Retief at Large (24 page)

            Two
lesser priests stepped forward to hang assorted ornaments on Retief's shoulders
and neck. Another taking up a position before him, intoned a repetitious chant.
Somewhere, drums commenced a slow tattoo. A murmur passed over the crowd
packing the slopes of the ziggurat and the plaza below. Standing at ease,
apparently ignoring his surroundings, Retief noted a two-foot wide trough cut
in the stone platform at his feet, deepening and slanting down as it ran to the
abrupt drop-off ten yards distant. An acolyte was busy pouring oil into the
hollow and spreading it with swipes of his hands.

            "Just
what does this phase of the ceremonial involve?" Straphanger inquired in a
tone of synthetic diplomatic interest.

            "Waid
and zee," Ai-Poppy-Googy said shortly.

            "Mr.
Ambassador," Magnan whispered hoarsely. "His hands are chained!"

            "Part
of the ceremony, no doubt."

            "And
that groove," Magnan went on. "It runs from Retief right over to the
edge ... just above that horrible ig-bay outh-may."

            "Yes,
yes, you needn't play the part of a tourist guide, Magnan. By the way,"
Straphanger lowered his voice, "you didn't happen to bring along a hip
flask, I suppose?"

            "Why,
no, Mr. Ambassador. I have a nice antiviral nasal spray, if that would help.
But about that chute—"

            "Warm,
isn't it, Your Arrogance?" Straphanger turned to the Bishop. "A bit
dry, too."

            "You
ton'd lige our Hoogan weather?" the Bishop asked in an ominous tone.

            "No,
no, it's fine. I love it when it's nice and hot and dry."

            "Ah,
Your Arrogance," Magnan spoke up. "Just what is it you have in mind
doing with Retief?"

            "Iz
kreat honor," the Bishop said.

            "I'm
sure we're all delighted at this opportunity for one of our group to get an
inside view of the Hoogan religious philosophy," Straphanger said sharply.
"Now kindly sit down and stop that infernal chattering," he added
behind his hand.

            The
Bishop was speaking quickly in Hoogan; the attendant priests urged Retief
forward a step, grasped his arms and deftly placed him face-down in the oiled
channel. The rattle of the drums rose to a crescendo. Flabby Hoogan hands
shoved Retief forward down the steepening slope.

            "Mr.
Ambassador!" Magnan's voice rose to a shrill bleat. "I do believe
they're feeding him to that monster!"

            "Nonsense,
Magnan!" Straphanger's suety voice countered. "It's all symbolic, I'm
sure. And I might point out that you're hardly conducting yourself like a
seasoned diplomat."

            "Stop!"
Retief, sliding rapidly toward the edge, heard Magnan's yelp and the scuffle of
rapid footsteps.

            There
was a wet splat! and bony elbows slammed against him. He twisted, caught a
glimpse of Magnan's white face, open mouth and clutching hands as together they
shot over the edge and out in a graceful arc toward the waiting jaws of
Uk-Ruppa-Tooty.

           
Keep
your arms and legs tucked in,
Jackspurt had said; Retief had time to
grit his teeth—then he was hurtling past the tombstone-sized fangs, Magnan's
hands still clutching his legs. They dropped down into a blast of searing heat
and light, then suddenly, stunningly, they slammed against and through a
yielding, shredding network of filaments as fine as spiderwebs. Retief came to
a stop, rebounded, caught at a heavier cable that brushed his hand, and was
clinging to a coarse rope ladder, Magnan's weight dangling from his heels.

            "Bullseye!"
a tiny voice screeched almost in his ear. "Now let's get out of here fast,
before they dope out what happened!"

            Retief
found a foothold in the snarl of rope, reached down and hauled the rag-limp
second secretary to his side. The heat from below was scorching, even here in
the shelter of a bulge in the god's throat.

            "Wha-what-bu-bu—"
Magnan babbled, groping for a handhold.

            "Hurry
up, Retief!" Jackspurt urged. "Up here by the tonsils! It's a secret
passage!"

            Retief
assisted Magnan in scrambling up. He boosted him into the narrow, circular
burrow that ran back through the solid metal. The Spism in the lead, they moved
hurriedly away from the sound of priestly voices raised in puzzled inquiry,
reached a set of cramped steps leading down.

            "We're
okay now," Jackspurt said. "Take a breather, and then we'll go down
and meet the boys."

            Later
they were in a cavern floored with rough masonry, and lit by a burning wick
afloat in a shallow bowl of aromatic oil. All around, twitching Spism
eye-stalks stared at the intruders; the close-packed red goblin-forms of
Jackspurt and his clan moved restlessly, like giant fiddler crabs on some
subterranean beach. Behind them, tall, pale-blue cousins poised on yard-long
legs, watched from shadowy corners. In niches and crannies in the walls, tiny
green Spisms and sluggish orange forms with white spots clung, gazing. Dark
purple Spisms, dangling from the ceiling like tumorous stalactites, waved their
free legs hypnotically, studying the scene.

            Magnan's
fingers dug into Retief's arm. "G-great heavens, Retief!" he gasped
out. "You—you don't suppose we've died and that my Aunt Minerva was right
all along?"

            "Mr.
Retief, meet the boys," Jackspurt clambered up to perch on a ledge
overlooking the gathering. "A lot of them are pretty shy, but they're a
good-natured bunch, always a thousand laughs. When they heard you was in
trouble, they all joined in to help out."

