Retief and the PanGalactic Pageant of Pulchritude (28 page)

"Give
me a leg up, Gloot," Retief said.

"Anything
for you, pal," the local said dubiously, grasping his shin firmly.
"But are you sure you can use it?"

"On
second thought, just a boost will do," Retief amended. Gloot offered
linked hands as a stirrup; Retief went up the pipe. The roof was deserted but
for the silent copter squatting inside a yellow-painted circle. He leaned back
to lend a hand to Magnan, then to Gloot. Together they crossed to the trapdoor.
It opened soundlessly. Steep steps led down into deep gloom.

"I
dunno," Gloot said, looking dubiously down into the dark recess below.
"What if it's booby-trapped? What if they're waiting down there with
skinning knives? What if the whole thing is a fancy scheme to feed fresh spares
into the black market? What if—"

"If so,
it's working perfectly," Retief said, and started down the steps. At the
bottom, he used his pocket flash to quickly check the room; it was empty but
for stacked crates and cartons bearing stenciled markings.

"Electronic
gear," Retief said. "And surgical supplies."

"Here's
one labeled
Acme Theatrical Services
," Magnan whispered.
"Curious; I never suspected the Groaci had an interest in amateur
dramatics."

"I
suspect they may have entered the field at a professional level," Retief
said.

The
storeroom opened into a narrow, dimly lit passage. Faint murmurings sounded
from behind a door along the way. Retief went to it, put his ear against the
panel:

". . .
to have come within an ace of discovery!" hissed a breathy Groaci voice.
"To make all haste now—"

"The
inadvisability of rushing the cadence!" another voice replied. "To
not louse up the triumphant culmination of my researches!"

"Yes,
yes, to get on with it. To have a tight schedule." A muted humming sound
started up; a faint odor of ozone filtered past the closed door. "Sounds
like an illegal transmitter," Retief said. "What's illegal about a
transmitter?" Gloot demanded. "Let's find out." Retief turned
the doorknob silently, eased the door open an inch. Two Groaci, one in
bile-green shorts and orange and violet argyles, the other in a stained white
laboratory smock, and holding a clipboard, stood before a wide panel with a
puce crackle finish thickly set with dials, switches, oscilloscope tubes, and
blinking indicator lights. One side of the room was given over to stacked cages
in which eyeballs, kidneys, adenoids, and other forms of Lumbagan wildlife
perched disconsolately on twigs or moped glumly in corners amid scattered
straw.

". . .
the completion of preliminary testing," the technician was whispering,
"to be ready now to conduct field trials of limited range, after which, on
to the final stage in the fulfilment of selfless Groaci objectives with all
deliberate haste!"

"To
spare me the propaganda," the other snapped. "To have read the
official handouts. To now tellingly demonstrate the effectiveness of the device
without further procrastination."

"The
eagerness with which I confirm the accuracy of my theoretical predictions,"
the white-smocked Groaci hissed sharply. "To anticipate the prompt
material gratitude of our government."

"To
deliver the goods in accordance with specs, or to promptly adorn the Wall of
Hooks as an example to other boasters!" the other whispered harshly.

The
technician wiggled his oculars in expression of righteous fury courteously
restrained, and turned to the control panel, began setting dials in a
complicated sequence, referring frequently to the clipboard.

"Haste,
haste," the other Groaci muttered. "To not procrastinate in the eye
of the metaphorical cannon—or is it the mouth of the needle?"

"To be
unfamiliar with Terry saws," the white-smocked alien hissed, continuing
with the check list. The observer watched for a moment in sour silence; then:
"Pah!" he burst out. "To reject out of hand this transparent
hoax! To perceive that you stall the proceedings in order to extort even more
golden promises of future emoluments!"

"To
commit a wrong of vast proportions, thus to accuse me!" the technician
cried. "To underestimate the insidious subtlety of the mechanism—"

"To
have penetrated your deception—and to remind you of the redundance of mere
technical personnel after completion of their function!"

