Retief and the Rascals (3 page)

            "I get the idea," Retief cut in.
"Very practical approach."

            "And see," Bam continued, "duh
present-day Good Guys party, udderwise knowed as duh Detestables, inherited
duh, like, mandle o' leadership and all from dem oily Patriots which dey was
on'y cleaning out duh reactionary element and all."

            "A noble genealogy," Retief conceded.
"I take it that's why your present Chief of State is intent on eliminating
all dissident elements in a direct fashion, by burial alive."

            "Sure; dem like free elections Mr.
Ambluster made us hold was a big help. Identified alla Bad Guys voted wrong. We
gotta bury 'em alive where you Terries won't let us nave a few deadly weapons
to kill 'em wid."

            Just then Retief noticed that Magnan, two tables
away, was flapping his napkin while keeping his eyes fixed on Retief. He was
mouthing words as he signaled.

            "Looks like one o' your boys is having a
attact," Bam noted. "See? Dun skinny one at duh V. I. of P.
table."

         "I'd better go
over," Retief said, and did so.

            "Retief!" Magnan burst out in a stage
whisper as Retief came up. "You'd best change seats, at once. Marvin can
just change his chart. There's been—that is, there could be—I fear—the
Ambassador will be furious! We must avert bloodshed at all cost! Quickly,
now!"

            "What's it all about, Ben?" Retief
asked. "You forgot to say."

            "Oh, yes, to be sure," Magnan gobbled.
"No time to waste. It's his Ferocity! He's decided to rush things along by
collecting reparations at once, rather than waiting until he's won the war,
with Terran assistance! Clearly, he has no grasp of the proper protocols in
such matters!"

            As he spoke, Magnan was eyeing the resplendently
robed seven-foot-six Wim Dit, Grand Inquisitor of Bloor, who, arriving late,
had spilled a number of top-ranking Terry diplomats from their chairs so as to
take one to the position of honor at the head of the table, on which he had
dropped a freshly-killed three-pound ulsio, a hairless, muskratlike animal
which had been kept as a pet by Wes Spradley, the Econ Officer, who was
hovering nearby, complaining in a diplomatic yell.

            "The Honorable Wim Dit is upset by Wes's
attempt to protect his protégé," Magnan explained.

            Called me a 'big, ugly ape', Wim mourned,
cuffing aside Marvin Lacklustre as the young fellow attempted to soothe him.

            "Now all youse fancy-pants can clear outa
my way, and pack alla eats down here where I don't hafta reach none!" Wim
ordered.

            "Magnan!" the treble voice of His
Excellency the Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary of Terra
squeaked, directly behind Magnan, causing him to leap and look around wildly,
failing to notice the stubby A.E. and M.P. standing so close to him.

            "I thought I heard the Ambassador!"
Magnan yelped, his gaze passing above the short, plump Chief of Mission.
"Where
is
the little devil? I mean," he amended as he
belatedly noticed his boss wringing his hands in Distress, Deep, Ceremonial
Occasions, for use on (1072-C). "I mean," he improvised, "Yes,
indeedy, Mr. Ambassador, how can I be of service?"

            "I
heard
that, Ben!" Swinepearl
squeaked. " 'Little devil', you said. I'm not too little to write an ER on
you, sir, that will freeze your career like the Riss glaciation! 'What can you
do?' you inquire! It is precisely to answer such questions that the Corps had
dispatched you here as my Chief of Political Section! So, what are you going to
do about it?"

            "About what, sir?" Magnan croaked.
"I see His Ferocity laying about him with that dreadful great sword,
almost nicked at Sitzfleisch with that one— good thing Nat's been limbering up
in the gym lately, and—"

            "Never mind that, Ben!" Swinepearl's
shrill voice cut through Magnan's chatter. "Take the necessary action! At
once!"

            "Sure, sir," Magnan rattled. "But
you forgot to say what the necessary action is, sir."

            "As you know, Ben," His Ex stated
stonily, "it is not my policy to meddle in the internal workings of my
Sections, by issuing excessively detailed instructions. This outrage must cease
at once, before some of the opposition dignitaries I've coaxed here revert to
type and reply in kind to Wim's truculence! So get cracking!" Magnan
nodded and went over to stand beside Retief.

