Retief and the Rascals (7 page)

            "Why, Mr. Minister! Whatever are you doing,
prowling here in an off-limits area, in the company of this riffraff?"
Magnan indicated with a wave the four smugglers still on their feet, who had
apparently forgotten their differences, and were standing in a ragged line
gaping at the Terrans. Wim Dit, slightly the worse for wear, was front and
center.

            "Hey, Boss," the smallest of the
group, only a seven-footer, addressed his chief, who was now pounding his
gnarled ear with the heel of his hand. "I hadda idear dis was s'pose to be
a confidential caper," the little fellow carped, "which when we snuck
in via duh secret tunnel from duh kitchen an all, we had it made: but it looks
like a Terry convention, wid, uh, about two of 'em watching us swipe duh
stuff!"

            "I
tole Jum
to play it cute,"
Pool protested, "but no, he hadda start settling old scores right inna
middle o' duh biggest haul since we made off with Mister Ambluster's personal
landing-craft, which duh whole tape liberry was dat wheezy organ stuff!"

            "Sorry, Foor," Jum offered. "But
when dat Inexcusable weisenheimer tryda crack wise about us Viles being cozy
with duh Horrids and all, I guess I los' my head some. Din't mean to clobber
yuh inna ear dat way, sir."

            Pool came to his feet in a lunge to confront the
cowering Jum.
"You
was the one done dat, Derk?" he yelled.
"I m gonna be hearing duh birdies singing in dat ear fer a fortnight, I
trow!" With that, he felled the hapless offender. When the next man in
line protested, Foor clobbered him, too, then stood glaring at his two
remaining conspirators.

            "Anybody elst?" he yelled. "Come
on, youse slobs are s'pose to be duh toughest hit-guys inna guild! You gonna
stan dere and take it?" Then, after a momentary pause, "Nobody got
nutting to say, hah?"

            "Allow me," Retief suggested, and as
Foor turned, surprise writ large on his battered countenance, Retief modified
that assemblage of unattractive features with a roundhouse swing which sent the
loud-mouthed leader skidding, face-first, back among the baled hides. Wim
dithered, complaining faintly.

            "Hey! You Terries are s'pose to be
pantywaists and all! Who figgered
you
to do anything reasonable inna
circumstances, which us downtrod locals are onney expressing our, like,
legitimate grievances and all? Just wait'll I tell Sam Swinepearl about dis
here atrocity, which you pounded old Foor's favorite nostril flat an bent his
jaw right outa line, where he'll be hard put to chew his mummified ulsio at duh
big celebration tonight!"

            The mourner approached his fallen chief and
quickly checked the pockets of his greasy overalls, netting a shabby wallet and
a well-bitten gold sprug. The others still on their feet said "Dibs"
in unison, then closed in. After the division of spoils, together they assisted
the semi-conscious Foor to his large, flat feet. He pushed them away.
"Lemme be," he growled. "I never seen dem udder tree guys!"
He turned to peer suspiciously into the shadows.

            "Where're dey at?" he demanded.
"Jess feed 'em to me one at a time, where I can get a good swing!"

            Retief tapped him on the shoulder. "Did I
hear your fellow genetic deficiency say he'd be chatting with the Terran AE and
MP?" he inquired.

            "Retief!" Magnan protested. "I'm
sure it was a mere figure of speech! You can't imagine that His Excellency is
in league with these—" He paused as all mob-members still functioning
turned to glare at him.

            "Yes, Ben?" Foor prompted. "Youse
was about to characterize I and my boys as ... what?"

            "Misguided entrepreneurs," Magnan
supplied. "Led astray by bad companions, poor fellows. See here, we're all
reasonable beings, so what say we just let bygones be bygones: you leave here
now, quietly, and promise not to violate the Embassy stores again soon, and
I'll tell His Ex security is as tight as a belly-button tick!"

            "Dat ain't what His Ex said, when we made
duh deal—I mean arrangements—fer duh like informal distribution of duh loot—I
mean duh relief supplies an' all," one of the only slightly cowed thieves
complained without enthusiasm. "He tole us—"

            "One moment!" Magnan interrupted.
"Are you alleging that Career Ambassador Samson Swinepearl entered into
some sort of agreement with you fellows to loot the warehouse with
impunity?"