"The
inadvisability of threats to my person! My indispensability to the
scheme—"

"Is at
an end! To point out that even a cretinous underling is fully capable of
closing a switch!" The Groaci stepped forward and before the other could intercept
him, pushed the largest button on the panel.

With a
hoarse bellow, Gloot plunged past Retief into the room. The two Groaci whirled,
uttered shrill yelps and dived in opposite directions. The small creatures in
their cages had gone into a flurry of activity, Retief noted peripherally,
hurling themselves against the wire mesh as if frantic to come to grips with
their neighbors. The momentum of Gloot's charge carried him full tilt against
the button-studded console. Lights flashed; harsh buzzings sounded, ending in a
crackle of arcing electricity. Gloot staggered back and sat down hard. The lab
animals subsided as abruptly as they had leaped into motion. Retief jumped
forward in time to nab the technician as he dithered, unsure which way to run.
A door slammed at the back of the room.

"Retief!
What in the world . . . ?" Magnan quavered, peering into the room.

"Oh
boy," Gloot muttered, fingering his head with all three hands as he sat
weaving in the middle of the room. "Oh boy oh boy oh boy. . . ."

"Would
you care to amplify that remark?" Retief said, holding the struggling
Groaci.

"I
guess I blew it, huh?" the Lumbagan said blurrily. "I don't know what
come over me, Retief. It was like festival time and spring rites and the fall
offensive all hit me at once! All of a sudden I was raring to go! Too bad that
Terry got away, I would have liked to field-strip the little rascal, just to
see what color juice ran out of him." He eyed Retief's prisoner wistfully.
"The fit's passed—but I still got kind of a lingering urge to pull that
Terry apart, one skinny leg at a time."

"I
thought you Lumbagans saved all your hostilities for each other, with none left
over for tourists," Retief said.

"Yeah—me
too. But somehow, all of a sudden it was open season on Terries. Funny, huh? I
never been nuts about 'em, but this is the first time I appreciated to the full
what a really swell sensation it would be to rip 'em to shreds—"

Far away, an
alarm bell clanged harshly.

"Now
are you undone, abominable intruders," the Groaci hissed. "In moments
my well-trained bullies will fall upon you, your misshapen members to
distribute over the immediate landscape!"

"Retief,
we have to get out of here at once!" Magnan yelped. "If a platoon of
peacekeepers should get their nasty little digits on us . . . !"

"Yeah,
let's blow," Gloot agreed. "Me and cops never did get on too good
together."

Retief
released the Groaci, who at once darted for cover behind the nearest rank of
cages. The hall was empty; a lone peacekeeper appeared at the far end of the
corridor and set up a weak shout as they dashed for the storeroom. Inside,
Retief and Gloot paused long enough to stack half a dozen crates against the
door before ascending to the roof. Magnan was at the parapet, staring down into
the darkness.

"Trapped!"
he hissed. "Retief—the grounds are swarming with them! And—" he
uttered a stifled exclamation. "Retief! Look!"

In the gloom
below, Retief could discern the forms of several dozen armed troops in flaring
helmets, polished greaves, and spined hip-cloaks moving efficiently out to
surround the building.

"Retief!
What does it mean? This laboratory, hidden in the wilds; that insane monster
farm, and that horrible little Nith—and his obscure experiments—and now Groaci
troops secretly garrisoned in the boondocks!"

"It
means we know enough now for a preliminary report. If you'll give Ambassador
Pouncetrifle the details of what we've learned—"

"But—Retief—what
have we learned?"

"That
the Groaci have worked out a method of controlling Lumbagan evolution, plus a
method of selectively stimulating the natives' natural love of
hostilities."

"But—whatever
for?"

"You'd
better get going now, Mr. Magnan; I seem to hear the sounds of a posse pounding
on the door down below."

"Get
going? You sp-speak as though I we-were expected to descend alone into that
lion's den!"

"Not
descend; ascend. The copter is a standard Groaci export model—"

"Yes,
but—but I don't have my driver's license with me!"

