Retief and the Rascals (6 page)

            "Indeed it is!" Magnan agreed as he
looked around carefully for the first time, noting the OFF LIMITS
signs on the nearest wall. "The
scamps have been smuggling illicit skins under our very noses!" he yelped.
"Maybe we'd better leave the same way we came in." He turned to the
shattered door where a seven-foot Abominable was wrestling with an eight-foot
Reprehensible for possession of a ten-inch Bowie knife. "Or perhaps
not," he amended quickly. "But there's no other way out except the
triple-locked Security gate!"

            Retief shoved the battling pair back out the
doorless doorway and pushed a bale of colorful hides in position to block it.

            "I guess it's the gate, then," Retief
concluded cheerfully. "Let's go."

            Trailed by Magnan, Retief made his way along the
crooked aisle into the reeking, lightless depths of the cavernous room to a steel-barred
partition half-covered with placards warning, in three local languages plus
Terran and Groaci, of the dire consequences of meddling therewith. Retief
selected an inch-thick vertical bar and, bracing a foot against the lower
horizontal member and pushing up on the upper one, he yanked the bar from the
sockets.

            "Retief!" Magnan yipped. "One
mustn't! That's tested to Level Four; it can't be breached without a hydraulic
press!"

            "Local contractors!" Retief remarked.
"Flimsy construction." Magnan peered closely at the forge-mark on the
badly bent bar.

            "Category One Flint-steel!" he yelped.
"Retief! No force less than that of a hundred-ton hydraulic jack would
twist
this
into a pretzel!"

            "Well, not exactly a pretzel, Ben,"
Retief protested. "More of a french fry."

            "In any case," Magnan went on,
"I'd best go through first, being the slimmer." Magnan turned
sideways and slipped through the gap left by the removal of the bar. Just as he
was smoothing his lapels, a hand the size of a deep-sea grapple clamped on his
shoulder, lifted him, and rotated him to face a shiny, blue, huge-fanged
Unforgettable, who lowered a jaw like a dragline bucket and said, "Hah!
Thought youse could pull a fast one on Blarp Show, eh, which I'm pulling duh
duty dis week. I guess you gotta get up earlier'n dis here to do a sneak past
me!"

           
"Let me go, Mister Show!"
Magnan bleated. "We were only—!

            "Skip all that," Blarp snapped.
"I got no time fer no apologies an' all." He jumped as Retief seized
the biceps of the arm holding Magnan. Show dropped Magnan, and, rubbing his arm
aggrievedly, said, "Say, when I tell Mr. Ambluster about this here
atrocity youse boys done on me and duh whole clan, he'll fix yer wagon!"

            "It ain't broke, bub," a deep voice
spoke up behind Blarp. "Dis here's my pal Retief," the newcomer went
on addressing the sullen Blarp. "Which he taken my best buffet widout even
blinking. He's OK wit me!"

            "Mr. Grand Inquisitor!" Magnan
blurted. "What are
you
—? I mean, doubtless you learned of the crime
being carried out here—"

            "Thanks, Wim," Retief said at the same
moment that his left hook impacted on Blarp's solar plexus, causing him to fold
like three deuces and sprawl on the floor.

            "Retief," Wim growled, "youse
Terries shun't of come back here—it's off limits to ever'body but genuine
Unforgettable."

            "Why, it's our very own bonded
warehouse," Magnan sniffed. "Besides, I'm practically Counselor of
Embassy for GFU Affairs, so I guess that gives
me
entree—and Retief is
my second-in-command!"

            "Youse guessed wrong, Cul," Blarp
informed him, still wheezing. "Anyways, what's that 'Gee-eff-you'?"

            "That is an acronym for the Goodies For
Undesirables program," Magnan informed him. "An organization which
was created to bestow largess on Those Less Fortunate Than Ourselves. And I
might point out that the charter, embracing as it does all undesirables,
undoubtedly includes
all
the inhabitants of
Bloor, of
whatever
persuasion. So you, personally, will get in on the goodies—if you make a
favorable impression on the administrator thereof, specifically, myself,
Counselor Ben Magnan, CDTO-2!"

            "Jeez!" Blarp muttered. "If I
woulda knowed, I woulda stepped in sooner, before old Smig Bash lock' the lift
an all! Now I guess it'll be maybe a coupla decades before somebody finds yer
mummified remains, yer withered arms still reaching troo duh bars fer duh grub
which it's just outa reach. Sad. Sorry about that, Retief."