            "Naw, Old Impunity's out," Foor
corrected. "Got likkered up and fell and broke his mooby-bone. An' he
never alleged it, he just said it."

            "Retief," Magnan said in an aside to
his colleague, "something must be done about these bootleg translators
that are flooding the market and imparting grossly fallacious concepts of
grammar, syntax, and diction to these poor, unenlightened scholars, yearning as
they are for higher education. Why, this fellow doesn't even know the meaning
of the simple verb 'allege'."

            "Do, too," the lanky illiterate
snapped. "Lissen:
'n.
l. a horizontal, shelflike projection on a
building or a cliff.' Dat's right outa duh Webber Dickanary, Ben."

        "I didn't say 'a
ledge', you ninny, I said 'allege'!"

            "Sure. Dats a, like, horizontal, shelflike
projection on a cliff or a building, jess like I said, Ben," the stubborn
fellow persisted.

            "No," Magnan came back stubbornly.
" 'Al-lege', not 'a ledge'! Can't you grasp the distinction?"

            "Ain't none," the scholar dismissed
the matter. "Anyways, last time I was chinning wid old Swiney, he says:
'now, Pool, my boy'—he calls me his 'boy'—"

            "I must protest!" Magnan cut him off,
" 'Old Swiney' is hardly a proper mode of reference to the Terran
Ambluster by a mere ... mere—"

        " 'Thief',"
Retief suggested.

            Magnan recoiled, "Jim! Not where they can
hear
you!" He showed the crestfallen thief an improvised We Must Make
Allowances for Gaffes Committed By the Young (1075-w), which the ungrateful
fellow dismissed with a shrug—a passable 27-1, Magnan noted
en passant
—at
the same time wondering briefly who had tutored the scamp in the subtleties of
Nullspeak.

            "I insist," Magnan resumed haranguing
Foor Pool, "on knowing just what it is you allege His Ex said to
you!"

            "I'm tryna tell you, Ben," the saucy
fellow protested. "Every time I get to duh pernt, youse butt in wit some
irrelevant crack about us high-class Nasties or like that!"

            "Whom, I?" Magnan squeaked. "I'm
quite sure I've made no mention of the Nasty Party—'

            " 'Clan'," the argumentative local
corrected sharply. "Dat's duh trouble (one of 'em, anyways) wit' you
foreign devils: can't keep stuff straight, like a feller's got his basic racial
identity to defen, his clan loyalty, his moiety alignment, an' o' course his
union membership. Not to say nuttin about duh various civic clubs, sports
organizations an' like dat he collects along duh line. An you got to remember a
guy's close clan pals might be in a declared war (or maybe undeclared) wit' his
buddies inna union and all. A dumb guy dat don't lissen could get mix up. Then
he's gonna make hisself some deadly enemies, get onna wrong side in duh fracas
and all."

            "As a Terran diplomat," Magnan brayed,
"I, and my assistant Mr. Retief as well, am above all such petty
allegiances as well as their concomitant hostilities! So just get back to what
Old Swiney had to say. Just a second while I activate my corder." He
twitched his lapel and said,
"Et, Tvo, Tre, Fyra,"
which
boomed out deafeningly through the echoing godown. He made a hasty adjustment,
and tried again, then touched the translator button, and the device said,
"Uno,
dos, tres, cuatro"

           
"Drat!" Magnan muttered, and
adjusted again. This time the device said,
"Yit, blit, yot, zlot,"
before lapsing into a sullen silence. "Go ahead!" Magnan
commanded Pool. "Bother the record!"

            "Sure, Ben," his surly confidant
agreed. "All he said was about upping his cut and all. Greedy fellow, Sam.
An' duh mug had duh noive to ask, nay, demand, a slice of duh local action,
too!"

            "Are you implying, Foor," Magnan put
it precisely, "that His Ex himself has condoned, or even participated in,
the nefarious activities of the criminal element here on Bloor?"

