Retief Unbound (24 page)

There was a stealthy
rap at the door; Retief went to it, swung it open. The visage of the Groaci
counselor appeared, all five eyes canted alertly to scan the interior of the
room.

"Neatly executed,
Lilth," he started—and froze at the sight of Retief, casually puffing a
dope stick alight.

"Evening,
Nish," the Terran greeted his informal caller. "Looking for your code
clerk? I'm afraid he just stepped out."

"You? What—that
is, how—I mean to say—murderer!" Nish rushed to the window to stare down
in dismay at his landsman floundering among the imported carp. "Mayhem! A
wanton attack on the person of a diplomatic member of His Groacian Excellency's
staff! Seize the miscreant!"

A number of persons,
both Terran and Groaci, attracted by the cries of the deputy chief of the
Groaci Mission, were now thrusting their heads into Retief's apartment. The
choleric features of the Terran counselor, Career Minister Bite-worse, appeared
amid the press.

"What seems to be
the trouble here?" the plump senior officer demanded in a penetrating
nasal tenor.

"I demand the
instant arrest of this . . . this ruffian!" Nish whispered, his feeble
voice shaking with emotion.

"Why, er,
certainly," Biteworse agreed. "That is to say, ah, what's he done
this time?"

"This time he's
gone too far! His reputation for the flaunting of the niceties of diplomatic
usage is notorious—but the defenestration of my colleague, junior rank
notwithstanding, is the final anvil!"

"You mean—he threw
someone out the window?" Bite-worse looked disconcerted.

"Even now the
unhappy chap sinks for the third time!" Nish declaimed.

"Hadn't we better,
er, throw him a rope?" Colonel Warbutton suggested from the window,
craning to observe the still-struggling figure far below.

"Don't seek to
alleviate the gravity of the offense by ill-timed salvage efforts!" Nish
hissed. "Clap the criminal in irons! In fact, Biteworse, I suggest you
declare your entire staff under arrest until a properly constituted Groaci
Board of Inquiry has sifted the matter to the bottom!"

"Now, now, let's
not be hasty," Biteworse demurred. "Why don't you just settle for
Retief for now, and hold off on the mass incarceration until our respective
chiefs of mission have had time to review the matter—"

"No quibbling! I'll
settle for half the Terran Mission in durance vile and the remainder stripped
of diplomatic privilege and confined to quarters!"

"Why, that's
generous of you, Nish." Biteworse pursed his lips judiciously. "But
I'm not prepared to go farther than Retief plus a couple of third secretaries,
and the revoking of snack-bar privileges for all personnel below Class Three
rank—"

"Before you commit
yourself, sir," Retief spoke up casually, "I'd like to point out that
Mr. Nish seems to be laboring under a false impression."

"What?" The
Groaci whirled, his throat sac vibrating in expression of total indignation.
"You suggest that the spectacle of my underling even now perishing in the
moat is a nonobjective phenomenon?"

"Oh, he's down
there, all right," Retief confirmed. "But he couldn't have fallen
from
this
window, as I'm sure you'll agree."

"Indeed? And why
could he not?"

"It's my
apartment. And my
Do Not Disturb
sign is lit. So, obviously, Lilth
couldn't have been in my room—unless, of course, you'd like to stipulate that
he was guilty of trespass, unauthorized entry, burglary, and a number of other
irregularities."

"Why—the very
idea," Nish said weakly.

"Clearly a simple
case of mistaken identity," Biteworse announced briskly. "Now, if it
had been Retief who fell, it would be logical to assume he had effected egress
through this window. . . ." His voice trailed off. "By the way,
Nish—just how did it happen that you were on the spot so soon after Lilth was
pushed—fell, that is—out of, ah, some other window, I mean to say?"

"I but nipped up
to borrow a book," the discomfited Groaci snapped.

"Indeed?"
Biteworse purred, back in command. "I wasn't aware Terran literature was a
fancy of yours, my dear Nish. You must drop by and browse over my modest
collection some evening—when you're not engaged in, ah, other duties, here in
the Terry wing."

"Meanwhile, don't
forget your book," Retief said, offering a fat volume titled
How to Tell
Your Friends from Your Enemies with Virtual Ninety-Percent Accuracy
.

"Bah!" Nish
muttered, spurning the proffered tome. "We'll all be late for the
gala." He shouldered his way through the crowd.

"Just between us,
Retief," Second Secretary Magnan inquired confidentially, after the others
had left, "what was that little sneak Lilth after?"

"I didn't get a
chance to ask him," Retief said. "However, he left this as a memento
of his visit." He held up a small disk-shaped object dangling from a strap
of imitation alligator hide. "I found it by the window."

"It looks like an
ordinary Mickey Mouse watch," Magnan said doubtfully. "However, I
assume from your enigmatic expression it's something more arcane. Dare I ask
what?"

"That's what I
propose to find out, Mr. Magnan, at the first opportunity."

"I don't like it,
Retief," Magnan said behind his hand, half an hour later, surveying the
gala crowd of Terran and alien diplomats thronging the ballroom from his
position near the hundred-gallon punchbowl, cut from a single crystal of red
quartz mined in the interior.

"It could stand a
little more gin," Retief agreed judiciously.

"Not the punch—the
atmosphere!" Magnan corrected. "And I don't refer to the air
conditioning; I mean the ominous feeling that something dreadful is about to
happen."

"Relax, Mr.
Magnan," Retief said soothingly. "The ambassador won't be making his
speech for half an hour yet."

"Kindly spare me
your ill-timed japes, Retief! As you know, I'm extremely sensitive to
extrasensory vibrations of all sorts—a trick I fancy I inherited from my Aunt
Prudelia—"

"That is a neat
trick," Retief acknowledged, raising his glass en passant to a well-shaped
stenographer waltzing past in the grip of Colonel Warbutton.

"Retief! Kindly
attend to my remarks! After all, a diplomat learns to rely on his
hunches—"

"A telling point,
Mr. Magnan," Retief said, and deposited his glass on a passing tray.
"And I have a hunch Miss Braswell would be grateful for a few civilian
anecdotes, after two and a half waltzes' worth of military reminiscences."

"Quite
possibly," Magnan said icily. "However, I suggest you defer your
mission of mercy until we've dealt with the more substantive problem of
incipient skulduggery in the air!"

"If you're
referring to the fact that Ambassador Nith has been in a huddle with his
military attaché for the past twenty minutes, I agree it bodes no good for
joint peacemaking efforts," Retief conceded.

"It's not only
that—I've observed that Counselor Lilth seems to be exceptionally clubby with
the Bogan military observer."

"So he does. While
Ambassador Pouncetrifle has been cornered for the past forty minutes by three
of our guests from the Dames Auxiliary for Militant Pacifism."

"I doubt that the
dowagers have any fell intent," Magnan said. "However, that sneaky
little Groaci cultural attaché—Fink, or Sneak, or whatever his name is—"

"Snink; he seems
unusually absorbed in whatever it is that Counselor Biteworse is holding forth
on. He's had him backed in among the potted frogfronds for the past half
hour."

"Ever since the
arrival of the provisional Minister of Illegal Activities, to be precise,"
Magnan pointed out. "And at the same time, the pro tern Chief of Police
has been huddling with Captain Thilth—even among the Groaci, not one whom one
would care to entrust with assisting one's grand-mere across the street."

"Not if she were
carrying more than jelly-bean money," Retief concurred. "All of which
suggests that there are plans afoot that have nothing to do with the
tranquillity of Lumbaga."

"In that case, how
can you stand there ogling the female clerical help?" Magnan demanded
indignantly. "It's perfectly obvious that the Groaci and their toadies are
up to no good!"

"Very probably,
Mr. Magnan. However, if we stand here with our heads together, looking gloomy,
they're likely to deduce that we're onto them—"

"And a good thing,
too! The very idea, plotting right under our noses!"

