retire
to the air-raid shelters and wait a few days, and see if they'll go away.
Possibly not the most dynamic program open to us"—he forestalled
objections with a plump palm—"but one hallowed by centuries of bureaucratic
tradition. Now. . . ." He favored the assembled staff with a frosty
twinkle. "I've decided to advance the schedule for the checkers tournament
so as to fully occupy our time underground. And as an added fillip, I
personally will make available to the winner an autographed photo of myself
admiring my plastic doily collection for a modest charge barely covering
expenses." He fixed Retief with an icy glare. "And as for you,
sir—you may regard yourself as under close house arrest pending a full
investigation by Colonel Warbutton into your conduct during the raid."

"The
old meany," Miss Braswell commiserated with Retief after the meeting had
dispersed. "He's going to let poor Mr. Magnan fend for himself without
lifting one of his pudgy little fingers to help him—and blaming it all on
you!"

"His
Excellency is a bit distraught at the moment," Retief soothed the girl.
"I suspect he'll revise this morning's pronouncements in his dispatch to
Sector after this is all over."

"But—what
good will that do Mr. Magnan?"

"I
agree something needs to be done in the meantime to lend substance to his
retrospections. Actually, I have one or two errands to run in that connection.
Will you convey my regrets to the checker team?"

"But—he
put you under house arrest! Doesn't that mean you can't leave the
complex?"

"Not
quite; it just gives him grounds to disavow me in case things don't work
out."

"You
mean—he
expects
you to go AWOL?"

"Let's
just say he's prepared to risk it."

"But
you—you're risking your life, going out there! You can hear the mob howling
around the front entrance!"

"I'll
use another route to avoid the autograph fans."

"Mr.
Retief—take care," Miss Braswell whispered; she kissed him quickly on the
cheek and fled.

Five minutes
later, wrapped in a dark cloak, Retief opened the hidden door behind the
dumbwaiter and descended into the catacombs.

Dacoit
Street was deserted. The yells of the demonstrators gathered before the grand
entrance to the Castle complex were a dull surf-roar here. The shops were
shuttered and dark; scattered brickbats and broken spears attested to the
activities of the day, but only a few candy wrappers and old newspapers blowing
across the oily cobbles lent movement to the scene, pitch dark but for a weak
glow from a sputtering flambeau at the next corner.

Retief made
his way unmolested through the narrow ways; five minutes' brisk walk brought
him to a corner half a block from a rough-hewn door under a swinging signboard
adorned with a lumpy purplish shape pierced by a pointed length of wood. Yellow
light leaked from a small leaded-glass window. As Retief took up his post under
the spreading branches of a music tree, a gust stirred the leaves, evoking a
rippling arpeggio of crystalline sound that mingled mournfully with the fluting
of the night wind.

A small wild
creature resembling a disembodied blue eyeball with tiny bird feet hopped along
a twig overhead, goggling at the Terran with an appearance of intentness
heightened by the absence of an eyelid. A second free-lance ocular appeared,
peeping from among glassy, needle-shaped leaves. Nearer at hand, another
variety of the local fauna— this one a convoluted three-inch ellipsoid bearing
a remarkable resemblance to an oversized ear—perched in a froomble bush,
pivoting slowly from left to right and back again as if tuning in on a faint
sound in the distance.

"You
boys ought to get together with a nose and form a corporation," Retief
murmured. "You'd be a dynamite vaudeville act."

Both
eyeballs whipped out of sight; the ear jerked and began to crawl hastily down the
stem. A faint footfall sounded from the direction of the nearby alley mouth.
Retief faded back against the bole of the ancient tree and eased his 2mm gun
into his hand. A furtive five-foot figure wrapped in an ankle-length djellaba
emerged into view.