            "Naw, nuttin' fancy," Pool refuted the
suggestion. "He onney wants his fair cut o' duh take, in return fer not
siccin' no Terry cops on us nor nuttin'. 'Cept fer duh local constabulary, o'
courst, which him and dat weasel Bam Slang got togedduh and set up a bunch cops
to try to tell us local riffraff how to run our own rackets! Course, along wit
duh coppers we got to have duh lawyers, and even some judges. Tough to fin'
anybody unprinciple' enough to take on dem jobs, but I guess somebody hadda do
it, or we'd be fallin' behind duh Galactic Norm and all, which no
self-despising citizen would opt fer dat, so now we got Terry legal eagles come
in here to Bloor City setting up in business, to compete wit' our own
native-bred shysters! It's bad, Ben. What's dat bunch just rended duh old jail
for law offices? Something about 'Tupp, Futter and Swive, P.A.' Dem boys is
tryna take duh trade right outa duh hands of duh local ambulance-chasers, which
I guess dey got enough on dere plate witout dey gotta watch a bunch Terry
bloodsuckers, too!"

            "I shall look into the matter at once, Mr.
Pool," Magnan reassured the outraged local. "And just a tip: when you
have recourse to Tupp
et al.,
ask to see Old Mr. Roger."

            "Tanks, Ben; I guess I'm gonna need some
counsel what wid you catchin' I an' my boys red-handed pullin' a heist right
here inna Embassy godown."

            "Perhaps," Magnan purred. I could
overlook your presence here if a safe conduct back to the Chancery could be
arranged."

            "To wait just
one
moment!" a
breathy voice cut in from a deep alcove between ranked bales. "To be
unable to credit my auditory membranes, Ben!" the Groaci voice went on
relentlessly. "You, of all people, to be openly attempting to suborn this
miscreant from the clear path of duty, to the discredit of all members of the
diplomatic community here on Bloor."

            "Hardly 'openly'," Magnan protested.
"I'm way down here in the sub-basement, an area, I might point out, not
open to intrusion by foreign diplomatic personnel!"

            "A low blow, Ben!" Ambassador Shinth
of the Groaci Embassy charged. "After the amicable, nay, cordial relations
you and I have established over the decades, it's hardly a friendly gesture to
consign me now to the category of a mere 'foreign diplomat', with only the
emoluments of that unfavored status. Why, there's plenty here for all! I have
contacts in the Cluster which will absorb the greater part of the flink-hide
exports, to say nothing of the constant requirement for sturdy terroid
breeding-stock for serfs in areas under Groacian hegemony! You may continue to
handle procurement; I shall guarantee prompt and profitable— highly
profitable—marketing! The scrawny alien diplomat emerged into the dim greenish
light afforded by the glare strip.

            Suddenly the light became brighter: the emergency
glow patches automatically activated by the presence of too many bodies in the
forbidden area.

            "The glow patches!" Magnan yelped.
"They've activated!"

            "And a good thing, too," Shinth
hissed. "In total darkness, we'd have little chance of restraining your
suspects from slipping away to the emergency escape route via the concealed
hatch in the southwest corner."

            "You don't understand!" Magnan wailed.
"The automatics have doubtless set off the alarm in the Chancery, the
Residence, and the Marine barracks. His Ex and Sergeant Muldoon, too, will be
upon us in the instant. We'll be caught red-handed! What are we to do?"

            "Let's just explain, Ben," Shinth
proposed. "That we were alert enough to detect the presence of
interlopers, and have laid the rascals by the heels."

            "That's OK for Jim and me," Magnan
replied. "But what about
you?
What is the Groaci AE and MP doing
here at this hour?"

            "An appointment, Ben," Shinth replied
urbanely, executing a little jig to glance at the timepiece strapped to his left
knee. "The rascal is late, as usual."

            "What rascal is that, Mr. Ambassador?"
Magnan asked eagerly.

            Shinth waved the query away. "Ben! I'm
surprised at you! Attempting to snoop in Groacian Embassy affairs!"

        "Yes, but—"
Magnan offered.

            Retief took a firm grip on Shinth's skinny neck.
"Inasmuch as the Groaci Embassy is conducting its affairs on Terry
property," he suggested, "I think the question is a legitimate one.
Spill it, Mr. Ambassador."

            "It's Miss Meuhl, Sammy's secretary,"
Shinth squeaked. "The Usually Reliable Source you've doubtless seen cited
in my dispatches you've sneaked a look at."