Retief at Large (13 page)

            "Magnan?
Why, he's one of my most reliable men!"

            "Perhaps
something could be managed in the case of Mr. Magnan, since you express an
interest. As for the other—he will return to Groac to stand trial for assorted
crimes against the peace and dignity of the Groacian state."

            "I
really must protest—" Barnshingle said weakly.

            "Your
Excellency's loyalty is most touching. And now, if you'd just care to sign
here." An underling handed Fiss a document which he passed to Barnshingle.

            "Why,
the old phoney!" Miss Braswell gasped. "He's going to do it!"

            "It's
time to break this up," Retief whispered to Oo-Plif. "I'll take care
of Fiss; you hit the others."

            "On
contrary, Retief-Tic," the Yalcan replied.

            "Most
improper to interfere with natural course of events."

            "Maybe
you don't understand; Barnshingle's about to sign away your rights to Yale. By
the time you drag it through the courts and recover, you may all be dead. The
Groaci are zealous in the field of wildlife control."

            "No
matter. We Yalcans pacifistic folk. Not like butt in," Oo-Plif said
quietly.

            "In
that case, I'll have to do it alone. You'll take care of Miss Braswell—"

            "No,
not even alone, dear Retief-Tic. Not in spirit of Yalcan Pacifism."
Something hard prodded Retief's chest; he looked down at the power gun in
Oo-Plif's lower right hand.

            "Why,
you old stinker," Miss Braswell said. "And I thought you were
sweet!"

            "Hope
soon to recoup good opinion, Braswell-Ticcim," Oo-Plif said. "Now
silence, please."

            In
the room, Barnshingle and Fiss were making congratulatory noises at each other.

            "Matter
of fact," Barnshingle said, "I never felt these Yalcans were ready
for self-government. I'm sure your wardship will be just what they need."

            "Please—no
meddling in internal affairs," Fiss said. "And now let us away to
more appropriate surroundings. Just wait until you see the view from your new
suite, Mr. Ambassador ..." They departed, chattering.

            "Well,
you've had your way, Oo-Plif," Retief said. "Your pacifism has a
curiously spotty quality. Just why do you object to preventing our unfortunate
Minister from making an idiot of himself?"

            "Forgive
use of weapon, Retief-Tic. Foolishness of Barnshingle Tic-Tic-Tic not
important."

            "He's
a three-tic man now?"

            "Promotion
just received at hands of Five-eyes. Now away to bog, all buddies together,
eh?"

            "Where's
the rest of Barnshingle's staff? They were together on the crater-viewing
expedition?"

            "All
tucked away in house few alleys from here. Better get wiggle on now. Climax of
festival arrive soon."

            "Good
night, does your silly old carnival mean more to you than your own
planet?" Miss Braswell demanded.

            "Voom
festival of great national importance," Oo-Plif stated, opening and
closing his bony mandibles like the two halves of a clam—a mannerism indicating
polite amusement.

            Following
the Yalcan's instructions, Retief squeezed through narrow passages, found his
way out into the inevitable dark alley, Miss Braswell's hand holding tightly to
his. The sounds of looters and their vehicles had diminished to near-silence
now. A turbine growled along a nearby street, going away. They came out into a
side street, surveyed the deserted pavement, the scattered discards of the
Groaci homesteaders. Above the low roof-lines, the mile-distant towers of the
shrine were a blaze of gorgeous light.

            "It
looks so pretty, all lit up," Miss Braswell said. "I'm just amazed
that you'd let those nasty little Groaci walk in and take it all away from
you."

            Oo-Plif
laughed, a sound like sand in a bearing. "Towers tributes to deities. Fate
of towers in deities' hands now."

            "Hmmmph.
They could have used a little help from you," Miss Braswell sniffed.

            "Looks
like the new owners have cleared out for now," Retief said. "All over
at the towers, throwing a party in honor of Independence Day."

            "Time
go to dandy hot bog," Oo-Plif said. "Big event soon now."

            Moving
briskly along the empty street under the light of the fourth moon, now high in
the sky, they reached the corner. Down the wider cross-avenue, the flaring
torches of the revelers at the bog sparkled cheerfully. The faint sound of
Yalcan voices raised in song were audible in the stillness.

            "Just
what is this big event we're hurrying to make?" Retief enquired.

            Oo-Plif
indicated the large satellite overhead. "When number four moon reach
position ten degrees west of zenith—Voom!"

            "Oh,
astrological symbolism."

            "Not
know big word. Only one time every ninety-four years standard all four moon
line up. When this happen—Voom!"

            "Voom,"
Retief said. "Just what does the word signify?"

            "Fine
old Yalcan word," Oo-Pliff said. "Terry equivalent ... ummm ..."

            "Probably
untranslatable." Oo-Plif snapped the fingers of his upper left hand.
"I remember," he said. "Mean 'earthquake'!" Retief stopped
dead. "You did say—'earthquake'?"

            "Correct,
Retief-Tic."

            Retief's
left fist slammed out in a jack-hammer punch to the Yalcan's midriff plates.
The tall creature ooffed, coiled into a ball, all four legs scrabbling, the
four arms groping wildly.

            "Sorry,
pal," Retief muttered, catching up the power gun. "No time to
argue." He grabbed Miss Braswell's hand and started off at a dead run down
the deserted street toward the towering castle of light.

