Retief and the PanGalactic Pageant of Pulchritude (16 page)

"Ignarp,"
Retief called softly. The newcomer jumped and emitted a sharp yelp.

"Galloping
gastropods!" he hissed. "You nearly scared me out of my
epidermis!" He advanced another step to peer closely at Retief with three
large, watery eyes not unlike those concealed in the foliage above.

"Aren't
you the Terry I did the big favor for this afternoon?" he queried.
"Frankly, all you foreigners look alike to me."

"An
accusation I can't level against you, Ignarp," Retief said. "Didn't
you have four eyes and a purple hide this afternoon?"

"Yeah;
I stopped by my place for a shower and change." Ignarp gave his rattling
sigh. "I didn't know it was going to be such a rough evening. What are you
doing out in the streets? The rallying cry of the mob is 'Get Terry.' "

"It does
seem the incidence of violence is escalating since the peace talks have been
under way. Any idea why?"

"We got
a few ideas—but maybe it's not time to spill 'em." "Who's 'we'?"

"I
guess it won't hurt to tell you; I'm a member of an undercover organization
known as the Goody Redistribution Action Bunch. But why pump me? I'm just an
average citizen, trying to get along—"

"Don't
kid me, Ignarp. Conditions have changed since this afternoon. They got
Magnan."

"Why,
the lousy, sneaky, double-crossing—"

"Don't
take it so hard; you can still earn a nice fee. Just tell me who hired you and
why."

"Well—that
sounds like a gracious offer. But let's get out of sight. I've got the feeling
unfriendly eyes are upon us."

"After
you, Ignarp."

"Come
on," he said. "The Stake and Kidney's a discreet bistro, if not too
clean. All the regulars will be out rioting, so we'll have a modicum of
privacy."

The local
led the way past the shuttered fronts of darkened shops to the heavy door,
rapped a complicated tattoo, shifting from one of his six large feet to another
and casting worried glances along the avenue until the door rattled and swung
inward with a lugubrious creak. An undersized cranium adorned with an odd
assortment of sensory organs poked out at belt level to look the callers up and
down.

"For
Greep's sake, Fudsot, let us in before the City Guard sees us," Ignarp
hissed. "This Terry's got diplomatic immunity, but those dupes of the
power structure would like nothing better than to rearrange my internal
components along more conventional lines."

Grumbling,
the landlord ushered them down three crooked steps into a long, low-ceilinged
room smelling of fried zintx patties and sour wine. He locked the door behind
them, and indicated a five-legged table in the corner.

"Too
conspicuous," Ignarp demurred. "How about the back room?"

"That'll
run you an extra five xots."

"Five
xots? You're as bad as the entrenched exploiters!"

"Except
they'd charge you ten—and then report you. Pay up or get out, you and your
offworld chum. It's all the same to me."

"OK.
OK. The Bunch will get around to you, you tool of the establishment!"
Ignarp extracted a small-mouthed purse from beneath his voluminous robes and
handed over a triangular coin of green plastic. Fudsot subjected it to close
examination under what seemed to be an olfactory organ before using a six-inch
key to unlock the small door at the back.

"It's
all yours, gents," he grunted. "For the next half hour, anyways.
After that it'll cost you another five xots."

"Bring
us wine," Ignarp ordered as he dusted off a three-legged stool.

"Sure.
Four xots for a quarter-zub o' the house brew. Six xots for bottled-in-bond.
And I can give you a special deal on some aged Pepsi; I happened to get aholt
of a small consignment through a special contact down south. Five xots the
flask, uncut."

"Smuggler,"
Ignarp snapped. "Profiteer! Robber! We'll take the Pepsi—in sealed
bottles, mind you!"

"Sure—whatta
you think I am, one o' these chiselers?"

Ignarp
waited in glowering silence until the landlord had delivered the refreshments
and withdrawn.

"That's
what we're up against," he said gloomily. "You'd think Fudsot would
be a loyal supporter of the movement— but no, he's out for the fast xot!"

"What's
this movement all about?" Retief asked.

"I
should think it was obvious," Ignarp said sharply. "Even a foreigner
can see that the entire planet's in the grip of an elite corps of self-serving
reactionaries!"

"Curious,"
Retief said, puffing a Chanel dope stick alight. "I had the impression that
anarchy was complete. In fact, that's why we Terries are here—"

"I know
all about your so-called Peace Commission, Retief. You Terries and those
main-chance Groaci are all spinning your wheels. Sure, we fight a lot—we have
ever since the dawn of recorded history, six years ago. And even before, if the
old tribal legends mean anything. And that's jake—except lately it's taken a
nasty turn. The old system of you break my back, I'll break yours, is falling
apart!"

"Uh—huh."
Retief sampled his drink. "And where does your Bunch come into the
picture?"

"We've
formed a third force to combat the special privilege groups. Of course, we're
just getting started—only thirteen members at present—but we won't stop until
the gross inequities of the system have been corrected!"

"You
intend to divide up the wealth, an equal share for everyone?"

"You
think we're out of our brainpans? We'll keep a loot for ourselves,
naturally!"

"That's
your idea of an equitable arrangement?" Retief inquired mildly.

"Of
couse not!" Ignarp looked puzzled. "It's just simple, old-fashioned
greed, the noblest of emotions."

"Sounds
like a highly realistic program," Retief said. "And what about the
rest of the population?"

"We're
planning on selling them into slavery, naturally. And say—maybe you Terries
would like a slice of the action!"

"What
makes you think so?"

"Well—aside
from the fact that the mob is out to get both of us—I've heard you Terries get
your jollies out of taking things away from the original owners and handing
them over to new management. I could never figure out why, but we members of
GRAB are perfectly willing to get in on the redistribution."

