Retief at Large (50 page)

            "My
departure, golly whiz!" Okkyokk's voice blasted from the screen.
"Navigationer—full fast ahead!"

            "No
use, General," Retief said. "Everybody's grounded. Your field
windings are full of vines, I'm afraid."

            "So
that's why Renfrew couldn't leave." Magnan gulped. "I knew it all
along, of course."

            "What
does this mean?" Slith whispered. "It means you've been conquered
single-handed by a population of one," Retief addressed the alien leaders.
"So—if you're ready, gentlemen, I'm sure Herby will be willing to discuss
the terms of your surrender."

-

            "Heavens,
Retief," Magnan said, adjusting the overlapping puce lapels of his top
formal mid-morning cutaway in the gilt-framed mirror outside the impressive
mahogany doors of the undersecretary for extraterrestrial affairs. "If we
hadn't seized a moment to transmit a distress call on Slith's TX while Herby
was busy taking the surrender, we might still be languishing in boredom on that
dismal island."

            "I
doubt if we'd have been bored," Retief pointed out. "With several
hundred grounded sailors roaming the woods and blaming us for their
troubles."

            "What
a ghastly experience, with every bush and bough jabbering away in colloquial
Slox and accentless Groaci, carrying on twelve hundred scrambled conversations
at once!"

            "In
time I think Herby would have mastered the knack of segregating his
dialogues," Retief said. "Even with a slice missing from that
four-mile brain the soundings showed he should be a fast learner."

            "He
certainly mastered the technique of creative negotiation with record
speed," Magnan agreed. "I can't help feeling a trifle sorry for poor
Slith and Okkyokk—their fleets consigned to moulder on the ground, the while
they supply teams of conversationalists in relays in perpetuity to entertain
their conqueror."

            Retief
and Magnan turned as the elevator doors opened behind them. An orderly emerged,
pushing a tea cart on which rested a handsome teak tub containing a tall,
lily-like plant topped by a six-inch flower, glowing a healthy pink and yellow.

            "Ah,
gentlemen," the blossom greeted them in a mellow tenor voice. "I'm
happy to report that new scenes seem to stimulate me—or at least this slice of
me."

            Magnan
shuddered delicately.

            "Imagine
sprouting a bureaucrat from a wedge of frontal lobe," he said behind his
hand. "It makes my head ache just to think of it."

            A
slender man with thick spectacles thrust his head from the secretarial suite.

            "The
secretary will see you now," he announced and held the door as the orderly
wheeled the cart through.

            "Mr.
Secretary," Magnan said grandly, "I have the honor to present his Excellency
the Herbaceous Ambassador."

            "Delighted
to meet you, sir or madam," Thunderstroke rumbled inclining his head
graciously to the bloom, which nodded in reply. "Now—do tell me all the
details of how you captured two fully armed war fleets—"

            Retief
and Magnan withdrew, leaving the undersecretary listening attentively to his
visitor's account of the sapless victory.

            "Lobotomy
seems to agree with Herby," Magnan observed complacently. "Well, I
must hurry along, Retief. I have a modest cutting I plan to infiltrate into the
flower bed under the Groaci ambassador's window." He hurried off.

            "Tsk,"
said a tiny voice from the pink boutonnière adorning Retief's topmost lapel.
"The segment of me you left with the undersecretary is being regaled with
a rather gamy anecdote about cross-fertilizing tea-rose begonias. The punch
line is—"

            "It's
not considered polite to listen in on private conversations, Herby,"
Retief pointed out.

            "How
can I help it?" the blossom protested. "After all, it's me he's
talking to."

            "Just
don't repeat what you hear. Unless," Retief added as he strolled off
toward the chancery bar, "it's something you think I really ought to
know."

-

            SECOND
SECRETARY RETIEF of the Terran Embassy emerged from his hotel into a
bunting-draped street crowded with locals: bustling, furry folk with upraised,
bushy tails, like oversized chipmunks, ranging in height from a foot to a yard.
A party of placard-carrying marchers, emerging from a side street, jostled
their way through the press, briskly ripping down political posters attached to
shop walls and replacing them with posters of their own. Their move was
immediately countered by a group of leaflet distributors who set about applying
mustaches, beards and crossed eyes to the new placards. The passersby joined in
cheerfully, some blacking out teeth and adding warts to the tips of button
noses, others grabbing the brushes from the defacers and applying them to their
former owners' faces. Fists flew; the clamor rose.

            Retief
felt a tug at his knee; a small Oberonian dressed in blue breeches and a
spotted white apron looked up at him from wide, worried eyes.

            "Prithee,
fair sir," the small creature piped in a shrill voice, "come quick,
ere all is lost!"

            "What's
the matter?" Retief inquired, noting the flour smudge on the Oberonian's
cheek and the dab of pink icing on the tip of his nose. "Are the cookies
burning?"

            "E'en
worse than that, milord—'tis the Tsuggs! The great brutes would dismantle the
shop entire! But follow and observe!" The Oberonian whirled and darted
away.