            "Well, Retief," he addressed the
younger man, "this is it, I guess. His Ex demands I
do
something! I
may as well bite on the bullet at once!" Attempting to appear
inconspicuous to Lord Dit, Magnan stepped on determinedly toward the slightly
less burly Bloorian Prime Minister, Gad Buy, also Commander in Chief and Cub
Scout leader.

            "We've had some high times, Retief,"
Magnan stated over his shoulder. "Who'd've thought it would end like
this?" Retief overtook Magnan just as a late-arriving guest hooked a chair
out with his foot, causing the slender Econ chief to trip and fall heavily into
the lap of His Ferocity, who rose, grabbing Magnan by his neck and the seat of
his purple pants and raising him overhead.

            "Mum Dug," the immense Bloorian
addressed the Minister of Staff seated beside him. "You seen dis here
ruffian assault me wid yer own eyes!"

            "You got me wrong, Chief," Mum
objected stoutly. "I di'n't let duh sucker use
my
eyes to jump yuh
wit! I'm true blue, Boss, yuh know dat!"

            "Don't tell me what I know!" the Grand
Inquisitor bellowed, "If I di'n't have dis here Terry on my hands,
I'd—"

            "My dear Mr. Grand Inquisitor."
Ambassador Swinepearl's mellow tenor spoke up before the rising hubbub made
communication impossible. "I must insist: put Ben Magnan down at
once!" His Excellency the Terran A.E. and M.P. sat down with a defiant
thump!,
ignoring the fact that His Ferocity had failed to respond to his command.
The background murmur was taking on an ugly note, punctuated with cries of
"Get Terry!" and "T'row the rascals out!"

            "Dear me," Magnan bleated from his
position above Wim's lumpy head. "I
do
hope nothing is going to
happen to spoil our nice beginning!"

            Retief came up to the Grand Inquisitor, who
loomed two feet above him. He poked the behemoth in his armored ribs. "Put
him down, gently," he ordered. The giant looked down with an expression of
wonderment.

            "Who you telling to 'put him down'?"
he inquired. "Yuh want to get squashed, liddle feller?" He rubbed the
spot Retief had jabbed. "Got a broke rib," he moaned.

            "Not yet," Retief replied. "I
just want you to put Mr. Magnan down, very carefully, and not in the not
soup."

         Wim scowled and made no
move.

            Retief looked up at Magnan's expression of
Urgent Appeal (a masterful 3-b) and said, "Get set, Ben; there might be a
slight jolt." With that, he drove a pile-driver left hook to the same spot
he had poked earlier. It felt like socking a stuffed crocodile, he noticed. He
felt the costals collapse, and Wim dropped Magnan, who landed nimbly on his
feet on the linen, missing the big tureen almost completely, while Wim uttered
a howl like a gutted dire-beast. He collapsed into his ornate chair, and made
an attempt to shove Retief into the one hastily vacated by Mum Dug, whom Retief
threw under the table, before sitting in his chair.

            "Dis midget done hitten me!" Wim
grieved loudly, staring around at his loyal Vile Party colleagues, all of whom
were shifting uneasily in their chairs and making threatening gestures at the
nearest Terry, but making no move to attack—yet.

            "Youse mugs gonna set and let him get away
wid socking yer boss inna gut?" the Grand Inquisitor yelled.

            "Shut up," Retief told him curtly.
Magnan, on all fours on the table, was
shush!
ing
him frantically.
"Retief!" he hissed, "you must remember to whom it is you're
addressing!"

            "Yuh got yer syntax scrambled, Ben,"
Wim grunted "Dis ain't no time to lapse into like
incomprehensibiliry!"

            "Sure not," Magnan gobbled.
"Retief didn't mean, I mean, it was just a slip, and if, in your
magnanimity, that of a great leader, you'd overlook it just this once, why, I'm
sure posterity would honor you!"

            Skip all that," Wim cut in on Magnan's
babbling. He fixed his ocher eyes on Retief. "As fer yuh, Shorty," he
growled, drawing from his foot-wide tump-hide belt a frog-sticker that would
have made Jim Bowie blush with shame, "Try dat again and I'll cut yer heart
out!" A hush had fallen. All eyes were fixed on the huge knife in Wim's
fist. Swinepearl moaned and slid from his chair in a faint.

            "Really?" Retief replied in a tone of
Deep Interest, Synthetic (1045-c). He took a needle-pointed dagger from its
sheath on the side of his boot and put its point under Wim's clifflike chin.

            "And just how do you plan to cut my heart
out before I can slit your dirty neck?" he asked harshly, noting from the
comer of his eye that the Ambassador had been helped back into his chair.

            "Retief!" Swinepearl's yell cut
through a rising clamor, which fell abruptly back to dead silence.

            "Don't do it, my boy!" His Ex choked.
"Not after I've secured His Ferocity's agreement to accept a
twenty-five-million-guck no-strings grant from GFU, the first great triumph of
my assignment. Ben, dissuade him, and your temporary appointment as Counselor of
Embassy for GFU Affairs is confirmed tomorrow morning! My word on it!"

            "Retief!" Magnan gasped, attempting to
shrug off the grip of a large ward-boss who had, in defense of his boss, taken
a grip on the First Secretary's slender neck.

            Retief switched targets, and prodded the boss's
arm with the stiletto. The arm at once withdrew, letting Magnan's face fall
perilously close to the
consommé.

           
"Get up, Ben," Retief
suggested. "Climb down here beside me, and watch for knives."

        Magnan made gulping noises
and complied.

            "Now," Retief addressed Wim. "You
take your gang and march out of here and back to your kennels. We'll send some
Peace Enforcers around in the morning to round up the ringleaders."

            "You hurted my favorite rib," Wim
complained. He fingered his hurtie and winced, miming the agony occasioned by
the injury. "OK, Dug," he barked. Get dese slobs shaped up and don't
fergit duh doggie-bags." He emphasized the suggestion with a blow to Mum
Dug's jaw that would have knocked the ascending ramus off an ox's mandible. Mum
gave him a resentful glance and set off, yelling commands.

            "Drat!" Swinepearl carped, casting a
regretful glance at the departing silverware, including the Dig platinum
serving tureens, which the enterprising locals had scooped up in bags
improvised from the heavy linen tablecloths. "My moment of triumph has
turned into a fiasco! As for you, Hy," he switched targets to the
excitable TIA rep, "not a word of this in the media, do you
understand!"

            "Sure, Chief." Hy nodded in agreement.
"But how am I gonna stop the local yellow press from reporting how Ben
Magnan roughed up the local Chief of Government, huh?"

            "That, Mr. Felix," His Ex responded
coldly, "is precisely the challenge to meet which the Agency has
dispatched you here for! As for you, Ben, I'm surprised at you! From my seat,
some six feet distant, I clearly heard the
whap!
when you actually
assaulted an honored guest!" He gave Magnan a final glare and sat down to
a final buzz of Huzza! and Well said, sir." Retief put away his dagger and
threw Wim's larger blade into a handy waste receptacle. His Ferocity settled
back in his chair and looked around threateningly.

            "Whom, I, sir?" Magnan gobbled,
struggling to restore normal respiration. "But you said, that is, I
understood His Excellency to suggest that I put an end to the provocation
occasioned by His Ferocity's intransigence! No offense, sir," he added,
with a glance at Wim, who frowned.

            "I never said about that
'intransigents'," the Ambassador exclaimed. "Anyways, knock off the
Cheyne-Stokes breathing and get this mess cleaned up in time for the Award
ceremonies, which I'm postponing 'em to nine A.M. tomorrow morning!" He
threw himself back into his chair, brushing aside the attempts of his loyal
staff to commiserate with him in his moment of trial.

            Magnan turned to Retief. "Well, you've done
it this time, Jim," he stated in Tones of Doom (3-c). "How'll we ever
get 'em back together in time for the Awards?" He looked appealingly at
Wim, who was glowering as he fingered the pricked spot under his jaw, where a
drop of purple blood was forming.

            "Maybe we ought to reconsider the Awards,
Retief suggested. "Spending the Terran taxpayers' money to give solid
silver potties to local hoodlums might not
be
in the best interest of Galactic Peace after all."