            "Tell
them Mr. Magnan and I said thanks," Retief said. "It was an
experience we wouldn't have missed. Right, Mr. Magnan?"

            "I'd
certainly never miss it," Magnan swallowed audibly. "H-how is it you
can talk to these hobgoblins, Retief?" he hissed. "You haven't ... ah
... made some sort of pact with the powers of darkness, I trust?"

            "Hey,
Retief," Jackspurt said. "Your friend got some kind of race prejudice
or something?"

            "Heavens,
no," Magnan said in a strangled voice. "Some of my best friends are
fiends—I mean, in our profession, one meets—"

            "Mr.
Magnan is just a little confused," Retief put in. "He didn't expect
to be playing such an active role in today's events."

            Speaking
of active, we better get you gents back to the surface fast," Jackspurt
said. "The pumps will be starting up any minute now."

            "Where
are you going when the fumigation begins?"

            "We
got an escape route mapped out through the sewers that ought to bring us out in
the clear a couple miles from town. We're just hoping the Hoog don't have the
outfall staked out."

            "Where
are these smoke pumps located?" Retief asked.

            "Up
above—in Uk-Ruppa-Tooty's belly."

            "Who's
manning them?"

            "A
couple of priests. Why?"

            "How
do we get there from here?"

            "Well,
there's a couple passages—but we better not waste any time sight-seeing."

            "Retief,
are you out of your mind?" Magnan blurted. "If the priests see us,
our goose will be cooked, along with the rest of our anatomies!"

            "We'll
try to make it a point to see them first. Jackspurt, can you get a couple of
dozen volunteers?"

            "You
mean to climb up in that brass god? I don't know, Retief. The fellas are pretty
superstitious."

            "We
need them to make a diversion while Mr. Magnan and I carry out the negotiation—"

            "Who
me?" Magnan squeaked.

            "Negotiation?"
Jackspurt protested. "Jumping Jehosophat, how can you negotiate with a
Hoog?"

            "Ahem,"
Magnan cleared his throat. "That, Mr. Jackspurt, is after all one's
function as a diplomat."

            "Well
..." Jackspurt buzzed briefly to his fellows, then hopped down from his
perch as a dozen Spisms of assorted sizes and colors came forward.

            "We're
game, Mr. Retief. Lets go!"

-

            The
dull gleam of the metal walls of the vast chamber that was the interior of the
god Uk-Ruppa-Tooty loomed out of dense shadow where Retief and Magnan crouched
with their hobgoblin crew. At the center of the gloomy chamber, low-caste
Hoogans labored before the open door of a giant, red-glowing furnace, tossing
in armloads of rubbish, old shoes, bundled magazines, and broken plastic
crockery. A layer of harsh, eye-watering smoke hung in the air. Jackspurt
snorted.

            "Boy,
when they start pumping that stuff into the burrows ..."

            "Where
are the priests?" Retief inquired in a whisper.

            Jackspurt
pointed to a small cubicle at the top of a flight of steps. "Up there, in
the control room.

            "Retief
studied the layout. "Jackspurt, you and your men spread out around the
room. Give me five minutes. Then take turns jumping out and making faces."

            Jackspurt
gave instructions to his crew; they faded away into the darkness.

            "Maybe
you'd better wait here," Retief suggested to Magnan.

            "Where
are you going?"

            "I
think I'd better have a chat with the ecclesiastics up in the prompting
box."

            "And
leave me here alone, surrounded by these ghoulish Spisms?"

            "All
right, but keep it quiet or the smoke of burning diplomats will be added to the
other fumes."

            Fifty
feet above the floor, Retief gripped narrow handholds, working his way around
to the rear of the control box. Through the dusty windows a blue-robed Hoogan
priest could be seen lounging in a bored attitude, studying a scroll. A second
Hoogan, in the familiar black, stood nervously by. Suddenly the silence below
was broken by a mournful wail.

            "What's
that!" Magnan jumped, slipped and grabbed for a secure grip on a
projecting angle-iron supporting a narrow catwalk.

            "Our
co-workers going into action." Retief said softly. Beside the furnace
door, the Hoogan workers were staring around nervously. There was another
doleful moan. One of the Hoogans dropped his shovel and muttered. Retief ducked
back as the blue-robed priest came to the window and peered down below. He then
motioned to the other, who went to the door of the tiny chamber, opened it,
stepped out on the catwalk and shouted down to the workers. One answered in
defiant tones. Two of the workers started toward a door dimly visible at the
far side of the furnace room. The priest shouted after them; as his bellow
faded and echoed, the thin hoot of a Spism sounded, like the last wail of dying
hope.

            The
priest jumped and whirled to dart back inside the control room. He slipped,
fell from the catwalk and found himself staring directly into Magnan's startled
face. He opened his mouth to roar—

            Magnan
whipped off his mauve cummerbund and thrust it into the gaping mouth. With a
muffled grunt, the Hoogan lost his grip, fell, and slammed into the heaped
rubbish with a tremendous slam. The stokers fled, shouting. The lone priest
flattened his face against the window, peering down into the gloom. With a
quick movement, Retief gained the catwalk, and stepped through the door. The
priest whirled and leaped for a microphone-like device on the corner table.
Retief eased the power pistol from his sarong and aimed it at the priest.