"That's
a fair assessment of our foreign-aid policy, Ignarp; but sometimes it's a
little difficult to determine who the deserving parties are."

"Simple
enough: Possession is prima facie evidence of moral leprosy; have-nots are pure
in heart by definition."

"But if
we hand the planet over to you fellows, then you'll be the haves—"

"That's
different," Ignarp stated crisply. "Now, when can we expect the first
consignment of guns, tanks, bombers, zip guns, poisoned bodkins and the
rest?"

"Well,
there may be a few administrative delays, Ignarp. Even a bureaucrat as
dedicated to the spread of enlightenment as Ambassador Pouncetrifle may have
some difficulty picturing a baker's dozen of malcontents as the authentic
inheritors of the mantle of planetary dictatorship."

"I had
an idea you might try to stall," Ignarp said accusingly.
"Fortunately, we have a telling ideological point in reserve." He
leaned toward Retief confidentially. "The situation," he stated
solemnly, "has a very nasty—are. you ready?—racial angle."

"Tell
me about it."

"You
don't sound very excited," Ignarp said in tones reflecting disappointment.
"I heard all a fellow had to do was mention the word and you Terries
automatically started writing checks."

"A mild
exaggeration. In any event, the syndrome hardly applies to Lumbaga. You fellows
don't have any races."

"Hey,
what kind of a crack is that?"

"I've
noticed," Retief said, "that the eyeballs and lower lips hopping
around in the underbrush don't look much different from the ones you and your
fellow citizens employ in your daily activities—"

"Now,
hold it right there, Retief! I don't like the turn the conversation's
taking—"

"In
fact," Retief went on unperturbed, "it seems that the higher forms of
Lumbagan life are all evolved from the lower forms by combination—"

"Don't
come preaching your godless evolutionary doctrines around here!" Ignarp
snapped.

"Don't
worry, I'm just making it up as I go along," Retief said soothingly.
"If my theory is correct, you, for example, represent the end product of a
whole series of combinations—"

"Let's
not get personal, Terry!"

"Just
getting a few facts straight, Ignarp, no offense intended. Tell me, how old are
you?"

"That's
none of your blasted business, Retief!"

"I
thought you wanted Terran backing in your scheme to take over the world."

"Yeah,
that's right, but—"

"Then
it's my business."

"Well
... I don't know exactly," Ignarp muttered. "But the best theories
give a figure around a quarter of a million. That's average, of course. After
all, by the time you go back a couple of centuries, things get kind of
vague." The Lumbagan looked embarrassed, as attested by the purplish tinge
mounting his wattles.

"I
think I understand," Retief said. "When a Lumbagan has a bad heart or
a broken arm, he trades the injured member in on a new one. In time, he's
completely replaced. Is that it?"

"That
covers most of it," Ignarp said hastily. "Now, back to practical
politics—"

"So in
effect, a Lumbagan never dies. The question is, how does he get started?"

"Gripes,
Retief, is nothing sacred to you foreigners?"

"My
interest is purely scientific, Ignarp."

"This
racy conversation gets me all stirred up," the local said. "However,
I guess it's all for the cause. You've got it right as it goes, but there's a
few points you missed. Like the fact that the Singletons—you know, the
free-living eyeballs and pituitary glands and the like—can only get together in
bunches of up to ten. An ear might team up with a tentacle for mutual security,
you know, and then later add on an esophagus—strictly by instinct, natch. Not
all these teams work out, of course. Evolutionary dead ends, you might say.
They break up again, no hard feelings, and maybe later the different parts join
another accretion. In the end, after a few million years, you get quite a large
number of working accretions swinging through the jungle or creeping around in
the underbrush, as happy as clams. So OK. A tenner Singleton can't add any more
free units—but what can happen is that two Singletons can link up to form a
Dubb. Got it?"

"I'm
trying, Ignarp. Pray continue."

"Right.
Now, that's not the end of the trail. Two well-established Dubbs can get
together, and make up a Trip. Now, a Trip's a pretty complicated life-form;
most of 'em don't work out, but with up to forty basic units to play around
with, you can come up with some pretty successful combos. But Trips are a lot
rarer than Dubbs, naturally."

"Naturally.
And I suppose two congenial Trips can join forces, to continue the
process?"

"Right!
And when that happens, you get a Quad." Ignarp looked at Retief
expectantly.

"And
two Quads can combine to make a still more complicated creature?"

"Huh?
Where'd you get an obscene idea like that!" Ignarp looked shocked, an
effect achieved by rotating his eyeballs rapidly. "A four-decker is the
ultimate product of evolution—a Lumbagan—like me!"

"I
won't say it's clear, Ignarp, but it's not quite as opaque as it was. But you
still haven't explained why you Further-onians spend so much time disassembling
each other—or just how you decide who's against whom."

"That's
where the racial angle comes in. Now it's perfectly natural and wholesome when
everybody is out to get everybody else; but when discrimination rears its ugly
head— that's different. And even that wouldn't bother me," Ignarp added,
"except I happen to be a member of the persecuted minority."

"A
minority usually implies at least two people with a few characteristics in
common," Retief pointed out. "Since every Lumbagan is unique—"

"Except
my kind," Ignarp said gloomily. "Somehow, due to a component nobody's
isolated yet, we've got something nobody else has got."

"A
disability?"

"Heck,
no, Retief! They'd forgive us that! We're vastly superior, that's what gravels
'em! Just a hint of our special skill, and the witch-hunt is on!"

"And
just what is this trait that gives you the advantage—"

"Aha!
That's our big secret! You see—"

There was a
sudden sound of disturbance in the outer room: a dull clatter, a yelp, a thump
that rattled the cups on the table. Something crashed against the door hard
enough to splinter wood.

"I
might have known," Ignarp cried, leaping up. "Sold out by the vested
interests!"