A loud
thumping sounded from below as the stacked cases toppled. Gloot slammed the
trap door and stood on it.

"Better
hurry, Mr. Magnan," Retief said. "Head due west, and stay clear of
the peaks."

Magnan made
vague sounds of protest, but scrambled awkwardly into the copter. He pressed
the starter; the rotors turned, spun quickly up to speed.

"It
seems a trifle irresponsible, dashing off and leaving you here alone,
Retief," he said, and winced as thunderous pounding shook the trapdoor.

"I hope
them Terries don't take a notion to send a few rounds of explosive slugs through
this hatch," Gloot said, struggling for balance as it heaved under him.

"—but
as you point out, duty calls," Magnan added quickly, and with a hasty
wave, lifted off into the night.

"I
don't get it," Gloot said as the sound of the machine faded. "You
said Ambassador Pouncetrifle? I thought he was the head Terry."

"I
think it's time for me to clear up a slight misapprehension you've been
laboring under, Gloot," Retief said. "Those aren't actually Terries
down there; they're Groaci."

"Huh?
But they look just like what's-his-face, Nith, only bigger!"

"Correct.
That's because Nith is a Groaci, too."

"But if
he's a Groaci—then what about whozis—the one that just ran out on us?"

"Mr.
Magnan," Retief confided, "is actually a Terry."

"Aha! I
should have known! Talk about masters of disguise! Pretty slick, the way you
got rid of him. ..." Gloot paused reflectively. "But—if they're
Groaci down there, how come we don't just open up, and shake hands all
around?"

"They
think I'm a Terry."

"Oh,
boy, that complicates things. How come you don't tell 'em who you really are,
and—"

"Undercoyer
operation."

"Oh, I
get it. Or do I?" Gloot said vaguely. "But I guess I can worry about
that later, after we get out of this mess. What nifty trick are you going to
pull out of the hat now? Frankly, if I didn't have lots of confidence in you,
Retief, I'd be getting worried about now."

"I
think you may as well go ahead and worry, Gloot," Retief said. "On
this occasion, I'm fresh out of hats."

"You
mean . . . ?" At the words, the hatch gave a tremendous lurch, sending the
Lumbagan staggering. It flew open, and a Groaci warrior bounded forth, power
gun aimed, his fellows crowding out behind him.

"He
means, nocuous encroacher, that now indeed is your fate upon you!" the
white-jacketed Groaci technician hissed, thrusting forward.

"How
about it, Retief," Gloot said from the corner of his mouth. "We could
jump 'em—but what I say is, why give 'em the fun of blowing us into
sausage?"

"Wait!"
a piercing, yet curiously timbreless voice called from the rear. The Groaci
soldiery fell back, came to rigid attention. In the sudden silence, the
technician ducked his head servilely, stepping aside as an impressive figure
wrapped in a black cloak with a twist of gold braid adorning the stiff collar
strode forward. Typically Groacian except for his near six-foot height, the
newcomer stared Retief up and down, ignoring Gloot.

"So,
impetuous Terry," he rasped in a voice surprisingly vigorous for a Groaci.
"We meet at last."

"Swarmmaster
Ussh, I presume?" Retief said. "Your Ultimateness has led us an
interesting chase."

"And
one pursued to your indescribable sorrow," Ussh grated.

"I
agree it's saddening to see so much effort wasted," Retief agreed.
"Yours, I mean—not ours."

"Wasted
effort is for lesser creatures, Terran!" Ussh waggled his oculars in token
of amusement. "For all the diligence of your prying, you have failed,
naturally, to correctly assess the full scope of my genius."

"Possibly,"
Retief said. "But I think you've failed to correctly assess CDT policy on
sensitive issues like genocide, slavery, and vivisection—"

"Pah—what
care I for a gaggle of diplomats? I happen to be the forerunner of a superrace,
to whom ordinary values have no application!"

"I've
seen your experimental monster farm," Retief said. "The woods seemed
to be full of unsuccessful experiments in forced evolution—"