            They
skidded to a halt at a gleam from an opening door ahead. A pipe stem-legged
Groaci hurried from a building, a bulging sack over one knobby shoulder. A
second helmeted looter trotted behind, lugging a handsome ten-gallon spittoon.

            "They've
got a heli," Retief said softly. "We need it. Wait here."

            Miss
Braswell clutched his hand even tighter. "I'm scared!"

            The
two scavengers were clambering into their dark machine now. Running lights
sprang into diamond brilliance. Turbos whirred. Retief disengaged his hand, ran
across the thirty feet of open pavement and jumped, just as the heli lifted.
There were faint, confused cries from the startled Groaci. One fumbled out a
power rifle in time for Retief to jerk it from his grasp, toss it over the
side. The heli canted wildly, narrowly missing a decorated cornice. Retief got
a grip on a bony neck, propelled the owner over the side, heard a faint yelp as
he hit. An instant later, the second followed. Retief caught the controls,
brought the heli around in a tight turn, dropped it in beside Miss Braswell.

            "Oh!
I was afraid it was you that fell overboard, Mr. Retief!" She scrambled up
beside him, lent a hand to tumble the gaboon out to smash thunderously on the
tiles. On a nearby roof, the two dispossessed Groaci keened softly, like lost
kittens. The heli jumped off, lifted swiftly past them and headed for the glass
towers.

            The
city of glass spread over forty acres, a crystalline fantasy of towers,
minarets, fragile balconies suspended over space, diaphanous fretwork, airy
walkways spun like spiderwebs between slim spires ablaze with jewel-colored
light. Retief brought the heli in high, settled in a stomach-lifting swoop
toward the tallest of the towers.

            "Miss
Braswell, you can operate this thing, can't you?"

            "Sure,
I'm a good driver, but—"

            Retief
threw the drive into autohover three feet above a tiny terrace clinging to the
spire. "Wait here. I'll be back as soon as I can. If anybody else shows
up, get out of here fast and head for the bog!"

            "The
... the bog?"

            "It's
the safest place around when the quake hits!" He was over the side, across
the five-foot wide shelf of water-clear glass, and through an opening arched
with intertwined glass vines hung with sparkling scarlet and purple berries. A
narrow stair wound down, debouching into a round chamber walled with
transparent murals depicting gardens in the sun. Through the glass, lighted
windows in the next tower were visible, and beyond, the silhouettes of half a
dozen Groaci and a tall, paunchy Terrestrial.

            Retief
found more stairs, leaped down them, whirled through an archway of trellised
glass flowers. A narrow crystal ribbon arched across the void to the lighted
entry opposite. He pulled off his shoes, crossed the bridge in five quick
steps.

            Voices
were audible above, and dark shadows moved on the pebble-glass ceiling. Retief
went up, caught a brief glimpse of five richly draped Groaci under an ornate
chandelier, fingering elaborate Yalcan wine glasses and clustering about the
stooping, chinless figure of Minister Barnshingle.

            "—pleasure
to deal with realists like yourselves," the diplomat was saying.
"Pity about the natives, of course, but as you pointed out, a little
discipline—"

            Retief
knocked two Groaci spinning, caught Barnshingle by the arm, slopping his drink
over the crimson cuff of his mess jacket.

            "We've
got to go—fast, Mr. Minister! Explanations later!"

            Fiss
hissed orders; two Groaci darted away and another rushed in to be stiff-armed.
Barnshingle choked, spluttered, jerked free. His face had turned an
unflattering shade of purple.

            "What's
the meaning of this outburst?"

            "Sorry,
Mr. Minister." Retief rammed a clean right cross to Barnshingle's jaw,
caught the diplomat as he folded, stooped to hoist the weight to his shoulders,
and ran for the door.

            Suddenly
Groaci were everywhere. Two bounced aside from Retief's rush; another ducked,
swung a power gun up, fired just as Fiss leaped in and knocked his hand aside.

            "To
endanger the bloated one," he hissed—and went over backwards as Retief
slammed him aside. A helmeted Groaci Peace-keeper tackled Retief from behind;
he paused to kick him across the room, bowling over others. A blaster bolt
rubbled glass above his head. The air hissed with weak Groaci shouts as Retief
plunged down stairs. Behind him, there was a terrific crash; over his shoulder
he caught a glimpse of glass chips showering from a fallen chandelier. He was
at the bridge now; Barnshingle groaned and flapped his arms feebly. Retief
stepped onto the narrow span, felt it sway under his weight. He took two steps,
put a foot over the edge, teetered—

            There
was a crystalline tinkle, and a ten-foot spear of canary-yellow glass fell past
him. He caught his balance, took another step, wobbled as the bridge quivered,
leaped clear as the glass shattered into ten thousand glittering shards that
sparkled as they fell.

            He
went up stairs three at a time. A sudden lurch threw him against the wall,
where mosaic glass figures depicted glass blowers at work. A huge chunk of the
scene fell backwards, letting in a gust of cool night air. Retief scrambled for
footing, went up, felt a glass slab drop from underfoot as he gained the
terrace. Wind beat down from the heli, hovering a few yards distant. The
sparkling tower mat had loomed nearby was gone. A sustained crashing, as of
nearby surf, drowned the heli's turbos.