Retief and the PanGalactic Pageant of Pulchritude (3 page)

            "Is
it true," a spindly blue crustacoid from Haik Thirteen demanded in a
momentary lull, "that your Terry females outweigh their mates three to
one, and devour the males immediately after mating?"

            "An
exaggeration," Roy soothed the excited stringer blandly.

            "But
what about this rumor that Terran females are capable of driving you helpless
males right round the bend, merely with a single glance?" Other voices
were stilled, as all present awaited the reply to the Haikan wire service rep's
query.

            "Yeah,
how about it?" reiterated a small, cootielike chap from the Goober
Cluster. Others joined in the clamor until Roy raised both hands in a placating
gesture.

            "Fellows,
fellows," he chided. "One or two at a time,
pleasel
As to
Bumchik's interesting question, ah, as to that, one might almost say, now, I
mustn't be quoted directly, you understand—not that the point has any strategic
significance, of course: some feel—or so it is sometimes said—well, anyway I
can give you a specific 'perhaps' on that one. Now, that's all today, chaps;
kindly disperse if you will, so as to allow His Excellency to disembark."

            "Nice
going, Roy," the Mission Press Officer offered, slapping the PR man's
narrow shoulder as he passed, pushing through the departing throng, his voice
rising above the chorus of disappointed muttering. "That ought to hold 'em
till press time," he added, shying as a passing Reeb spurned the press
hand-out he proffered.

            One
aggrieved reporter turned to confront the Terran flack. "Hows come we
don't get a look at the Terry entry?" he demanded. "All the other
competing powers give us a good look at theirs." He waved a horny
manipulative member, indicating the row of alien craft parked in the designated
Registered Personnel Only area, each surrounded by its complement of groundcrew
besieged by eager journalists, all bathed in the glare of multi-banked polyarcs
punctuated by the flash of actinic photoflares. At the foot of the nearest ramp
could be seen the iridescent form of the Bloovian finalist, a white-feathered
peacock-like being spreading a silvery fan of tail-plumes, each adorned with a
jewel-like blob of color.

            "Wow,
Grossblunder's little number is going to have to go some to beat out that
Bloovian princess," Roy muttered, his remark overheard and repeated by a
number of the jostling departures.

            "Oh,
boy, 'Terry manager predicts his girl will bow to Bloovian'," the Bloovian
video chief composed his headline enthusiastically.

            "Here,
I never said that!" Roy yelled in vain as the report of Terran defeatism
spread at a velocity in excess of that of the propagation of electromagnetic
radiation in a vacuum.

            "What
about that dish from Krako Eight?" somebody yelled. All sense-organ
clusters turned as one to watch as, at the debarking port of the second vessel
in line, a sinuous, jet-black Ophidian with brilliantly polished scales
slithered into view, raising a wedge-shaped head adorned with a golden,
plume-like frill to look imperiously over the lesser mortals below.

            "She's
got that Bloovian babe beat by a country zop," someone commented
reverently. Roy mumbled, not even bothering to practice his 753-D (Politely
Amused Contempt).

            "Never
mind, Roy," Magnan managed to hiss in the harassed press man's ear.
"Remember they haven't seen Terra's entry yet."

            "Where
ever
is
Miss Ripetree?" Roy moaned. "I was assured His
Excellency would introduce her to the press this morning—that's why I came out
here to confront these riff-raff."

            "
'Terry Official Calls Press Corps 'riff-raff'," an agile Groaci scribe
muttered in a stage whisper, into his recorder.

            "I
did
not,
Thif!" Roy objected. "I only—"

            "To
have heard you with my own auditory membranes," Thif countered saucily.
"Oh, boy: 'Terry Official Denies Public Statement'."

            "What
can be keeping Miss Ripetree?" an assistant code clerk wondered aloud.
"She'll put these showy strumpets to shame."

            "Could
be maybe she ain't so hot after all," a wrinkled gray Yill suggested
cynically.

            "
'Showy Strumpets'," Thif recorded dutifully, keeping pace with the little
group of Terrans, while manuvering to remain up-wind to avoid the peculiar
meaty odor of the alien beings.