"Better there than
in some place less easy to observe," Retief suggested.

"The gall of the
scoundrels! Come, Retief—let's report our suspicions to His Excellency at
once—"

"I suggest we wait
a few more minutes, Mr. Magnan. There are a pair of Groaci administrative aides
edging past the Marine guards over by the French doors; let's give them time to
get in the clear."

"Whatever
for?" Magnan gasped. "So they can rifle the chancery safe?"

"We won't let them
get that far. But it would be interesting to know what they've got in
mind."

"But—what if they
plant a bomb—or set fire to the building—or insinuate a set of falsified
documents into the voucher files?"

"That last item is
pretty scary," Retief conceded. "Still, maybe we can stop them before
any real damage is done—" He broke off as the drapes twitched shut behind
the aliens whom he had been observing. "Shall we trail along and see what
they're up to, Mr. Magnan?"

"Well—we really
ought to refer the matter to the appropriate authorities . . . still, they'd
hardly dare anything really drastic right here in the complex—and it
would
be rather a coup to lay them by the heels unassisted." Magnan twitched the
multiple lapels of his grapejuice-colored, early mid-evening, hyperformal
cutaway into line, assumed a stern expression, and followed Retief as he made
his way through the crowd.

On the terrace, they
caught a glimpse of their quarry just disappearing over the balustrade into the
shrubbery below.

"Just as I
thought!" Magnan gasped. "And there's a
Keep Off the Grass
sign in plain view! I'll report them at once, and—"

"Wait."
Retief motioned Magnan back. There were sounds of threshing in the bushes, then
soft footfalls along a flagstoned path. Suddenly a brilliant beam of greenish
light sprang up, shining vertically up through the foliage. It blinked once,
twice, three times. There was a pause; then the signal was repeated.

"The plot
thickens," Retief said softly as Magnan clutched his arm. "Let's see
what's next."

Again they heard
footfalls, this time approaching. The shrubbery rustled. A pale Groaci visage
appeared over the balustrade. A moment later the two aliens had regained the
terrace and were sauntering casually back toward the French doors, puffing dope
sticks in an insouciant manner.

"Why, the very
idea," Magnan whispered from the shadow of the pilaster where he and
Retief were concealed. "They're rejoining the party just as though nothing
at all had happened!"

"You'd hardly
expect them to skulk back in just because they skulked out," Retief
pointed out. "Also, nothing much has happened—yet."

"You mean—you
think there'll be more?"

"I suspect that
what we saw was a modulated light signaler. They could have conveyed an
unabridged set of Corps regulations in the time they had."

"But—whatever
would they want with a set of CDT regs?"

"A figure of
speech, Mr. Magnan—" Retief broke off as a faint
Bee-beep!
sounded
from his wrist. He turned back his cuff; the tiny figure of Mickey was glowing
softly in the dark; his arms whirled against the disk, semaphoring frantically.

"Come in,
Lilth!" a tiny, harsh voice rasped in badly accented Lumbagan. "Why
haven't you reported in as scheduled?"

Retief brought the
device close to his face. "Alas," he whispered in a passable
imitation of the Groaci's breathy tones, "I was detained by certain
unscheduled natatorial exertions—"

"You've been
advised how important split-second timing is! Where are you now?"

"On the south
terrace, catching a breath of revivifying night air from the rigors of the
receiving line," Retief hissed.

"Cretin! To the
roof at once! It's now M—minute minus four! Get going!"

"Roger and
out," Retief breathed.

"Just a minute!
You're not Lilth!" The glow died from the watch face. Mickey's hands came
to rest at twenty fifty-six. "It was useful while it lasted," Retief
said, and tossed the deactivated communicator aside. "Let's go, Mr.
Magnan. It looks like we're running late for a hot date."

Two and a half minutes
later, after a dizzying run up a tight spiral stair cut into the thick stone of
the keep walls, Retief and Magnan stepped silently out onto the complex roof.
The bright pink light of the two moons cast double shadows across the rough,
tarred planks.