            Retief
followed along the steeply sloping cobbled alley between close-pressing houses,
his head level with the second-story balconies. Through open windows he caught
glimpses of doll's-houselike interiors, complete with toy tables and chairs and
postage-stamp-sized TV screens. The bright-eyed inhabitants clustered at their
railings, twittering like sparrows as he passed. He picked his way with care
among the pedestrians crowding the way: twelve-inch Ploots and eighteen-inch
Grimbles in purple and red leathers, two-foot Choobs in fringed caps and
aprons, lordly three-foot-six-inch Blufs, elegant in ruffles and curled pink
wigs. Ahead, he heard shrill cries, a tinkle of breaking glass, a dull thump.
Rounding a sharp turn, he came on the scene of action.

            Before
a shop with a sign bearing a crude painting of a salami, a crowd had gathered,
ringing in a group of half a dozen giant Oberonians of a type new to Retief:
swaggering dandies in soiled silks, with cruelly cropped tails, scimitars slung
at their waists—if creatures of the approximate shape of ten-pins can be said to
have waists. One of the party held the bridles of their mounts—scaled,
spike-maned brutes resembling gaily painted rhinoceroses, but for their
prominent canines and long, muscular legs. Two more were busy with crowbars,
levering at the lintel over the shop doorway. Another pair were briskly
attacking the adjacent wall with sledge-hammers. The sixth, distinguished by a
scarlet sash with a pistol thrust through it, stood with folded arms, smiling a
sharp-toothed smile at the indignant mob.

            "
'Tis the pastry and ale shop of Binkster Druzz, my grand uncle twice
removed!" Retief's diminutive guide shrilled. "A little lighthearted
destruction in the course of making one's political views clear is all very
well—but these pirates would reduce us to penury! Gramercy, milord, canst not
impede the brutes?" He swarmed ahead, clearing a path through the
onlookers. The red-sashed one, noticing Retief's approach unfolded his arms,
letting one hand linger near the butt of the pistol—a Groaci copy of a
two-hundred-year-old Concordiat sliver-gun, Retief noted.

            "Close
enough, off-worlder," the Tsugg said in a somewhat squeaky baritone.
"What would ye here? Ye'r hutch lieth in the next street yonder."

            Retief
smiled gently at the bear-like Oberonian, who loomed over the crowd, his eyes
almost on a level with Retief's own, his bulk far greater. "I want to buy
a jelly doughnut," the Terran said. "Your lads seem to be blocking
the doorway."

            "Aroint
thee, Terry; seek refreshment elsewhere. Being somewhat fatigued with campaigning,
I plan to honor this low dive with my custom; my bullies must . needs enlarge
the door to comport with my noble dimensions."

            "That
won't be convenient," Retief said smoothly.

            "When
I want a jelly doughnut I want it now." He took a step toward the door;
thft pistol jumped at him. The other Tsuggs were gathering around, hefting
crowbars.

            "Ah-ah,"
Retief cautioned, raising a finger—and at the same moment swung his foot in a
short arc that ended just under the gun-handler's knee-joint. The victim emitted
a sharp yap and leaned forward far enough for his jaw to intersect the course
of Retief's left fist. Retief palmed the gun deftly as the Tsugg staggered into
the arms of his companions.

            "Aroint
thee, lads," the giant muttered reproachfully to his supporters, shaking
his head dazedly. "We've been boon drinking chums these six Lesser Moons
and this is the first time ye've give me any of the foodstuff ..."

            "Spread
out, lads," one of the Tsuggs ordered his companions. "We'll pound
this knave into a thin paste."

            "Better
relax, gentlemen," Retief suggested. "This gun is messy at short
range."

            "An'
I mistake me not," one of the crowbar wielders said, eyeing Retief sourly,
"ye'r one of the out-world bureaucrats, here to connive in the allocation
of loot, now the Sticky-fingers have gone."

            "Ambassador
Clawhammer prefers to refer to his role as refereeing the elections, nothing
more," Retief corrected.

            "Aye,"
the Tsugg nodded, "that's what I said. So how is it ye're interfering with
the free democratic process by coshing Dir Blash in the midst of exercising his
voice in local affairs?"

            "We
bureaucrats are a mild lot," Retief clarified, "unless someone gets
between us and our jelly doughnuts."

            Red-sash
was weaving on his feet, shaking his head. " 'Tis a scurvy trick," he
said blurrily, "sneaking a concealed anvil into a friendly little
six-to-one crowbar affray."

            "Let's
go," one of the others said, "ere he produces a howitzer from his
sleeve." The
banditi
mounted their wild-eyed steeds amid much snorting
and tossing of fanged heads.

            "But
we'll not forget ye're visage, off-worlder," another promised. "I wot
well we'll meet again—and next time we'll be none so lenient."

            A
hubbub of pleased chatter broke out among the lesser Oberonians as the party passed
from sight.

            "Milord
has saved Great-uncle Binkster's fried fat this day," the small being who
had enlisted Retief's aid cried. The Terran leaned over, hands on knees, which
put his face on a level only a foot or two above that of the little fellow.

            "Haven't
I seen you before?" he asked.

            "Certes,
milord—until an hour since, I eked out a few coppers as third assistant pastry
cook in the inn yonder, assigned to the cupcake division, decorative icing
branch." He sighed. "My specialty was rosebuds—but no need to burden
your grace with my plaint."

            "You
lost your job?"

            "Aye,
that did I—but forsooth, 'tis but a trifling circumstance, in light of what I
o'erheard ere the hostler bade me hie me from the premises forthwith!"