            "Don't waste it, Blarp," Retief said.
"We're not staying. Do you happen to know who owns all the furs?"

            "Sure," Blarp Show supplied eagerly.
"They're His Ferocity's here. Taken 'em in a raid on Repulsive HQ last
week. Had alla new handguns he bought and snuck in from Boge wid duh fun's
youse Terries give him fer uplifting the deserving rabble and all. Gunned down
the Repulsives easy ana taken two year's catch. Kinda stinks, at dat."
Blarp snorted. "We gotta move the merchandise quick or it'll onney be good
for the rag-and-bone trade. But it's OK; we got space booked on duh
Tree
Planet
in here today."

            "Why, that's the very carrier that's
bringing the Semi-Annual Requisition supplies!" Magnan gasped. "Can
it be—?"

            "Old Cap'n Sloont bitched a little at
first," Wim acknowledged, "when we esplain to him he gotta cancel the
return cargo o' local chow fer the refugees you Terries set up over on Plunch
V, which they're homesick fer Down Home eats. But he come around soon's he
thought about how much better a million guck cash was dan gettin' drownded inna
municipal cesspool and all," the arrogant fellow explained blandly.

            "Imagine!" Magnan mourned. "A
cargo of illicit flink hides smuggled out aboard an official CDT—and GFU—mercy
ship! The media—Jim, we mustn't let Hy get hold of this one!"

            "What'll you give me, Ben?" Wim
demanded. "Iffen I don't hold a press conference?"

            "You
wouldn't!"
Magnan gasped.
"A hundred guck, cash!" he offered in desperation.

            Wim grinned, a dreadful display of well-rotted
teeth. "Don't kid me, Ben," he urged. "Dis is big-time. Try me
wid fifty thou."

            "Do you realize, Mr. Grand
Inquisitor," Magnan came back, "that fifty thousand guck represents a
large multiple of the annual salary of a dedicated public servant such as
myself?"

            "Naw, youse don't get it, Ben," Wim
protested. "I di'n't mean guck; I mean hard currency: Bloorian flugs—fifty
guck to a flug, legal rate. Black market's twict dat—a hunnert to one onna
street! Youse got to have flug to deal inna market here on Bloor. Dat's duh
onney place in Tip Space a fella can buy a coal-black blue-eyed blonde
non-mutated-hardly Terry wench, or get his mitts on a planet-wrecker bomb.
Fifty t'ousan' flug is letting youse off easy. When His Ex gets the word, Terry
diplomat-hide'll drop below flink-skin! Think it over—fer about six
milliseconds— I gotta split!"

            "Done!" Magnan bleated. "Fifty
thousand flug it is, you scoundrel! Heaven knows where I'll get it, but I shall
come up with it—somehow!"

            As Magnan was negotiating with Wim Dit, Retief,
noticing mat Smig Bash was creeping up behind Blarp Show, moved along to the
end of the steel-bar partition, where the horizontal members were socketed in
concrete. He put a foot on the lower bar and pushed up on the upper one, which
groaned and popped free of its socket. The heavy grille fell inward, pinning
Wim to the concrete floor. Retief stepped up on the confining grating and
strolled over to look down at the trapped Unforgettable. Magnan hurried over to
gloat.

            Ah, there you are," he greeted the fallen
extortionist. "By the way, old chum, I hear Hy Felix is after your hide.
That hot poop you sold him last week about the kickbacks on the commissary
items kicked back on its own. It appears Undersecretary Longspoon was the
financier of the scheme, and he's exiled on Iceberg Twelve now, writing his
memoirs. Hy was furious at buying stale news."

            "Keep him away from me, Retief!" Wim
begged. "I heard when Hy gets out duh skinning knives he means business!
Duh guy got no restraint! Whattaya say, chum? Tell Hy I shipped out fer
Nauseous territory, over North Continent, OK? Doing a little bull-devil
hunding. Out inna swamp fer weeks at a time and nuttin to eat but sperlt
meat-hawk. He'd hate it out dere. Just tell him to fergit he ever seen me.
Sorry about duh bad dope, Ben, but it was stoled in good faith! I'll get back
to dat Abominable sucker dat I got it from!"

            "That's neither here nor there, I'm sure,
Mister Grand Inquisitor," Magnan contributed. "The point is, after
all, Wim, is that you yourself seem to be in charge of the monumental cache of
contraband! What have you to say to that? And after His Ex has favored you with
admission into his inner circle of trusted confidants, too!"