            Magnan
clutched suddenly at Retief's arm. "Retief! Whatever are we to do? They're
demanding to see Peaches! Miss Ripetree, that is. Wherever could His Excellency
be keeping her?"

            At
that point, Jerry, the supply room clerk, popped up at Magnan's elbow.

            "A
slight hitch, Ben," he whispered loudly. "It seems like nobody told
His Ex Peaches'd hafta show up in the nood. 'No concealing wrappings', is the
way His Groacian Excellency, that little creep Shilth put it."

            "I
heard that!" Thif hissed. "Groacian Ambassador Extraordinary and
Minister Plenipotentiary characterized as 'creep' by Terry spokesman!"

            "I
did
not!"
Magnan snapped. "You can't go picking up every
little casual wisecrack by mere CDT reserve personnel as official Terry policy,
Thif! Gimme a break!"

            "Terry
official dismisses mortal insult as 'wisecrack'," Thif recorded.
"Attempts to disavow barbarity as casual. Demands break!"

            "Worse
and worse," Magnan moaned. "Retief, what can I say to remedy
matters?"

            "You
might try keeping your lip zipped," Retief suggested, "with respect,
Mr. Magnan."

            "Terry
underling tells senior to shut up," Thif put in happily. Retief plucked
the compact recorder-transmitter from the Groaci's fingers, squashed it flat in
his fist, and tossed it into a convenient rubbish receptacle.

            "Flimsy
equipment, Thif," he commented as the Groaci dithered, speechless. "
'Inferior transmitter fails'," he added.

            "Oh,
boy," Jerry gloated, craning for a better view of the debarcation ramp
from the Terran transport.

            "For
once old Shilth has a good idea. A fellow don't often get a chance to see a
classy broad like Peaches strolling around in the sunshine, starkers!"

            "Nor
will you today, Jerry, you leering Thomas!" the resonant tones of
Ambassador Grossblunder boomed out from the exit lock. "Miss Ripetree is
indisposed, alas, and in any case will certainly not display herself in any
immodest fashion. You may as well all move on," he shifted targets to the
crowd of attentive newshawks straggling along toward the next vessel in line
where the iridescently feathered Bloovian princess was being bundled into a
waiting limousine while glare-bulbs flashed.

            "It's
all right, Percy!" a tearful feminine voice was audible in a lull in the
disappointed mutterings. "I'm prepared to sustain Terran honor at whatever
cost." All oculars went at once to the top of the ramp where a shapely
Peaches Ripetree, wrapped in a gossamer negligee, was striking a demurely
provocative pose.

            "Wow!"
Jerry sobbed. "I can't hardly stand the suspense!"

            "
'Terry menial finds prospect of spectacle of un-draped contestant
unendurable'," Thif duly reported.

            "You
misunderstand, Thif!" Magnan protested, not diverting his gaze from the
nearly nude girl. "Jerry only meant—well, the fact is, a dish like that
does
get the old juices flowing!"

            There
was a brief scuffle at the top of the ramp as the dumpy Ambassador Grossblunder
bundled his fragile protégé back inside.

            "Spoilsport!"
Jerry called boldly after the departed Chief of Mission.

            "I
heard that, Jerry," the familiar Grossblunder tones came hollowly from
inside.

            "
'Menial publicly insults Terry Ambassador'," Thif reported. " 'AE and
MP meekly acknowledges insult'."

            Further
deterioration of the Interplanetary situation was abruptly curtailed by the
arrival of the boxy forty-foot-long, gold-plated and jewel-encrusted limousine
of the Glorbian Minister of Culture, representing the host planet of the P.P.P.
The short, lumpy, grayish-yellow driver darted around to open the door for the
descent of the Minister himself, a stubby being scarcely distinguishable from
his driver but for his brocaded toga and ceremonial quirt of office.

            "Why,
hi there, Mr. Minister," Magnan gushed, advancing to greet the local
dignitary who shied violently and lashed out with his quirt, catching the eager
Terran a smart clip across the jaw.

            "Make
way, impudent alien!" the Culture Chief commanded in a voice reminiscent
of boots being withdrawn from deep mud. A second Glorbian, in a somewhat less
ornately embroidered garment, pushed up beside his boss.

            "Here,
you—whatever you are!" he burbled in his glutinous voice—like that of a
fat man who has just won a pie-eating contest. "Make way for his
Excellency Minister Foob! Just who and what are you, fellow?" he demanded
of Magnan who had shrunk back under the vigor of the verbal challenge, and was
delicately fingering the welt across his jaw.

            "Why,
nobody, er, nothing, that is," Magnan cried in an unsuccessful attempt at
a 373j (Insousiance Under Irregular Treatment Hardly Appropriate to Civilized
Beings).

            "Don't
waste that 373 on me, fellow-me-lad!" the Glorbian burbled. "I'm not
impressed. You look like one of those, a, 'Terrors', I believe they're called
in their own barbaric tongue."

            "Terran,"
Magnan corrected. "I have the honor, sir, to be Permanent Secretary to the
Committee for the Pageant. And may I enquire as to your own august identity?
And I don't think it's so barbaric."

            "Mmm,"
the squat alien replied. "I'm Glud, Third Assistant to the Assistant to
the Minister here. Why?"

            "I
simply need to know precisely whose career I am about to terminate when I
report your savage conduct to my Chief," Magnan explained crisply.

            "Your
chief got nothing to do with the operation of Murphy's Law out here on
Glorb!" the Assistant Assistant rejoined spiritedly, while Thif whispered
at length into a new recorder.

            "In
fact," Glud went on, spurred by-Magnan's 27-x (Speechless Indignation at
Uncouth Treatment by Other Ranks) and his own chief's bland indifference to the
exchange, "I gotta good mind to call a cop. Getting tough with a Glorbian
official in performance of his duty and all." The squat A.A. stepped back
up on the running board of the limo to scan the crowd.

            "Yey!
Over here, Yong!" he yelled before emitting a blast like a steam whistle.
There was a stir in the crowd some yards distant; then the fearsome pink and
green visage of the planetary police officer thrust between two dilatory
bystanders. His yellow eyes fell on Magnan.

            "Oh,
it's you again!" he growled. Then, to Glud, "what's the beef, Mr.
Assistant Assistant?"

            "The
impudent creature actually threatened to use influence to blight my career
development if I failed to do as he bade," the little Glorb whimpered.

            "Oh,
yeah, Glud?" Yong commiserated. "And what did he bade?"

            "Bid,"
Glud corrected. "He demanded an interview with His Excellency here, just
come busting up and unbuttons his lip—and without making no appointment through
channels, meaning
me!"
Glud paused to breath heavily and dash a
drop of exudant from one tiny pig-like eye. "And he connerdicted me,
too," he added. "Said Terry talk was
not
barbaric and all!"

            "Geeze,"
Yong muttered, frowning down at Magnan. "Looks like you got yourself in
pretty deep, pal. What you got to do, you got to learn how to talk to these
here bureaucrats like Glud. You don't just say what you mean, like they was
people or something."

            "I
myself am a bureaucrat of many years' standing, Constable!" Magnan
replied, heatedly. "And I assure you I am a people! All I said was, ah,
well, I don't exactly remember what I said, but it was certainly nothing
prejudicial to the dignity of noble bureaucrats!"

            "Say,
Mr. Assistant Assistant," Yong addressed the driver in a confidential
stage whisper. "Why don't we just kinda cool this one, you know, to show
these here foreigners that Glorb bureaucrats has got some class? OK?" He
turned to wink at Magnan, an expression so sinister that the First Secretary's
knees momentarily failed him. Retief caught him and held him upright.

            "Good
thinking, Yong," Retief said. "Mr. Magnan will make a note of it in
his daily Report of Local Atrocities and Other Incidents, I'll bet. That next
promo's coming up soon, eh? No harm in making a few extra points."

            "You
and me could get along, Terry," Yong said heartily, "especially if
you'd put in a word for a fella with that snazzy Gertie, which by the way,
where is she? Ain't seen her since she give me the sprain in my mooby-bone
yonder."