            "Ain't my fault Sam Swinepearl got no
judgment," Wim carped. "Anyways, I onney come down here inna vault to
do a like recce: feared some slickers from duh Nasty Party was plotting to,
like, hijack duh load. Hark!" Wim paused dramatically at a sharp p
ing!
from
the darkness behind the fallen grating. "Hey!" he stage-whispered.
"I heard a sharp
ping!
over duh freight lift! I bet dem sneaky
mudders is tryna hot-wire it!" He threshed under the weight of the wrought
ironwork. "Hurry up, Ben! Tell Retief to get offa my chest where I can get
some air! Let's
get
dem miscreants!"

            " 'Miscreants'?" Magnan gasped.
"Are
they
involved too?"

            "Calmly, Ben," Retief soothed. His
Ferocity will no doubt deal with the situation; you may rest easy."

            " 'Rest easy,' duh guy says," Wim
snarled, "and me wit tree hunnert kilos o' ironwork laying on my lunch,
which it wasn't too good at dat! Bean soup! No wonder duh PM brung a
lunch!"

            "I shall ignore your ill-considered remarks
anent Terran cuisine, Mister Grand Inquisitor," Magnan told the
unfortunate official, "inasmuch as you are under a certain, shall we say
'pressure', at the moment, and not fully responsible." He turned to
Retief.
"Noblesse oblige,
Jim, in its purest form. No harm in
making a few points with the scamp in case we find the footgear on the other
pedal extremity at some time."

            "Masterful, sir," Retief applauded his
chief's ploy. "Should we go all the way and let him up?"

            "Not just yet," Magnan counseled.
"First I want to see for myself just who else is invading the sacrosanct
precincts of the bonded warehouse. Come." He walked across the grille,
eliciting groans from the careless fellows lying pinned under it. From the deep
shadow ahead, a voice spoke urgently:

        "Shake a leg, Foor
Pool! I got a hunch—"

            Magnan waved Retief back. "We'll wait here
and eavesdrop," he decreed. "That sounded to me like that two-faced
chap from the ministry, Jum Derk! And he was talking to Foor Pool, the Deputy
for Nefarious Affairs, I shouldn't wonder. I shall have a word to say to the
Minister, you may be sure. Imagine! Even as I negotiate the final details of
the grant, they plot to steal our gifts, and to smuggle the stolen goods out on
our very own mercy ship! It's vile, do you hear?"

            "Sure, I hear, Ben," a voice came from
the darkness. "But it ain't no Vile; it's us Horrids, and a coupla Nasties
as hired hands, like Wim said."

        "Have you no
shame?" Magnan retorted.

        "Had a Shameful
fella onna staff, but hadda let him go," Pool's voice came back sadly from
the shadows. "Guy was tryna rope us loyal Unbearables into some kinda
intraclan rumble! How low can youse get? We get a nice little coalition working
here, tryna build it up, say where we can take over and get alla loot fer
ourselfs, and dis bum woulda busted it wide open. If we was to jump some o' the
Viles, say, in our bunch, alla resta dat moiety would bolted duh coalition. And
den trieda set up some kinda bootleg alliance on der own, to do us outa duh
goods." The tirade concluded with a hearty
smack!
as of a fist against
gristle. "Lay off, Smad Bell!" Foor snapped. "Inna dark, you hit
me,
accidentally!"

            "Hey, Mister Depitty!" an aggrieved
voice protested. "Whassa idea?
I
got no beef with duh coalition!
I'm true Puce! It was old Smelly here making duh cracks!"

            "Shut up, youse idiots!" Pool hissed.
"If we don' wanna get nabbed inna ack, we better woik fast and
quiet!"

            "Oh, yeah?" Jum spoke up spiritedly.
"Who elected
you
boss?" Scarce had his voice fallen silent
when another hearty
smack!
sounded, followed by others, until, in a few
seconds, a full-scale riot was in progress in the darkness all around. Retief
felt his way to the service panel and switched on the dim glare-strip,
revealing half a dozen Bloorians of varied shades, tattoos, and badges flailing
at each other indiscriminately. Two were already
hors de combat;
the
relatively short, squat Minister of Nefarious Affairs, who was crawling on all
fours directly toward Magnan, who halted, arranged an expression of Righteous
Outrage (74-a) on his narrow features and exclaimed: