Galactic Diplomat

The Second in the Retief Series

By Keith Laumer

Originally Published in 1965

Note:  All of the stories from this book were later included in Baen’s Retief! Collection.

Contents

ULTIMATUM

SALINE SOLUTION

THE BRASS GOD

THE CASTLE OF LIGHT

WICKER WONDERLAND

NATIVE INTELLIGENCE

THE PRINCE AND THE PIRATE

COURIER

PROTEST NOTE

ULTIMATUM

“ . . . into the chaotic Galactic political scene of the post-Concordiat era, the CDT emerged to carry forward the ancient diplomatic tradition as a great supranational organization dedicated to the contravention of war.[1] As mediators of disputes among Terrestrial-settled worlds and advocates of Terrestrial interests in contacts with alien cultures, Corps diplomats, trained in the chanceries of innumerable defunct bureaucracies, displayed an encyclopedic grasp of the nuances of Estra-Terrestrial mores as set against the labyrinthine socio-politico-economic Galactic context. Ever-zealous in its enforcement of peace, the Corps traditionally has functioned at its most scintillating level under the threat of imminent annihilation. Facing overwhelming forces at Roolit I, steely-eyed Ambassador Nitworth met the challenge unflinchingly, coolly planning his coup . . .”

—extract from the Official History of the Corps Diplomatique, Vol I, Reel 2. Solarian Press, New York, 479 A. E. (AD 2940)

Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-foot platinum desk at his assembled staff.

“Gentlemen, are any of your familiar with a race known as the Qornt?”

There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth nodded portentously.

“They were a warlike race, known in this sector back in Corcordiat times—perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. There was no record of where they went.” He paused for effect.

“They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system!”

“But, sir,” Second Secretary Magnan offered. “That’s uninhabited Terrestrial territory . . .”

“Indeed, Mr. Magnan . . .” Nitworth smiled icily. “It appears the Qornt do not share that opinion.” He plucked a heavy parchment from a folder before him, harrumphed and read aloud:

HIS SUPREME EXCELLENCY THE QORNT, REGENT OF QORNT, OVERLORD OF THE GALACTIC DESTINY, GREETS THE TERRESTRIALS AND WITH REFERENCE TO THE PRESENCE IN QORNT MANDATED TERRITORY OF TERRESTRIAL SQUATTERS, HAS THE HONOR TO ADVISE THAT HE WILL REQUIRE THE USE OF HIS OUTER WORLD ON THE THIRTIETH DAY: THEN WILL THE QUORT COME WITH STEEL AND FIRE, RECEIVE, TERRESTRIALS, RENEWED ASSURANCES OF MY AWARENESS OF YOUR EXISTENCE, AND LET THOSE WHO DARE GIRD FOR THE CONTEST.

“Frankly, I wouldn’t call it conciliatory,” Magnan said.

Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger.

“We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an ultimatum!”

“Well, we’ll soon straighten these fellows out—” the Military Attaché began.

“There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears on the surface,” the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interested frowns to settle into place.

“Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared in force on Terrestrial-controlled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instruments of the Navigational Monitor Service!”

The Military Attaché blinked. “That’s absurd,” he said flatly. Nitworth slapped the table.

“We’re up against something new, gentlemen! I’ve considered every hypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—the Qornt fleets are indetectible!”

The Military Attaché pulled at his lower lip. “In that case, we can’t try conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible drive of our own. I recommend a crash project; in the meantime—”

“I’ll have my boys start in to crack this thing,” Chief of the Confidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. “I’ll fit out a couple of volunteers with plastic beaks—”

“No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will be worked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role will be a holding action. Now, I want suggestions for a comprehensive, well-rounded, and decisive course for meeting this threat. Any recommendations?”

The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. “What about a stiff Note demanding an extra week’s time?”

“No! No begging,” the Economic Officer objected. “I’d say a calm, dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible.”

“We don’t want to give them the idea we spook easily,” the Military Attaché said. “Let’s delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow.”

“Early tomorrow,” Magnan said. “Or maybe later today.”

“Well, I see you’re of a mind with me,” Nitworth commented, nodding. “Our plan of action is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a population of over fifteen million individuals to relocate.” He eyed the Political Officer. “I want five proposals for resettlement on my desk by oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow . . .” Nitworth rapped out instructions; harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnan eased toward the door.

“Where are you going, Magnan?” Nitworth snapped.

“Since you’re so busy, I thought I’d just slip back down to Com Inq. It was a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Secretary. Be sure to let us know how it works out—”

“Kindly return to your chair,” Nitworth said coldly. “A number of chores remain to be assigned. I think you need a little field experience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at these Qornt personally.”

Magnan’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

“Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan?”

“Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It’s just that I’m afraid I may lose my head and do something rash.”

“Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along. No dawdling now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify the transport pool at once.”

Magnan nodded unhappily and went out into the hall.

“Oh, Retief,” Nitworth said. Retief turned.

“Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in any direction.”

Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slope of towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set among flamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip of white beach with the blue sea beyond.

“A delightful vista,” Magnan said, mopping at his face. “A pity we couldn’t locate the Qornt. We’ll go back now and report—”

“I’m pretty sure the settlement is off to the right,” Retief said. “Why don’t you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I can observe.”

“Retief, we’re engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time to think of sight-seeing.”

“I’d like to take a good look at what we’re giving away.”

“See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you’re questioning Corps policy.”

“One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play—but I think it might be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I’m not back at the boat in an hour, lift without me.”

“You expect me to make my way back alone?”

“It’s directly down-slope—” Retief broke off, listening. Magnan clutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafy branch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view; long, thin green-clad legs and back-bending knees moved in quick, bird-like steps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes set among bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbed as the creature cocked its head, listening.

Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimed directly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade of a giant trunk.

“I’ll go for help,” Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leaps into the brush; a second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun, darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to its narrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free, turned—and collided with the nine-foot alien, coming in fast from the right. All three went down in a tangle of limbs.

Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside, and stopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning, moving feebly.

“Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan,” Retief said. “You nailed both of them.”

“Those, undoubtedly, are the most blood-thirsty, aggressive, merciless countenances it has ever been my misfortune to encounter,” Magnan said. “It hardly seems fair; eight feet tall AND faces like that . . .”

The smaller of the two captive Qornt ran long, slender fingers over a bony shin from which he had turned back the tight-fitting green trousers.

“It’s not broken,” he whistled nasally in passable Terrestrial, eyeing Magnan through the heavy goggles, now badly cracked. “Small thanks to you.”

Magnan smiled loftily. “I daresay you’ll think twice before interfering with peaceable diplomats in future.”

“Diplomats? Surely you jest.”

“Never mind us,” Retief said. “It’s you fellows we’d like to talk about. How many of you are there?”

“Only Zubb and myself—”

“I mean altogether. How many Qornt?”

The alien whistled shrilly.

“Here, no signaling!” Magnan snapped, looking around.

“That was merely an expression of amusement—”

“You find the situation amusing? I assure you, sir, you are in perilous straits at the moment. I MAY fly into another rage, you know.”

“Please, restrain yourself. I was merely somewhat astonished—” a small whistle escaped—“at being taken for a Qornt.”

“Aren’t you a Qornt?”

“I? Great snail trails, no!” More stifled whistles of amusement escaped the beaked face. “Both Zubb and I are Verpp. Naturalists, as it happens.”

“You certainly LOOK like Qornt.”

“Oh, not at all—except perhaps to a Terrestrial. The Qornt are sturdily-built rascals, all over ten feet in height. And, of course, they do nothing but quarrel. A drone caste, actually.”

“A caste? You mean they’re biologically the same as you—”

“Not at all! A Verpp wouldn’t think of fertilizing a Qornt.”

“I mean to say, you’re of the same basic stock—descended from a common ancestor, perhaps.”

“We are all Pud’s creatures.”

“What are the differences between you and them?”

“Why, the Qornt are argumentative, boastful, lacking in appreciation for the finer things of life. One dreads to contemplate descending to their level.”

“Do you know anything about a Note passed to the Terrestrial Ambassador at Smørbrød?”

The beak twitched. “Smørbrød? I know of no place called Smørbrød.”

“The outer planet of this system.”

“Oh, yes; we call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of creatures had established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note to such matters.”

“We’re wasting time, Retief,” Magnan said. “We must truss these chaps up, hurry back to the boat, and make our escape. You heard what they said—”

“Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?” Retief asked.

“At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. A large number; the Qornt are making ready for one of their adventures.”

“That would be the invasion of Smørbrød,” Magnan said. “And unless we hurry, Retief, we’re likely to be caught there with the last of the evacuees—”

“How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon?”

“Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty.”

“Fifteen or twenty what?” Magnan looked perplexed.

“Fifteen or twenty Qornt.”

“You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual Qornt in all?”

Another whistle. “Not at all. I was referring to the local Qornt only. There are more at the other Centers, of course.”

“And the Qornt are responsible for the Ultimatum—unilaterally?”

“I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you know. And interplanetary relations are rather a hobby of theirs.”

Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He spoke to his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants.

“What did he say?”

“Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea to gather you as specimens.”

“You should have known better than to tackle that fierce-looking creature,” Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan.

“How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial?” Retief asked.

“Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects.”

“It’s quite charming, really,” Magnan said. “Such a quaint, archaic accent.”

“Suppose we went down to Tarroon,” Retief asked. “What kind of reception would we get?”

“That depends. I wouldn’t recommend interfering with the Gwil or the Rheuk; it’s their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busy mating—such a tedious business—and of course the Qornt are tied up with their ceremonial feasting. I’m afraid no one will take any notice of you.”

“Do you mean to say,” Magnan demanded, “that these ferocious Qornt, who have issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—who openly avow their intention to invade a Terrestrial-occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in their midst?”

“If at all possible.”

Retief got to his feet.

“I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It’s up to us to go down and attract a little attention.”

“I’m not at all sure we’re going about this in the right way,” Magnan puffed, trotting at Retief’s side. “These fellows Zubb and Slun—oh, they seem affable enough—but how can we be sure we’re not being led into a trap?”

“We can’t.”

Magnan stopped short. “Let’s go back.”

“All right,” Retief said. “Of course, there may be an ambush—”

Magnan moved off. “Let’s keep going.”

The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a great brush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of the mound, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope.

“You can find your way easily enough from here,” he said. “You’ll excuse us, I hope—”

“Nonsense, Slun!” Zubb pushed forward. “I’ll escort our guests to Qornt Hall.” He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered back.

“I don’t like it, Retief,” Magnan whispered. “Those fellows are plotting mischief.”

“Threaten them with violence, Mr. Magnan. They’re scared of you.”

“That’s true—but the drubbing they received was well-deserved. I’m a patient man, but there are occasions—”

“Come along, please,” Zubb called. “Another ten minutes’ walk—”

“See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow,” Magnan announced. “We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview your military leaders regarding the Ultimatum!”

“Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the village.”

“This is Tarroon?”

“A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it.”

“No wonder we didn’t observe their works from the air,” Magnan muttered. “Camouflaged.” He moved hesitantly through the opening.

The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped down steeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch, ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with what appeared to be primitive incandescent panels.

“Few signs of an advanced technology here,” Magnan whispered. “These creatures must devote all their talents to war-like enterprise.”

Ahead, Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible, a sustained high-pitched screeching. “Softly, now. We approach Qornt Hall. They can be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting.”

“When will the feast be over?” Magnan called hoarsely.

“In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say, they’ve scheduled an invasion for next month.”

“Look here, Zubb.” Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. “How is it that these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of this sort without reference to the wishes of the majority—”

“Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine.”

“A handful of hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war?”

“Oh, they don’t embroil the planet in war. It’s merely a Qornt enterprise. We Verpp ignore such goings-on.”

“Retief, this is fantastic! I’ve heard of iron-fisted military cliques before, but this is madness!”

“Come softly, now . . .” Zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in the yellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward. The corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast oval chamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung with tattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossed spears, patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded power rifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. Great guttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the length of the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirror polish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls and paper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles—and cast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls who loomed in their places at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed—trotted briskly, bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups of three strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced in intricately-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each of the magnificently draped, belted, feathered, and bejeweled Qornt carried on a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow.

“A most interesting display of barbaric splendor,” Magnan breathed. “Now we’d better be getting back—”

“Ah, a moment,” Zubb said. “Observe the Qorn—the tallest of the feasters—he with the headdress of crimson, purple, silver and pink—”

“Twelve feet if he’s an inch,” Magnan estimated. “And now we really must hurry along—”

“That one is chief among these rowdies. I’m sure you’ll want a word with him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those from the other Centers as well.”

“What kind of vessels? Warships?”

“Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with?”

“I don’t suppose,” Magnan said casually, “that you’d know the type, tonnage, armament, and manning of these vessels? And how many units comprise the fleet? And where they’re based at present?”

“They’re fully automated twenty-thousand ton all-purpose dreadnoughts. They mount a variety of weapons—the Qornt are fond of that sort of thing—and each of the Qornt has his own, of course. They’re virtually identical, except for the personal touches each individual has given his ship.”

“Great Heavens, Retief!” Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. “It sounds as though these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a set of toy sailboats!”

Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting hall. “I can see that their votes would carry all the necessary weight.”

“And, now, an interview with the Qorn himself,” Zubb shrilled. “If you’ll kindly step along, gentlemen . . .”

“That won’t be necessary,” Magnan said hastily. “I’ve decided to refer the entire matter to a committee—”

“After having come so far,” Zubb said, “it would be a pity to miss having a cozy chat . . .”

There was a pause.

“Ah . . . Retief,” Magnan said. “Zubb has just presented a most compelling argument . . .”

Retief turned. Zubb stood, gripping an ornately decorated power pistol in one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed at Magnan’s chest.

“I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb,” Retief commented.

“See here, Zubb; we’re diplomats—” Magnan started.

“Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy.”

“By no means,” Zubb whistled. “I much prefer to observe the frenzy of the Qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpp have been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there’s anything that annoys the Qornt, it’s Qornt-like behavior in others. Now, step along, please.”

“Rest assured, this will be reported—”

“I doubt it.”

“You’ll face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion—”

“Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have?”

“Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot.” Retief stepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure at the head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat, staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past, followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the table faded.

Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb stepped forward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back his chair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief, moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, to bear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushy hair, springing out in a giant halo around the greyish, porous-skinned face, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzz surrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall headdress of scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop of pink pearls had slipped down above one eye.

Zubb finished his speech, fell silent, breathing hard.

Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched.

“Not bad,” Retief said admiringly. “Maybe we could get up a match between you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You’ve got the volume on him, but he could spot you points on timber.”

“So,” Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. “You come from Guzzum, eh? Or Smørbrød, as I think you call it. What is it you’re after? More time? A compromise? Negotiations? Peace?” He slammed a bony hand against the table. “The answer is NO!”

Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. “Chain him, then . . .” he indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. “This one’s bigger; you’d best chain him, too.”

“Why, your Excellency—” Magnan started, stepping forward.

“Stay back!” Qorn hooted. “Stand over there where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Your Excellency, I’m empowered—”

“Not here, you’re not!” Qorn trumpeted. “Want peace, do you? Well, I don’t want peace! I’ve had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries! I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory!” He turned to look down the table. “How about it fellows? It’s war to the knife, eh?”

There was a momentary silence.

“I guess so,” grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue with flame-colored plumes.

Qorn’s eyes bulged. He half rose. “We’ve been all over this!” he bassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. “I thought I’d made my point . . .”

“Oh, sure, Qorn.”

“You bet.”

“I’m convinced.”

Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. “All for one and one for all, that’s us.”

“And you’re the one, eh Qorn?” Retief commented.

Magnan cleared his throat. “I sense that some of you gentlemen are not convinced of the wisdom of this move,” he piped, looking along the table at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests, and staring eyes.

“Silence!” Qorn hooted. “No use your talking to my loyal lieutenants anyway,” he added. “They do whatever I convince them they ought to do.”

“But I’m sure that on more mature consideration—”

“I can lick any Qornt in the house,” Qorn said. “That’s why I’m Qorn.” He belched again.

A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with a crash at Magnan’s feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrapped three loops around Magnan’s wrists, snapped a lock in place.

“You, next!” The guns pointed at Retief’s chest. He held out his arms. Four loops of silvery-grey chain in half-inch links dropped around them. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through the ends and closed it.

“Now,” Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. “There’s a bit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them?”

“Let them go,” the blue and flame Qornt said glumly.

“You can do better than that,” Qorn hooted. “Now, here’s a suggestion: we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae, say—and ship them back—”

“Good lord! Retief, he’s talking about cutting off our ears and sending us home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal!”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,” Retief commented.

“It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up a reasonable scrap,” Qorn said judiciously. “I have a feeling that they’re thinking of giving up without a struggle.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” the blue-and-flame Qornt said. “Why should they?”

Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. “Take these two,” he hooted. “I’ll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender!”

“Well,” Magnan started.

“Hold it, Mr. Magnan,” Retief said, “I’ll tell him.”

“What’s your proposal?” Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet. “A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I can assure you, it’s useless. We Qornt LIKE to fight—”

“I’m afraid you’ve gotten the wrong impression, Your Excellency,” Retief said blandly. “We didn’t come to negotiate. We came to deliver an ultimatum . . .”

“What?” Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered.

“We plan to use this planet for target practice,” Retief said. “A new type hell bomb we’ve worked out. Have all your people off of it in seventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences.”

“You have the gall,” Qorn stormed, “to stand here in the center of Qornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains—”

“Oh, these,” Retief said. He tensed his arms; the soft aluminum links stretched, broke. He shook the light metal free. “We diplomats like to go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn’t want to mislead you. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I—”

Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt at the table craned, jabbering.

“I told you they were brutes,” Zubb shrilled.

Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. “I don’t care what they are!” he honked. “Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships—”

“And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcers, with a hundred megatons/second firepower each.”

“Retief—” Magnan tugged at his sleeve. “Don’t forget their superdrive—”

“That’s all right; they don’t have one.”

“But—”

“We’ll take you on!” Qorn French-horned. “We’re the Qorn! We glory in battle! We live in fame or go down in—”

“Hogwash,” the flame-and-blue Qornt cut in. “If it wasn’t for you, Qorn, we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having to prove anything.”

“Qorn, you seem to be the firebrand here,” Retief said. “I think the rest of the boys would listen to reason—”

“Over my dead body!”

“My idea exactly,” Retief said. “You claim you can lick any man in the house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on the floor, and we’ll see how good you are at backing up your conversation.”

Magnan hovered at Retief’s side. “Twelve feet tall,” he moaned. “And did you notice the size of those hands?”

Retief watched as Qorn’s aides helped him out of his formal trappings. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. I doubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard pounds here.”

“But that phenomenal reach—”

“I’ll peck away at him at knee level; when he bends over to swat me, I’ll get a crack at him.”

Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort.

“Enough! Let me at the upstart!”

Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointed arms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feet clacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitors and bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on the combatants.

Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut at Retief, who leaned aside, caught a lean shank below the knee. Qorn bent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker took him just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retief leaped clear.

Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien’s off-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed to the floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behind the narrow back, seized Qorn’s neck in a stranglehold, and threw his weight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at an awkward angle. He squawked, beat his free arm on the floor, reaching in vain for Retief.

Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him.

“Need I remind you, sir,” he said icily, “that this is an official diplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterested parties.”

Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. “I must ask you to hand me your weapons, Zubb.”

“Look here,” Zubb began.

“I MAY lose my temper,” Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passed them to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turned back to watch the encounter.

Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn’s left wrist, bound it to the alien’s neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn’s shoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrapped it around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qorn flopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around his neck jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly.

“If I were you, I’d relax,” Retief said, rising and releasing his grip. Qorn got a leg under him. Retief kicked it. Qorn’s chin hit the floor with a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbs and gay silks.

Retief turned to the watching crowd. “Next?” he called.

The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. “Maybe this would be a good time to elect a new leader,” he said. “Now, my qualifications—”

“Sit down,” Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table, seated himself in Qorn’s vacated chair. “A couple of you finish trussing Qorn up; then stack him in the corner—”

“But we must select a leader!”

“That won’t be necessary, boys. I’m your new leader.”

“As I see it,” Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wine glass, “you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don’t particularly like to fight.”

“We don’t mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, as Qornt, we’re expected to die in battle. But what I say is—why rush things?”

“I have a suggestion,” Magnan said. “Why not turn the reins of government over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group—”

“What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt; and it seems there’s always one among us who’s a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to follow him.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s the way it’s done.”

“Why not do it another way?” Magnan offered. “Now, I’d like to suggest Community singing—”

“If we gave up fighting, we might live too long; then what would happen?”

“Live too long . . .” Magnan looked puzzled.

“When estivating time comes, there’d be no burrows for us; and anyway, with the new Qornt stepping in next Awakening—”

“I’ve lost the thread,” Magnan said. “Who are the new Qornt?”

“After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they’re Qornt, of course. The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosize into Verpp—”

“You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-mannered naturalists—will become warmongers like Qorn?”

“Very likely; ‘the milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qornt,’ as the old saying goes.”

“What do Qornt turn into?” Retief asked.

“Hmmmm. That’s a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood.”

“Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways?” Magnan asked. “What about taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance—”

“Don’t mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It’s great sport to sit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashing off to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. But we prefer a nice numerical advantage. Now, this business of tackling you Terrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea what your strength was—”

“But now that’s all off, of course,” Magnan chirped. “Now that we’ve had diplomatic relations and all—”

“Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days; after all, we’re Qornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action.”

“But Mr. Retief is your leader, now. He won’t let you . . .”

“Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack Day comes. And even if he orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the other Centers—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the invasion is definitely on.”

“Why don’t you go invade somebody else?” Magnan suggested. “Now, I could name some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course.”

“Hold everything,” Retief said. “I think we’ve got the basis of a deal here . . .”

At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retief and Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDT Sector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged, flying an Ambassadorial flag below a plain white banner.

“Curious,” Magnan commented. “I wonder what the significance of the white ensign might be?”

Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrements, a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The high white sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes, ceremonial swords, the polished butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather.

“A brave show indeed,” Magnan commented approvingly. “I confess the idea has merit—”

The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tired wheels, tyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomat stepped out.

“Why, Ambassador Nitworth,” Magnan glowed. “This is very kind of you—”

“Keep cool, Magnan,” Nitworth said in a strained voice. “We’ll attempt to get you out of this . . .” He stepped past Magnan’s outstretched hand and looked hesitantly at the ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond at the eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnoughts.

“Good afternoon, sir . . . ah, Your Excellency,” Nitworth said, blinking up at the leading Qornt. “You are Commander of the Strike Force, I assume?”

“Nope,” the Qornt said shortly.

“I . . . ah . . . wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuate the Headquarters,” Nitworth plowed on.

“Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said. “This—”

“Don’t panic, Retief. I’ll attempt to secure your release,” Nitworth hissed over his shoulder. “Now—”

“You will address our leader with more respect!” the tall Qornt hooted, eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up.

“Oh, yes indeed, sir . . . Your Excellency . . . Commander. Now, about the invasion—”

“Mr. Secretary,” Magnan tugged at Nitworth’s sleeve.

“In heaven’s name, permit me to negotiate in peace!” Nitworth snapped. He rearranged his features. “Now, Your Excellency, we’ve arranged to evacuate Smørbrød, of course, just as you requested—”

“Requested?” the Qornt honked.

“Ah . . . demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered. Instructed. And, of course, we’ll be only too pleased to follow any other instructions you might have—”

“You don’t quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary,” Retief said. “This isn’t—”

“Silence, confound you!” Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked at Retief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth, and stuffed a length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around and held him facing Retief.

“If you don’t mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said blandly, “I think I should mention that this isn’t an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the Peace Enforcement Corps.”

Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth’s mouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. “We felt,” he said, “that the establishment of a Foreign Brigade with the P E Corps structure would provide the element of novelty the Department has requested in our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma of Terrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations.”

Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caught the Qornt’s eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides.

“I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun,” Retief said. Magnan edged closer. “What about the gag?” he whispered.

“Let’s leave it where it is for a while,” Retief murmured. “It may save us a few concessions.”

An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across his desk at Retief and Magnan.

“This entire affair,” he rumbled, “has made me appear to be a fool!”

“But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just how clever you are,” Magnan burbled.

Nitworth purpled. “You’re skirting insolence, Magnan,” he roared. “Why was I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at the sight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced?”

“We tried to get through, but our wave-lengths—”

“Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle of those armed horrors advancing.”

“Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking—”

“I did NOT panic!” Nitworth bellowed. “I merely adjusted to the apparent circumstances. Now, I’m of two minds as to the advisability of this foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believe the wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruise in an uninhabited sector of space—”

The office windows rattled. “What the devil—!” Nitworth turned, stared out at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale blue light. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third—

Nitworth whirled on Magnan. “What’s this! Who ordered these recruits to embark without my permission?”

“I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,” Retief said. “There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltrating the Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it.”

“Call them back! Call them back at once!”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. They’re under orders to maintain total communications silence until completion of the mission.”

Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtful expression dawned. He nodded. “This may work out,” he said. “I should call them back, but since the fleet is out of contact, I’m unable to do so, correct? Thus, I can hardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising the Groaci.” He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan.

“Very well, gentlemen, I’ll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it the Smørbrødian public are notified they can remain where they are. And by the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of the indetectible drive the Qornt use?”

“No, sir. That is, yes, sir.”

“Well? Well?”

“There isn’t any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground.”

“Underground? Doing what?”

“Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch.”

Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking to a tall man in a pilot’s coverall.

“I’ll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—your recruiting scheme, Retief,” Magnan said. “Suppose you run into the city to assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?”

Magnan raised his eyebrows. “You’re remarkably compliant today, Retief. I’ll arrange transportation—”

“Don’t bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilot who ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.”

Magnan nodded curtly.

“I’ll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief,” the pilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye. “An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you’re not consorting with his kind socially . . .”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Retief said. “We just want to go over a few figures together.”

SALINE SOLUTION

“Oft has the Corps, in its steadfast championing of minority rights, run foul of the massive influence of entrenched pressure groups. Consul General (later Secretary) Magnan stirringly reaffirmed hallowed Corps principles of fair play in his deft apportionment of minerals properties in the Belt . . .”

—Vol. III, Reel 21, 481 AE (AD 2942)

Consul-General Magnan gingerly fingered a heavily rubber-banded sheaf of dog-eared documents. “I haven’t rushed into precipitate action on this claim, Retief,” he said. “The consulate has grave responsibilities here in the Belt. One must weigh all aspects of the situation, consider the ramifications; what consequences would arise from a grant of minerals rights on the planetoid to this claimant?”

“The claim looked all right to me,” Retief said. “Seventeen copies with attachments. Why not process it? You’ve had it on your desk for a week.”

Magnan’s eyebrows went up. “You’ve a personal interest in this claim, Retief?”

“Every day you wait is costing them money; that hulk they use for an ore-carrier is in a parking orbit piling up demurrage.”

“I see you’ve become emotionally involved in the affairs of a group of obscure miners; you haven’t yet learned the true diplomat’s happy faculty of non-identification with specifics—or should I say identification with non-specifics?”

“They’re not a wealthy outfit, you know. In fact, I understand this claim is their sole asset—unless you want to count the ore-carrier.”

“The consulate is not concerned with the internal financial problems of the Sam’s Last Chance Number Nine Mining Company.”

“Careful,” Retief said. “You almost identified yourself with a specific that time.”

“Hardly, my dear Retief,” Magnan said blandly. “The implication is mightier than the affidavit. You should study the records of the giants of Galactic diplomacy: Crodfoller, Wormwell, Spradley, Nitworth, Sternwheeler, Barnshingle; the roll-call of those names rings like the majestic tread of . . . of . . .”

“Dinosaurs?” Retief suggested.

“An apt simile,” Magnan nodded. “Those mighty figures, those armored hides—”

“Those tiny brains . . .”

Magnan smiled sadly. “I see you’re indulging your penchant for distorted facetiae. Perhaps one day you’ll learn the true worth of their contributions.”

“I already have my suspicions.”

The intercom chimed. Miss Gumble’s features appeared on the desk screen.

“Mr. Leatherwell to see you, Mr. Magnan. He has no appointment—”

Magnan’s eyebrows went up. “Send Mr. Leatherwell right in.” He looked at Retief. “I had no idea Leatherwell was planning a call. I wonder what he’s after?” Magnan looked anxious. “He’s an important figure in Belt minerals circles. It’s important to avoid arousing antagonism, while maintaining non-commitment. You may as well stay. You might pick up some valuable pointers technique-wise.”

The door swung wide; Leatherwell strode into the room, his massive paunch buckled into fashionable vests of turquoise velvet and hung with the latest in fluorescent watch charms. He extended a large palm, pumped Magnan’s flaccid arm vigorously.

“Ah, there, Mr. Consul-General. Good of you to receive me.” He wiped his hand absently on his thigh, eyeing Retief questioningly.

“Mr. Retief, my Vice-Consul and Minerals Officer,” Magnan said. “Do take a chair, Mr. Leatherwell. In what capacity can I serve today?”

“I am here, gentlemen,” Leatherwell said, putting an immense yellow briefcase on Magnan’s desk and settling himself in a power rocker, “on behalf of my company, General Minerals. General Minerals has long been aware, gentlemen, of the austere conditions obtaining here in the Belt, to which public servants like yourselves are subjected.” Leatherwell bobbed with the pitch of the rocker, smiling complacently at Magnan. “General Minerals is more than a great industrial combine; it is an organization with a heart.” Leatherwell reached for his breast pocket, missed as the chair pitched, tried again.

“How do you turn this damned thing off?” he growled.

Magnan half-rose, peering over Leatherwell’s briefcase. “The switch just there—on the arm . . .”

The executive fumbled. There was a click, and the chair subsided with a sigh of compressed air.

“That’s better.” Leatherwell drew out a long slip of blue paper.

“To alleviate the boredom and brighten the lives of that hardy group of Terrestrials laboring here on Ceres to bring free enterprise to the Belt,” he intoned, “General Minerals is presenting to the consulate—on their behalf—one hundred thousand credits for the construction of a Joy Center, to be equipped with the latest and finest in recreational equipment, including a Gourmet Model C banquet synthesizer, a forty-foot sublimation chamber, a five-thousand-tape library—with a number of choice items unobtainable in Boston—a twenty-foot Tri-D tank, and other amenities too numerous to mention.” Leatherwell leaned back, beaming expectantly.

“Why, Mr. Leatherwell—we’re overwhelmed, of course . . .” Magnan smiled dazedly past the briefcase. “But, I wonder if it’s quite proper . . .”

“The gift is to the people, Mr. Consul. You merely accept on their behalf.”

“I wonder if General Minerals realizes that the hardy Terrestrials laboring on Ceres are limited to the consular staff?” Retief said. “And the staff consists of Mr. Magnan, Miss Gumble, and myself—”

“Mr. Leatherwell is hardly interested in these details, Retief,” Magnan cut in. “A public-spirited offer indeed, sir. As Terrestrial Consul—and on behalf of all Terrestrials here in the Belt—I accept with a humble awareness of—”

“Now, there was one other little matter,” Leatherwell said. He leaned forward to open the briefcase, glancing over Magnan’s littered desk-top. He extracted a bundle of papers, dropped them on the desk, then drew out a heavy document, passed it across to Magnan.

“Just a routine claim. I’d like to see it rushed through, as we have in mind some loading operations in the vicinity next week . . .”

“Certainly, Mr. Leatherwell.” Magnan glanced at the papers, paused to read. He looked up. “Ah . . .”

“Something the matter, Mr. Consul?” Leatherwell demanded.

“It’s just that—ah—I seem to recall—as a matter of fact . . .” Magnan looked at Retief. Retief took the papers, looked over the top sheet.

“95739-A. Sorry, Mr. Leatherwell. General Minerals has been anticipated. We’re processing a prior claim—”

“Prior claim?” Leatherwell barked. “You’ve issued the grant?”

“Oh, no indeed, Mr. Leatherwell,” Magnan replied quickly. “The claim hasn’t yet been processed—”

“Then there’s no difficulty,” Leatherwell boomed. He glanced at his finger watch. “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait and take the grant along with me. I assume it will only take a minute or two to sign it and affix seals and so on?”

“The other claim was filed a full week ago—” Magnan started.

“Bah!” Leatherwell waved a hand impatiently. “These details can be arranged.” He fixed an eye on Magnan. “I’m sure all of us here understand that it’s in the public interest that minerals properties go to responsible firms, with adequate capital for proper development.”

“Why, ah,” Magnan said.

“The Sam’s Last Chance Number Nine Mining Company is a duly chartered firm,” Retief said. “Their claim is valid—”

“I know that hole-in-corner concern,” Leatherwell snapped. “Mere irresponsible opportunists. General Minerals has spent millions—millions, I say—of the stockholders’ funds in minerals explorations. Are they to be balked in realizing a fair return on their investment because these . . . these . . . adventurers have stumbled on a deposit? Not that the property is of any real value, of course,” he added. “Quite an ordinary bit of rock. But General Minerals would find it convenient to consolidate its holdings.”

“There are plenty of other rocks floating around in the Belt. Why not—”

“One moment, Retief,” Magnan cut in. He looked across the desk at his junior with a severe expression. “As Consul-General, I’m quite capable of determining the relative merits of claims. As Mr. Leatherwell has pointed out, it’s in the public interest to consider the question in depth—”

Leatherwell cleared his throat, “I might state at this time that General Minerals is prepared to be generous in dealing with these interlopers. I believe we would go so far as to offer them free title to certain GM holdings in exchange for their release of any alleged rights to the property in question—merely to simplify matters, of course.”

“That seems more than fair to me,” Magnan glowed.

“The Sam’s people have a clear priority,” Retief said. “I logged the claim in last Friday—”

“They have far from a clear title!” Leatherwell snapped. “And I can assure you GM will contest their claim, if need be, to the Supreme Court!”

“Just what holdings did you have in mind offering them, Mr. Leatherwell?” Magnan asked nervously.

Leatherwell reached into his briefcase, drew out a paper.

“2645-P,” he read. “A quite massive body; crustal material, I imagine. It should satisfy these squatters’ desire to own real estate in the Belt.”

“I’ll make a note of that,” Magnan said, reaching for a pad.

“That’s a bona fide offer, Mr. Leatherwell?” Retief asked.

“Certainly!”

“I’ll record it as such,” Magnan said, scribbling.

“And who knows,” Leatherwell said. “It may turn out to contain some surprisingly rich finds . . .”

“And if they won’t accept it?” Retief asked.

“Then, I daresay General Minerals will find a remedy in the courts, sir!”

“Oh, I hardly think that will be necessary—” Magnan said.

“Then there’s another routine matter,” Leatherwell said. He passed a second document across to Magnan. “GM is requesting an injunction to restrain these same parties from aggravated trespass. I’d appreciate it if you’d push it through at once. There’s a matter of a load of illegally obtained ore involved, as well.”

“Certainly, Mr. Leatherwell. I’ll see to it myself—”

“The papers are all drawn up; our legal department will vouch for their correctness. Just sign here . . .” Leatherwell spread out the paper, handed Magnan a pen.

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea to read that over first?” Retief said.

Leatherwell frowned impatiently.

“You’ll have adequate time to familiarize yourself with the details later, Retief,” Magnan snapped, taking the pen. “No need to waste Mr. Leatherwell’s valuable time.” He scratched a signature on the paper. Leatherwell rose, gathered up his papers from Magnan’s desk, dumped them into the briefcase. “Riff-raff, of course. Their kind has no business in the Belt—”

Retief rose, crossed to the desk, and held out a hand. “I believe you gathered in an official document, along with your own, Mr. Leatherwell; by error, of course.”

“What’s that?” Leatherwell bridled. Retief smiled, waiting. Magnan opened his mouth—

“It was under your papers, Mr. Leatherwell,” Retief said. “It’s the thick one, with the rubber bands.”

Leatherwell dug in his briefcase, produced the document. “Well, fancy finding this here . . .” he growled. He shoved the papers into Retief’s hand.

“You’re a very observant young fellow.” He closed the briefcase with a snap. “I trust you’ll have a bright future with the CDT.”

“Really, Retief,” Magnan said reprovingly. “There was no need to trouble Mr. Leatherwell . . .”

Leatherwell rose, crossed to the door. He paused, directed a sharp look at Retief, turned a bland expression on Magnan. “I trust you’ll communicate the proposal to the interested parties. Inasmuch as time is of the essence of the GM position, our offer can only be held open until 0900 Greenwich, tomorrow. I’ll call again at that time to finalize matters. I trust there’ll be no impediment to a satisfactory settlement at that time. I should dislike to embark on lengthy litigation.”

Magnan hurried around his desk to open the door. He turned back to fix Retief with an exasperated frown.

“A crass display of boorishness, Retief,” he snapped. “You’ve embarrassed a most influential member of the business community—and for nothing more than a few miserable forms.”

“Those forms represent somebody’s stake in what might be a valuable property—”

“They’re mere paper until they’ve been processed!”

“Still—”

“My responsibility is to the Public interest—not to a fly-by-night group of prospectors.”

“They found it first.”

“Bah! A worthless rock; after Mr. Leatherwell’s munificent gesture—”

“Better rush his check through before he thinks it over and changes his mind.”

“Good heavens!” Magnan clutched the check, buzzed for Miss Gumble. She swept in, took Magnan’s instructions, and left. Retief waited while Magnan glanced over the injunction, then nodded.

“Quite in order. A person called Sam Mancziewicz appears to be the principal. The address given is the Jolly Barge Hotel; that would be that converted derelict ship in orbit 6942, I assume?”

Retief nodded. “That’s what they call it.”

“As for the ore-carrier, I’d best impound it, pending settlement of the matter.” Magnan drew a form from a drawer, filled in blanks, shoved the paper across the desk. He turned and consulted a wall chart. “The hotel is nearby at the moment, as it happens. Take the consulate dinghy. If you get out there right away, you’ll catch them before the evening binge has developed fully.”

“I take it that’s your diplomatic way of telling me that I’m now a process server.” Retief took the papers and tucked them into an inside pocket.

“One of the many functions a diplomat is called on to perform in a small consular post. Excellent experience. I needn’t warn you to be circumspect. These miners are an unruly lot—especially when receiving bad news.”

“Aren’t we all?” Retief rose. “I don’t suppose there’s any prospect of your signing off that claim so that I can take a little good news along, too . . . ?”

“None whatever,” Magnan snapped. “They’ve been made a most generous offer. If that fails to satisfy them, they have recourse through the courts.”

“Fighting a suit like that costs money. The Sam’s Last Chance Mining Company hasn’t got any.”

“Need I remind you—”

“I know; that’s none of our concern.”

“On your way out,” Magnan said as Retief turned to the door, “ask Miss Gumble to bring in the Gourmet catalog from the Commercial Library. I want to check on the specifications of the Model C Banquet synthesizer.”

An hour later, nine hundred miles from Ceres and fast approaching the Jolly Barge Hotel, Retief keyed the skiff’s transmitter.

“CDT 347-89 calling Navy FP-VO-6.”

“Navy VO-6 here, CDT,” a prompt voice came back. A flickering image appeared on the small screen. “Oh, hi there, Mr. Retief. What brings you out in the cold night air?”

“Hello, Henry. I’m estimating the Jolly Barge in ten minutes. It looks like a busy night ahead. I may be moving around a little. How about keeping an eye on me? I’ll be carrying a personnel beacon. Monitor it, and if I switch it into high, come in fast. I can’t afford to be held up. I’ve got a big meeting in the morning.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Retief. We’ll keep an eye open.”

Retief dropped a ten credit note on the bar, accepted a glass and a squat bottle of black Marsberry brandy, and turned to survey the low-ceilinged room, a former hydroponics deck now known as the Jungle Bar. Under the low ceiling, unpruned Ipomoea batatas and Lathyrus odoratus vines sprawled in a tangle that filtered the light of the S-spectrum glare panels to a muted green. A six-foot trideo screen salvaged from the wreck of a Concordiat transport blared taped music in the style of two centuries past. At the tables heavy-shouldered men, in bright-dyed suit liners played cards, clanked bottles, and carried on shouted conversations.

Carrying the bottle and glass, Retief moved across to an empty chair at one of the tables.

“You gentlemen mind if I join you?”

Five unshaved faces turned to study Retief’s six foot three, his closecut black hair, his non-committal grey coverall, the scars on his knuckles. A red-head with a broken nose nodded. “Pull up a chair, stranger.”

“You workin’ a claim, pardner?”

“Just looking around.”

“Try a shot of this rock juice.”

“Don’t do it, Mister. He makes it himself.”

“Best rock juice this side of Luna.”

“Say, feller—”

“The name’s Retief.”

“Retief, you ever play Drift?”

“Can’t say that I did.”

“Don’t gamble with Sam, pardner. He’s the local champ.”

“How do you play it?”

The black-browed miner who had suggested the game rolled back his sleeve to reveal a sinewy forearm, put his elbow on the table.

“You hook forefingers, and put a glass right up on top. The man that takes a swallow wins. If the drink spills, it’s drinks for the house.”

“A man don’t often win outright,” the red-head said cheerfully. “But it makes for plenty of drinkin’.”

Retief put his elbow on the table. “I’ll give it a try.”

The two men hooked forefingers. The red-head poured a tumbler half full of rock juice, placed it atop the two fists. “OK, boys. Go!”

The man named Sam gritted his teeth; his biceps tensed; his knuckles grew white. The glass trembled. Then it moved—toward Retief. Sam hunched his shoulders, straining.

“That’s the stuff, Mister!”

“What’s the matter, Sam? You tired?”

The glass moved steadily closer to Retief’s face.

“A hundred the new man makes it!”

“Watch Sam; any minute now . . .”

The glass slowed, paused. Retief’s wrist twitched and the glass crashed to the table top. A shout went up. Sam leaned back with a sigh, massaging his hand.

“That’s some arm you got there, Mister,” he said. “If you hadn’t jumped just then . . .”

“I guess the drinks are on me,” Retief said.

Two hours later Retief’s Marsberry bottle stood empty on the table beside half a dozen others.

“We were lucky,” Sam Mancziewicz was saying. “You figure the original volume of the planet; say 245,000,000,000 cubic miles. The deBerry theory calls for a collapsed-crystal core no more than a mile in diameter. There’s your odds.”

“And you believe you’ve found a fragment of this core?”

“Damn right we have. Couple of million tons if it’s an ounce—and at three credits a ton delivered at Port Syrtis, we’re set for life. About time, too. Twenty years I’ve been in the Belt. Got two kids I haven’t seen for five years. Things are going to be different now.”

“Hey, Sam; tone it down. You don’t have to broadcast to every claim jumper in the Belt—”

“Our claim’s on file at the consulate,” Sam said. “As soon as we get the grant—”

“When’s that gonna be? We been waitin’ a week now.”

“I’ve never seen any collapsed-crystal metal,” Retief said. “I’d like to take a look at it.”

“Sure; come on, I’ll run you over. It’s about an hour’s run. We’ll take our skiff. You want to go along, Willy?”

“I got a bottle to go,” Willy said. “See you in the morning.”

The two men descended in the lift to the boat bay, suited up, and strapped into the cramped boat. A bored attendant cycled the launch doors, levered the release that propelled the skiff out and clear of the Jolly Barge Hotel. Retief caught a glimpse of a tower of lights spinning majestically against the black of space as the drive hurled the tiny boat away.

Retief’s feet sank ankle deep into the powdery surface that glinted like snow in the glare of the distant sun.

“It’s funny stuff,” Sam’s voice sounded in his ear. “Under a gee of gravity, you’d sink out of sight. The stuff cuts diamond like butter—but temperature changes break it down into a powder. A lot of it’s used just like this, as an industrial abrasive. Easy to load, too. Just drop a suction line and start pumping.”

“And this whole rock is made of the same material?”

“Sure is. We ran plenty of test bores, and a full schedule of soundings. I’ve got the reports back aboard Gertie—that’s our lighter.”

“And you’ve already loaded a cargo here?”

“Yep. We’re running out of capital fast. I need to get that cargo to port in a hurry—before the outfit goes into involuntary bankruptcy. With this strike, that’d be a crime. By the time the legal fees were paid off, we’d be broke again.”

“What do you know about General Minerals, Sam?”

“You thinking of hiring on with them? Better read the fine print in your contract before you sign. Sneakiest bunch this side of a burglar’s convention.”

“They own a chunk of rock known as 2645-P. Do you suppose we could find it?”

“Oh, you’re buying in, hey? Sure, we can find it. You damn sure want to look it over good if General Minerals is selling.”

Back aboard the skiff, Mancziewicz flipped the pages of the chart book, consulted a table. “Yep, she’s not too far off. Let’s go see what GM’s trying to unload . . .

The skiff hovered two miles from the giant boulder known as 2645-P. Retief and Mancziewicz looked it over at high magnification. “It don’t look like much, Retief,” Sam said. “Let’s go down and take a closer look.”

The boat dropped rapidly toward the scarred surface of the tiny world, a floating mountain, glaring black and white in the spotlight of the sun. Sam frowned at his instrument panel.

“That’s funny; my ion-counter is revving up. Looks like a drive trail, not more than an hour or two old. Somebody’s been here . . .”

The boat grounded. Retief and Sam got out. The stony surface was littered with rock fragments varying in size from pebbles to great slabs twenty feet long, tumbled in a loose bed of dust and sand. Retief pushed off gently, drifted up to a vantage point atop an upended wedge of rock. Sam joined him.

“This is all igneous stuff,” he said. “Not likely we’ll find much here that would pay the freight to Syrtis—unless maybe you lucked onto some Bodean artifacts. They bring plenty.”

He flipped a binocular in place as he talked, scanned the riven landscape. “Hey!” he said. “Over there . . .”

Retief followed Sam’s pointing glove. He studied the dark patch against a smooth expanse of eroded rock.

“A friend of mine came across a chunk of the old planetary surface two years ago,” Sam said thoughtfully. “Had a tunnel in it that’d been used as a storage depot by the Bodeans. Took out over two ton of hardware. Course, nobody’s discovered how the stuff works yet, but it brings top prices . . .”

“Looks like water erosion,” Retief said.

“Yep. This could be another piece of surface, all right. Could be a cave over there. The Bodeans liked caves, too. Must have been some war—but then, if it hadn’t been, they wouldn’t have tucked so much stuff away underground where it could weather the planetary break-up.”

They descended, crossed the jumbled rocks with light, thirty-foot leaps.

“It’s a cave, all right,” Sam said, stooping to peer into the five-foot bore. Retief followed him inside.

“Let’s get some light in here.” Mancziewicz flipped on a beam. It glinted back from dull polished surfaces of Bodean synthetic. Sam’s low whistle sounded in Retief’s headset.

“That’s funny,” Retief said.

“Funny, Hell! It’s hilarious. General Minerals trying to sell off a worthless rock to a tenderfoot—and it’s loaded with Bodean hardware. No telling how much is here; the tunnel seems to go quite a ways back. And there may be more caves around here—”

“That’s not what I mean. Do you notice your suit warming up?”

“Huh? Yeah, now that you mention it . . .”

Retief rapped with a gauntleted hand on the satiny black curve of the nearest Bodean artifact. It clunked dully through the suit. “That’s not metal,” he said. “It’s plastic.”

“There’s something fishy here,” Sam said. “This erosion; it looks more like a heat beam . . .”

“Sam,” Retief said, turning; “it appears to me somebody has gone to a great deal of trouble to give a false impression here—”

Sam snorted. “I told you they were a crafty bunch.” He started out of the cave, then paused, went to one knee to study the floor. “But maybe they outsmarted themselves,” he said, his voice tense with excitement. “Look here!”

Retief looked. Sam’s beam reflected from a fused surface of milky white, shot through with dirty yellow. He snapped a pointed instrument in place on his gauntlet, dug at one of the yellow streaks. It furrowed under the gouge, a particle adhering to the instrument. With his left hand, Mancziewicz opened a pouch clipped to his belt, carefully deposited the sample in a small orifice on the device in the pouch. He flipped a key, squinted at a dial.

“Atomic weight 197.2,” he said. Retief turned down the audio volume on his headset as Sam’s laughter rang in his helmet.

“Those clowns were out to stick you, Retief,” he gasped, still chuckling. “They salted the rock with a cave full of Bodean artifacts—”

“Fake Bodean artifacts,” Retief put in.

“They planed off the rock so it would look like an old beach, and then cut this cave with beamers. And they were boring through practically solid gold!”

“As good as that?”

Mancziewicz flashed the light around. “This stuff will assay out at a thousand credits a ton, easy. If the vein doesn’t run to five thousand tons, the beers are on me.” He snapped off the light. “Let’s get moving, Retief. You want to sew this deal up before they get around to taking another look at it.”

Back in the boat, Retief and Mancziewicz opened their helmets. “This calls for a drink,” Sam said, extracting a pressure flask from the map case. “This rock’s worth as much as mine, maybe more. You hit it lucky, Retief. Congratulations.” He thrust out a hand.

“I’m afraid you’ve jumped to a couple of conclusions, Sam,” Retief said. “I’m not out here to buy mining properties.”

“You’re not—then why—but man! Even if you didn’t figure on buying . . .” He trailed off as Retief shook his head, unzipped his suit to reach to an inside pocket, take out a packet of folded papers.

“In my capacity as Terrestrial Vice-Consul, I’m serving you with an injunction restraining you from further exploitation of the body known as 95739-A.” He handed a paper across to Sam. “I also have here an Order impounding the vessel Gravel Gertie II.”

Sam took the papers silently, sat looking at them. He looked up at Retief. “Funny; when you beat me at Drift and then threw the game so you wouldn’t show me up in front of the boys, I figured you for a right guy. I’ve been spilling my heart out to you like you were my old grandma—an old-timer in the game like me.” He dropped a hand, brought it up with a Browning 2mm pointed at Retief’s chest.

“I could shoot you and dump you here with a slab over you, toss these papers in the john, and high-tail it with the load . . .”

“That wouldn’t do you much good in the long run, Sam. Besides which you’re not a criminal or an idiot.”

Sam chewed his lip. “My claim is on file in the consulate, legal and proper. Maybe by now the grant’s gone through and I’ve got clear title—”

“Other people have their eye on your rock, Sam. Ever meet a fellow called Leatherwell?”

“General Minerals, huh? They haven’t got a leg to stand on.”

“The last time I saw your claim, it was still lying in the pending file—just a bundle of paper until it’s validated by the Consul. If Leatherwell contests it . . . well, his lawyers are on annual retainer. How long could you keep the suit going, Sam?”

Mancziewicz closed his helmet with a decisive snap, motioned to Retief to do the same. He opened the hatch, sat with the gun on Retief.

“Get out, paper-pusher,” his voice sounded thin in the headphones. “You’ll get lonesome maybe, but your suit will keep you alive a few days. I’ll tip somebody off before you lose too much weight. I’m going back and see if I can’t stir up a little action at the consulate.”

Retief climbed out, walked off fifty yards. He watched as the skiff kicked off in a quickly-dispersed cloud of dust, dwindled rapidly away to a bright speck that was lost against the stars. Then he extracted the locator beacon from the pocket of his suit and thumbed the control.

Twenty minutes later, aboard Navy FP-VO-6, Retief pulled off his helmet. “Fast work, Henry. I’ve got a couple of calls to make. Put me through to your HQ, will you? I want a word with Commander Hayle.”

The young Naval officer raised the HQ, handed the mike to Retief.

“Vice-Consul Retief here, commander. I’d like you to intercept a skiff, bound from my present position toward Ceres. There’s a Mr. Mancziewicz aboard. He’s armed, but not dangerous. Collect him and see that he’s delivered to the consulate at 0900 Greenwich tomorrow.

“Next item: The consulate has impounded an ore-carrier, Gravel Gertie II. It’s in a parking orbit ten miles off Ceres. I want it taken in tow . . .” Retief gave detailed instruction. Then he asked for a connection through the Navy switchboard to the consulate. Magnan’s voice answered.

“Retief speaking, Mr. Consul; I have some news that I think will interest you—”

“Where are you, Retief? What’s wrong with the screen? Have you served the injunction?”

“I’m aboard the Navy patrol vessel. I’ve been looking over the situation, and I’ve made a surprising discovery. I don’t think we’re going to have any trouble with the Sam’s people; they’ve looked over the body—2645-P—and it seems General Minerals has slipped up. There appears to be a highly valuable deposit there.”

“Oh? What sort of deposit?”

“Mr. Mancziewicz mentioned collapsed-crystal metal,” Retief said.

“Well, most interesting.” Magnan’s voice sounded thoughtful.

“Just thought you’d like to know. This should simplify the meeting in the morning.”

“Yes,” Magnan said. “Yes, indeed. I think this makes everything very simple . . .”

At 0845 Greenwich, Retief stepped into the outer office of the consular suite.

“ . . . fantastic configuration,” Leatherwell’s bass voice rumbled, “covering literally acres. My xeno-geologists are somewhat confused by the formations. They had only a few hours to examine the site; but it’s clear from the extent of the surface indications that we have a very rich find here; very rich, indeed. Beside it, 95739-A dwindles into significance. Very fast thinking on your part, Mr. Consul, to bring the matter to my attention.”

“Not at all, Mr. Leatherwell. After all—”

“Our tentative theory is that the basic crystal fragment encountered the core material at some time, and gathered it in. Since we had been working on—that is, had landed to take samples on the other side of the body, this anomalous deposit escaped our attention completely—”

Retief stepped into the room.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Has Mr. Mancziewicz arrived?”

“Mr. Mancziewicz is under restraint by the Navy. I’ve had a call to the effect that he’d be escorted here.”

“Arrested, eh?” Leatherwell nodded. “I told you these people were an irresponsible group. In a way it seems a pity to waste a piece of property like 95739-A on them . . .”

“I understood General Minerals was claiming that rock,” Retief said, looking surprised.

Leatherwell and Magnan exchanged glances. “Ah, GM has decided to drop all claim to the body,” Leatherwell said. “As always, we wish to encourage enterprise on the part of the small operators. Let them keep the property. After all, GM has other deposits well worth exploiting.” He smiled complacently.

“What about 2645-P? You’ve offered it to the Sam’s group—”

“That offer is naturally withdrawn!” Leatherwell snapped.

“I don’t see how you can withdraw the offer,” Retief said. “It’s been officially recorded; it’s a bona fide contract, binding on General Minerals, subject to—”

“Out of the goodness of our corporate heart,” Leatherwell roared, “we’ve offered to relinquish our claim—our legitimate, rightful claim—to asteroid 2645-P; and you have the infernal gall to spout legal technicalities! I have half a mind to withdraw my offer to withdraw!”

“Actually,” Magnan put in, eyeing a corner of the room, “I’m not at all sure I could turn up the record of the offer of 2645-P. I noted it down on a bit of scratch paper—”

“That’s all right,” Retief said, “I had my pocket recorder going. I sealed the record and deposited it in the consular archives.”

There was a clatter of feet outside. Miss Gumble’s face appeared on the desk screen. “There are a number of persons here—” she began.

The door banged open. Sam Mancziewicz stepped into the room, a sailor tugging at each arm. He shook them loose, stared around the room. His eyes lighted on Retief. “How did you get here . . . ?”

“Look here, Monkeywits or whatever your name is,” Leatherwell began, popping out of his chair—

Mancziewicz whirled, seized the stout executive by the shirt front, and lifted him into his tiptoes. “You double-barreled copper-bottomed oak-lined son-of-a—”

“Don’t spoil him, Sam,” Retief said casually. “He’s here to sign off all rights—if any—to 95739-A. It’s all yours—if you want it.”

Sam glared into Leatherwell’s eyes. “That right?” he grated. Leatherwell bobbed his head, his chins compressed into bulging folds.

“However,” Retief went on, “I wasn’t at all sure you’d still be agreeable, since he’s made your company a binding offer of 2645-P in return for clear title to 95739-A.”

Mancziewicz looked across at Retief with narrowed eyes. He released Leatherwell, who slumped into his chair. Magnan darted around his desk to minister to the magnate. Behind them Retief closed one eye in a broad wink at Mancziewicz.

“ . . . still, if Mr. Leatherwell will agree, in addition to guaranteeing your title to 95739-A, to purchase your output at four credits a ton, FOB his collection station—”

Mancziewicz looked at Leatherwell. Leatherwell hesitated, then nodded. “Agreed,” he croaked.

“ . . . and to open his commissary and postal facilities to all prospectors operating in the Belt . . .”

Leatherwell swallowed, eyes bulging, glanced at Mancziewicz’s face . . . He nodded. “Agreed.”

“ . . . then I think I’d sign an agreement releasing him from his offer.”

Mancziewicz looked at Magnan.

“You’re the Terrestrial Consul-General,” he said. “Is that the straight goods?”

Magnan nodded. “If Mr. Leatherwell agrees—”

“He’s already agreed,” Retief said. “My pocket recorder, you know.”

“Put it in writing,” Mancziewicz said.

Magnan called in Miss Gumble. The others waited silently while Magnan dictated. He signed the paper with a flourish, passed it across to Mancziewicz. He read it, re-read it, then picked up the pen and signed. Magnan impressed the consular seal on the paper.

“Now the grant,” Retief said. Magnan signed the paper, added a seal. Mancziewicz tucked the papers away in an inner pocket. He rose.

“Well, gents, I guess maybe I had you figured wrong,” he said. He looked at Retief. “Uh . . . got time for a drink?”

“I shouldn’t drink on duty,” Retief said. He rose. “So I’ll take the rest of the day off.”

“I don’t get it,” Sam said, signaling for refills. “What was the routine with the injunction—and impounding Gertie? You could have got hurt.”

“I don’t think so,” Retief said. “If you’d meant business with that Browning, you’d have flipped the safety off. As for the injunction—orders are orders.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Sam said. “That gold deposit; it was a plant, too, wasn’t it?”

“I’m just a bureaucrat, Sam. What would I know about gold?”

“A double-salting job,” Sam said. “I was supposed to spot the phoney hardware—and then fall for the gold plant. When Leatherwell put his proposition to me, I’d grab it. The gold was worth plenty, I’d figure, and I couldn’t afford a legal tangle with General Minerals. The lousy skunk. And you must have spotted it and put it up to him—”

The bartender leaned across to Retief. “Wanted on the phone.”

In the booth, Magnan’s agitated face stared at Retief.

“Retief, Mr. Leatherwell’s in a towering rage! The deposit on 2645-P; it was merely a surface film, barely a few inches thick! The entire deposit wouldn’t fill an ore-boat . . .” A horrified expression dawned on Magnan’s face. “Retief,” he gasped, “what did you do with the impounded ore-carrier?”

“Well, let me see . . .” Retief said. “According to the Space Navigation Code, a body in orbit within twenty miles of any inhabited airless body constitutes a navigational hazard. Accordingly, I had it towed away.”

“And the cargo?”

“Well, accelerating all that mass was an expensive business, so to save the tax-payer’s credits, I had it dumped.”

“Where?” Magnan croaked.

“On some unimportant asteroid—as specified by Regulations.” He smiled blandly at Magnan. Magnan looked back numbly.

“But you said—”

“All I said was that there was what looked like a valuable deposit on 2645-P. It turned out to be a bogus gold mine that somebody had rigged up in a hurry. Curious, eh?”

“But you told me—”

“And you told Mr. Leatherwell. Indiscreet of you, Mr. Consul. That was a privileged communication; classified information, official use only.”

“You led me to believe there was collapsed-crystal—”

“I said Sam had mentioned it. He told me his asteroid was made of the stuff.”

Magnan swallowed hard, twice. “By the way,” he said dully. “You were right about the check. Half an hour ago Mr. Leatherwell tried to stop payment. He was too late . . .”

“All in all, it’s been a big day for Leatherwell,” Retief said. “Anything else?”

“I hope not,” Magnan said. “I sincerely hope not . . .” He leaned close to the screen. “You’ll consider the entire affair as . . . confidential? There’s no point in unduly complicating relationships—”

“Have no fear, Mr. Consul,” Retief said cheerfully. “You won’t find me identifying with anything as specific as triple-salting an asteroid.”

Back at the table, Sam called for another bottle of rock juice.

“That Drift’s a pretty good game,” Retief said. “But let me show you one I learned out on Yill . . .”

THE BRASS GOD

“Rising above crass materialism, the native piety of Corps diplomats, coupled with a solemn appreciation of universal spiritual values, has enriched Corps annals with no more inspiring example of the reconciliation of alien ideologies than that of Ambassador Straphanger’s virtuoso performance among the Hoog. Ever humbly aware of the Great Notebook in the hand of the Big Inspector—whose E.R.’s are written on the parchment of Eternity—Straphanger penetrated the veils of ecclesiastical mystery to base a rapprochement on the firm ground of the realistic doctrine of the Universal Popularity of Sin . . .”

—Vol. II, Reel I, 480 AE (AD 2941)

The Hoogan chamberlain was tall, black-clad, high-shouldered, with an immense dome-shaped head sloping into massive shoulders, eyes like freshly shelled oysters in a leathery face and over-long, dangling arms. He turned to face the party of Terrestrial diplomats who stood clutching suitcases, dwarfed under the lofty vaulted ceiling of the vast, dark hall. Shafts of eerily colored light filtered through stained-glass loopholes high in the walls to shed a faint glow on the uneven stone floor, the drab-colored murals and hangings depicting the specialties of the seven Hoogan Hells, the mouths of dark corridors radiating from the circular chamber with helmeted and kilted Hoogan pikemen spaced between them, immobile as the gargoyles that peered from high niches.

“His Arrokanze the Bope has kraziously blaced at your disposal these cosy quarters,” the chamberlain said in a deep, hollow voice. “You may now zelect rooms on the floors above and array yourselves in the karments provided—”

“Look here, Mr. Oh-Doomy-Gloom,” Ambassador Straphanger cut in. “I’ve been thinking it over, and I’ve decided that my staff and I will just nip back over to our ship for the night—”

“His Arrokanze will pe eggpecting you at the fête in the Bapal Kardens in one hour’s time,” the Hoogan bored on. “His Arrokanze tislikes intenzely to be kept waitink.”

“Oh, we’re all keenly aware of the honor His Arrogance has paid us in offering accommodations here in the Papal Palace, but—”

“One hour,” Oh-Doomy-Gloom repeated, his voice echoing across the hall. He turned away, the symbolic chain attached to his neck clanking as he moved. He paused, turned back.

“By the way, you are instrugted to iknore any small ah . . . indrusions. If you zee anything . . . unusual, zummon a guard at once.”

“Intrusions?” Straphanger repeated querulously. “What kind of intrusions?”

“The balace,” Oh-Doomy-Gloom said, “is haunted.”

Four twisting turns of a stone staircase above the reception hall, Second Secretary Magnan tip-toed at Retief’s side along an echoing corridor past black, iron-bound doors and mouldy tapestries dimly visible in the light of a flambeau set in a bracket at the far end of the passage.

“Quaint beliefs these bucolics entertain,” Magnan said in a tone of forced heartiness. “Haunted indeed! How silly! Ha!”

“Why are you whispering?” Retief inquired.

“Just out of respect for the Pope, of course.” Magnan came to an abrupt halt, clutched Retief’s sleeve. “Wha-what’s that?” he pointed. Along the corridor, something small and dark slipped from the shadow of a pilaster to the shelter of a doorway.

“Probably just our imagination,” Retief suggested.

“But it had big red eyes,” Magnan protested.

“They’re as easy to imagine as any other kind.”

“I just remembered: I left my shower cap in my hold baggage. Let’s go back.”

Retief moved off. “It’s just a few doors farther. Six, seven . . . here we are.” He inserted the key Oh-Doomy-Gloom’s aide had provided; the heavy door swung open with a creak that descended the scale to a low groan. Magnan hurried forward, paused to stare at the nearest wall hanging, showing a group of Hoogans suspended head-down from spikes above leaping flames, while goblins of various shapes prodded them with long barb-tipped spears.

“Curious how similar religious art is from one world to another,” he commented. Inside the room, he stared around in dismay at the damp stone walls, the two spartan cots, the carved devils in the corner.

“What perfectly ghastly quarters!” He dropped his suitcase, went over to prod the nearest bunk. “Why, my spine will never endure this mattress! I’ll be a physical wreck after the first night! And the draft—I’m sure to catch a chill. And . . . and . . .” He broke off, raised a shaky finger to point at the darkest corner of the narrow chamber, where a tall, bug-eyed demon carved from pale blue stone winked garnet eyes.

“Retief! Something moved over there—it was just like the devils in the pictures! All fuzzy red bristles and eyes that glow in the dark . . . !”

Retief opened his suitcase. “If you see another one, throw a shoe at it. Right now, we’d better be getting into costume; compared with an aroused Ambassador, a few devils are just friendly pets.”

Half an hour later, having sponged off at the stone sink, Magnan’s eyes were still rolling nervously as he adjusted the folds of his Hoogan ceremonial sarong before the tarnished, rippled mirror.

“I suppose it is just nerves,” he said. “It’s all the fault of that Oh-Doomy-Gloom fellow and his quaint native superstitions! I confess his remarks quite unnerved me for a moment.”

Across the room, Third Secretary Retief was loading match-head sized charges into the magazine of an inconspicuous hand-gun.

“Probably just his way of warning us about the mice,” he said.

Magnan turned, caught a glimpse of the gun. “Here, Retief! What’s that?”

“Just a quaint native cure for spooks—if they get too noisy.” He tucked the gun out of sight under the Hoogan sarong. “Just think of it as a sort of good luck charm, Mr. Magnan.”

“A knife up the sleeve is an old diplomatic tradition,” Magnan said doubtfully. “But a power pistol under the sarong . . .”

“I’ll have it along in case something jumps out of the stonework and yells boo!” Retief said reassuringly.

Magnan sniffed, admiring himself in the dark glass.

“I was rather relieved when the Ambassador insisted on native dress for the staff instead of ceremonial nudity for tonight’s affair.” He turned to study the hang of the uneven hem-line that exposed his bare shins. “One of his finer moments, I fancied. He does cut an impressive figure, once his jowls get that purplish tinge. Not even Oh-Doomy-Gloom dared stand up to him. Though I do wish he’d gone just the one step further and demanded the right to wear trousers—” he broke off, his eyes on the black drapes covering the high, narrow window. The heavy cloth twitched.

“Retief!” he gasped. “There it is again!”

“Shhh,” Retief watched as the curtain moved again. A tiny red-glowing head appeared at its edge, a foot above the floor; a wire-thin leg emerged, another; a body like a ball of reddish fluff came into view, its red-bead eyes on two inch stalks tilting alertly to scan the chamber. Its gaze fixed on Retief; it moved clear of the curtain, paused, then started toward him on skittery legs—

With a yell, Magnan dived for the door, flung it wide.

“Guards! Help! Goblins! Spooks!” His voice receded along the hall, mingling with the clank of accouterments, the slap of wide Hoogan feet.

The intruder hesitated at the outcry, dithered for a moment, then emitted a cry like a goosed fairy, fumbling with two of its limbs at something attached to its back. Beyond the door, Magnan’s voice supplied a shrill counterpoint to the rumble of Hoogan questions.

“Then get someone who speaks Terran!” he yelped. “At this moment my associate is being savaged by the monster!”

Retief crossed quickly to the window, pulled the drapes aside and unlatched a panel, letting in a draft of damp night air.

“This way out, fellow,” he said. “You’d better be going before the cops arrive.”

The fluff-ball darted across the room, came to a shaky stop before Retief, made quick motions. A folded square of paper fell to the floor at Retief’s feet. Then the creature sprang for the opening and was gone as Hoogan feet clumped at the door.

“Where Spism?” a heavy voice demanded in thick Terran. A conical Hoogan head in a flaring helmet swiveled to scan the room. Behind the guard, Magnan craned for a view.

“Where is the beast?” he shrilled. “It was at least four feet high, and its tusks were four inches long at the very least!”

The Hoogan advanced into the room, pointed to the open window with his broad-headed seven-foot pike.

“It was a mouse after all,” Retief said. “It got away.”

“You let Spism ko?”

“Shouldn’t I have?” Retief inquired mildly, pocketing the folded paper.

“Spism pad imp from nether rechions; might bite Terry, get blood boisonink.”

“I think you’re being impertinent,” Magnan said sharply, “biting Terrans is perfectly safe—”

The Hoogan turned to him, pike lowered ominously.

“You will gome with me,” it ordered. “The benaldy for consortink with minions of Unterworlt is poilink in oil.”

“Here,” Magnan said, backing. “Stand back, my man—”

The Hoogan reached for Magnan with a long, snaky hand; Retief stepped up behind him, selected a spot, and struck a sharp blow with bunched fingertips. The guard stumbled, fell past Magnan and hit chin first with a resounding slam. His pike shattered against the wall.

“Retief!” Magnan gobbled. “What are you thinking of? You’ve laid hands on a member of the Papal Guard!”

“I had the distinct impression this fellow hooked a toe on the rug and fell down. Didn’t you notice?”

“Why, you know very well—”

“Just before he reached you, Mr. Magnan.”

“Ah . . . why, yes, now that you mention it, he did trip,” Magnan’s tone was suddenly brisk. “Nasty fall. I rushed up to support him, but alas, too late. Poor fellow. Served him right, the brute. Shall we go through his pockets?”

“Why?”

“You’re right; there isn’t time. That crash was doubtless heard throughout the palace—”

A second Hoogan appeared at the open door, his helmet bearing the fanged angel indicative of officer rank. He eyed the fallen pikeman.

“You addacked this one?” he demanded.

Magnan glanced at the victim as though noticing him for the first time. “He seems to have fallen down,” he observed brightly.

“Against rules to gill Hoogan,” the captain said ominously.

“He . . . ah . . . broke his spear,” Magnan pointed out helpfully.

“Very bad crime, defile ceremonial spear,” the captain said sternly. “Require burification ceremony. Very expensive.”

Magnan fumbled in a money pouch at one hip. “I’d love to contribute a little something—”

“Ten Hoogan gredits, forget whole thing. For eggstra five dispose of body—”

The felled Hoogan stirred, mumbled, sat up.

“Ha!” the captain said. “Look like no teal. Put for another eggstra five . . .” He lifted a short, ugly club from his belt. “Finish off unfortunate victim of Terry violence.”

“Stop!” Magnan yelled. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Inzult to Overseer caste briest cosd you two more gredits. For you I mage special brice, three for five—”

“Bribery?” Magnan gasped. “Corruption?”

“Three it is,” the Hoogan nodded. “How apout you?” he turned to Retief. “You sport like other Terry?”

“Look here, I’m paying you nothing!” Magnan barked. “Just assist this unfortunate chap out of here, if you please, and we’ll get on with our dressing!”

“Small religious contributions fine old Hoogan gustom!” the Overseer protested. “You want to fiolate local tapoos?”

“We Terrans have a few customs of our own,” Retief put in smoothly. “We feel that graft should only be paid voluntarily.” He offered a note which the officer palmed deftly. The guard was on his feet now, swaying; the captain barked an order; his subordinate gathered up the spear fragments, shot Magnan a poisonous look and departed, followed by the captain.

Retief closed the door behind the departing visitors, fished out the scrap of paper dropped by the fleeing Spism, opened it out:

BY THE OGRE FOUNTAIN AT SECOND

MOONRISE; WEAR A YELLOW DUNGFLOWER

Magnan, busy at the mirror again, heaved a deep sigh.

“Hardly an auspicious beginning,” he commented. Then: “Heavens! It’s twenty thirty! We’re late!” He gave his sarong a final tug, smoothed a thinning lock across his forehead, led the way along the echoing hall and down a spiral stair to an archway debouching onto wide steps above a ragged lawn. Blue lanterns hanging in the branches of skeletal trees shed a wan radiance on the fungus-like ornamental plants, the sculptures representing souls in torment, and the wide tables laden with Terran delicacies hastily unloaded from the Corps transport for the occasion. A dozen grotesquely shaped fountains spread a fine mist and an odor of sulphur across the festive scene. Beyond the high, spike-topped wall, the ominous shape of an immense brass-colored idol reared up half a mile away, its ferocious sculptured grin glowing in the glare of spotlights, its right arm raised in the Hoogan royal salute, elbow straight out, forearm pointing upward with fingers spread, the left hand gripping the right biceps. Magnan shuddered.

“That beastly idol—it’s sub-Hoogan,” he commented. “Isn’t that smoke coming out of its nostrils?”

Retief sniffed. “Something’s burning,” he agreed.

A dark figure stepped up from dense shadow at Magnan’s elbow. “Only old newsbapers you scent,” it rumbled. “Our Hoogan Kods are uzeful; they zerve as gommunity inzinerators.”

“Oh-Doomy-Gloom! You startled me!” Magnan chirped. He slapped at an insect that buzzed his face. “I do hope the evening is a big success. It was so thoughtful of His Arrogance to allow the Corps to act as host tonight; such a gesture of acceptance, sort of.”

“Reverze hosbitality is an old Hoogan gustom,” Oh-Doomy-Gloom said. “It would be a good idea to know all our old Hoogan gustoms, so as not to end up lige the last Derran Tiplomat.”

“Yes, it was unfortunate about Ambassador Straphanger’s predecessor getting excommunicated, and all. But really, how was he to know he was supposed to fill the Papal begging bowl with hundred-credit notes?”

“It wasn’t zo much not contributink; but pourink the canned beans in spoiled the bill His Arrokanze had planted as a hint.”

“A bad scene,” Magnan agreed. “But I’m sure this evening will smooth everything over.”

The orchestra was tuning up now; lugubrious notes groaned across the lawn. Armed Papal guards were taking up their posts, and sarong-clad diplomats were forming up a receiving line by the stone arch opening on the drive through which the dignitaries would arrive.

“I must hurry alonk now and zee to the kun emplazements,” Oh-Doomy-Gloom said. “One lasd suggestion: worldly goods of course mean nothink to His Arrokanze, but the deadliest of the zinz is Stinchiness. His Arrokanze detests a tightwad.” He moved off, chains clashing.

“The Ambassador’s not out yet,” Magnan noted nervously. “Gracious, I hope he puts in an appearance before Pope Ai-Poppy-Googy arrives. I dread the prospect of having to engage His Arrogance in light chitchat.”

“According to the Post Report, dealing with the Pope is very simple,” Retief said. “Just give him everything in sight, and if that doesn’t satisfy him, give him some more.”

“I can see that you’re getting the hang of diplomacy, Retief,” Magnan said approvingly. “Still, I’m worried . . .”

“Since it’s your job as Protocol Officer to soften up difficult guests,” Retief said, “why not meet the Pope at the gate and try out a few racy stories on him?”

“I hardly imagine that the Chief of State of a Theocracy would react favorably to biological anecdotes,” Magnan said stiffly.

“Oh, biology is a perfectly clean subject here on Hoog; but don’t bring up cooking in polite conversation. According to the handbook, there’s an unspoken agreement among the cultured element that the stork brings the goodies.”

“Really? Heavens, and all the cookies are stamped ‘Made in Hong Kong’! I’ll have to tell the cook to substitute blintzes. While I’m attending to that, you’d best take your post at the gate. You’ll handle the first shift tonight. I’ll send Stringwhistle along to relieve you in an hour.”

“I could delay the Pope a few minutes for you,” Retief offered, as they crossed to the gate. “Suppose I start by demanding to see his invitation—”

“None of your ill-timed japes, Retief! After the last mission’s fiasco, establishing a friendly rapport with the Pope tonight could mean promotions all around.”

“I think the traditional lawn party is a little too subtle for a fellow like the Pope. We should have used a simpler symbolism—like a few rounds of heavy artillery lobbed into the palace grounds.”

“Hardly the diplomatic approach,” Magnan sniffed. “For centuries now it’s been understood that if enough diplomats go to enough parties, everything will come right in the end.”

“I wonder if the Hoogans understand that tradition?”

“Certainly; after all, we’re all fellow beings—brothers under the skin, as it were.”

“In this case, the skin is an inch thick and tougher than armorplast. I’m not sure we can penetrate to the brotherhood layer in time to save bloodshed.”

“Actually, I rather look forward to matching epigrams with His Arrogance tonight,” Magnan said loftily, turning to scan the gardens. “As you know, I’m always at my sparkling best with high-ranking guests—and of course, mere size and strength fail utterly to intimidate me—” Magnan turned at a sound behind him, uttered a strangled yelp, and trampled a Hoog waiter’s foot as he leaped back from the spectacle of a seven-foot-high, six-foot-wide Hoog wrapped in cloth of gold. The monster’s gilded features included one-inch nose holes, huge watery, reddish eyes and a wide mouth set in a formal grimace to display polished gold-capped teeth. Two clusters of ringed fingers gripped the hilt of an immense two-edged sword.

“Somethink smells pat!” the apparition bellowed. He leaned forward, sniffed vigorously at Magnan and snorted.

“Horriple!” he announced, elbowing Magnan aside. “Ko away, vellow! You’re invested with an acute P.O.!”

“Why, Your Arrogance—it’s just a touch of skin bracer back of my ear—”

“It smelts like pargain night in a choy house. Where’s Ambassador Hapstrinker? I drust you have blenty of food reaty. I understant you Terries take a kreat interesd in gooking.” The Pope winked a damp pink eye, rammed Magnan under the ribs and guffawed comfortably.

“Oof!” Magnan said. “Why, Your Arrogance!”

The Pope was already striding toward the nearest table, his escort of armed and helmeted guards trailing behind, fingering scimitars and eyeing the diplomats suspiciously.

“I . . . I think I’ll just scoot along and see to the refreshments,” Magnan bleated. “Retief, you accompany His Arrogance and keep him amused until help arrives—I mean, until the Ambassador puts in an appearance!” He fled.

The Pope dipped a boneless finger into a large crystal container of cheese sauce, studied it at arm’s length, sniffed it, then, with a flick of a limber wrist, spattered it across the ruffled shirt-fronts and glassy smiles of the diplomats strung out in the receiving line.

“Who are these loavers?” he demanded loudly. “Bropaply relatives, waitink arount for handouts. I have the same proplem. Or had the same proplem, I should zay. Two weeks ako was Self-Denial Festival. I made the subreme sagrifize ant offered the entire lot to the anzestral spirids.”

“Giving up your relatives for Lent is quite an idea,” Retief said. “It could catch on.”

The Pope picked up a plate of dainty sandwiches, spilled the food off, sniffed the plate, and took a small bite. “I’ve heard a kreat teal about Terran tishes,” he said, chewing noisily. “A bit too crizp, but not bat.” He took a second nip from the thin porcelain, offered it to Retief.

“Have a bite,” he invited genially.

“No thanks, I filled up on a beer bottle just before Your Arrogance arrived,” Retief countered. “Try the dinner plates. They’re said to be an epicure’s delight.”

There was a sudden stir from the vicinity of the wide terrace doors. Ambitious diplomatic underlings sprang to positions of eager anticipation, delighted smiles ready. The squat figure of Career Minister Straphanger, Terrestrial Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to Hoog, waddled into view, stylishly decked out in a short but heavily brocaded Hoogan longhi, a brilliant red sash which all but dragged the ground, and jeweled sandals. At his side puffed a companion of almost identical build and garb, distinguished only by a mop of vivid orange hair. Magnan trailed by two yards.

“Ah, the Ampassador is twints?” the Pope inquired, moving toward the approaching pair.

“No, that’s Mrs. Straphanger,” Retief said. “If I were Your Arrogance I’d ditch that saucer; she’s fierce when aroused.”

“Ah, the edernal female, ever conzerned with food gonzervation.” The Pope tossed the crust of the plate back of a flowering bush.

“Ah, there, Ampassador Strakhumper!” he bellowed. “And your charming cow! She will be litterink zoon, I trust?”

“Littering? How’s that?” Straphanger stared around in confusion.

“I azzume you keep your cows pregnant?” the Pope boomed. “Or possibly thiz one is over-aged. But no matter; doubtless she was a gread broducer in her day.”

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Straphanger snapped, bridling.

“By the way,” Ai-Poppy-Googy went on, “I hate to disguss finanzes over food, zo I suggesd we deal with the proplem of an abbrobriate kift ad once. I am of gourse quite brebared to vorget the drivial misuntersdandink with the former ampassator ant agcepd any zum in egzess of one million gredits withoud quibblink.”

“One million credits?” Straphanger babbled. “Gift?”

“Of gourse, if you wish to avoid aguirink a reputation as a piker, an egstra million would not be taken amiss.”

“A million credits of Corps funds? But . . . but whatever for?”

“Ah, ah,” the Pope waggled an admonitory tactile member. “No pryink into Hoogan internal matters!”

“Oh, no, indeed, Your Arrogance! I only meant . . . what’s the occasion? For the gift, I mean.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Oh.”

The Pope nodded placidly. “Luggy you didn’t throw thiz affaire on Wentsday; thad’s douple gifd day.” He plucked a glass from a tray offered by a bearer, emptied the contents on the lawn, nipped a chip from the edge with his polished metallic teeth, munched thoughtfully.

“Lackink in flavor,” he commented.

“My best crystal,” Mrs. Straphanger gasped. “All the way from Brooklyn, yet, and like a goat he’s eating it!”

“A koat?” The Pope eyed her suspiciously. “I don’t belief I know the term.”

“It’s a . . . a sort of gourmet,” Straphanger improvised. Sweat was glistening on his forehead. “Known for its discriminating tastes.”

“Now, about the matter of a bension,” the Pope continued. “I zee no neet of oztentation. A mere thousant a day would suvvize as a token of Corps esteem.”

“A thousand what a day?” the Ambassador inquired around a frozen diplomatic grin which exposed old-fashioned removable dentures.

“Gredits, of gourse. And then there is the matter of zupzidies to Hoogan industry; zay fifty thousand a month. Don’d give a thoughd to atminisdration; just make the cheggs payable to me perzonally—”

“Hoogan industry? But I was given to understand there are no industries here on Hoog—”

“That’s why we reguire a zupzity,” the Pope said blandly.

Straphanger hitched his smile in place with an effort.

“Your Arrogance, I’m here merely to establish friendly relations, to bring Hoog into the mainstream of Galactic cultural life—”

“What coult be frientlier than money?” the Pope inquired in a loud, final-sounding voice.

“Well,” Straphanger conceded, “we might arrange a loan—”

“An oudright krant is zo much zimpler,” the Pope pointed out.

“Of course, it would mean extra staff, to handle the administrative load.” Straphanger rubbed his hands together, a speculative gleam in his eye. “Say twenty-five for a start—”

The Pope turned as a medium-sized Hoog in tight black-and-silver vestments came up, growled in his ear, waving a rubbery arm toward the house.

“What?” the Pope exploded. He swiveled on Straphanger. “You are harporink tapoo greatures! Givink aid and gomfort to untesirable elements? Sharink your zubstanze with minions of the Opposition?”

“Your Arrogance!” Straphanger’s voice quavered against the rising roar of the outraged cleric. “I don’t understand! What did that fellow say?”

The Pope bawled commands in Hoogan. His escort scattered, began beating the bushes rimming the garden. The Ambassador trotting at his side, the guest of honor strode to the laden refreshment tables, began stuffing in fragile china, muttering to himself.

“Your Arrogance,” Straphanger panted. “If I could just have some explanation! I’m sure it’s all just a ghastly mistake! What are these men searching for? I assure you—”

“Out of the gootnezz of my heard, I welgomed you to Hoog!” the Pope roared. “As a great gompliment to you, I abzorbed your language! I was even ready to agzept cash, the zubreme chesture! And now I find that you openly gonzort with the enemies of the Kods!”

Standing on the sidelines of the verbal fray, Retief glanced around the garden, spotted a fountain in the shape of a two-headed Hoogan dwarf with oversized teeth and belly. He moved over to it, turned and surveyed the gesticulating group at the table. There was a tug at his sandal-lace. He looked down. Two bright eyes at the ends of wire-like stalks stared up appealingly from a clump of grass. He glanced around; all eyes were on the Pope.

“Are you looking for me?” Retief asked softly.

“Right!” a squeaky voice piped. “You’re a hard man to have a quiet chat with, Mr. Ahh.”

“Retief.”

“How do, Retief. My name’s Jackspurt. The boys appointed me spokesmen to tell you Terries about what’s going on. After all, I guess us Spisms got a few rights, too.”

“If you can explain what’s going on in this filbert factory, I’ll be forever in your debt, Jackspurt. Speak your piece.”

“It’s the Hoogans; they don’t give us a minute’s peace. Talk about persecution! Do you know those psalm-singing hippos are blaming us for everything from sour milk to loss of potency? It’s getting where it’s not safe to take a stroll after sundown—”

“Hold on, Jackspurt. Maybe you’d better fill me in one some background. Who are you? Why are the Hoogans after you? And where did you learn to speak Terran with that flawless enunciation of consonants?”

“I used to be a mascot on a Terry trader; I stowed away when she landed here for emergency repairs. It was a good life; but after a while I got homesick for good old Hoog—you know how it is—”

“You’re a native of this charming world?”

“Sure—us Spisms have been around longer than the Hoogs. And we got along for thousands of years with no trouble: the Hoogs took the surface, and we settled in nice and comfy underground. Then they got religion and it’s been Hell ever since . . .”

“Hold on, Jackspurt: I always heard that religion exercised a beneficent influence on those fortunate enough to possess it.”

“That depends on which side you’re on.”

“That’s a point.”

“But I haven’t given you the big picture yet. These Hoogan priests launched a full-scale propaganda campaign: painted up a lot of religious art with pictures of Spisms poking pitchforks at Hoogs, and pretty soon it got so even the average Hoog in the street started jumping and making X’s in the air and mumbling spells everytime one of us came up for a breath of fresh air. The next thing we knew, it was full-scale war! I’m telling you, Retief, us Spisms are in bad shape—and it’s gonna get worse!”

A guard was working his way toward the ogre fountain.

“Jiggers, the gendarmes,” Retief said. “You’d better get out of sight, Jackspurt. They’re beating the bushes for you. Why don’t we continue this later—”

The Spism whisked back under cover. “But this is important, Retief!” Jackspurt’s voice emanated from the brush. “The boys are counting on me—”

“Shhh! Watch me and take your cue . . .” Magnan had turned and was eyeing Retief suspiciously. He stepped to his junior’s side.

“Retief, if you’re mixed up in this mix-up . . .”

“Me, Mr. Magnan? Why, I just arrived this afternoon the same time you did—”

“Magnan!” Straphanger’s voice cut through the hubbub. “The Pope informs me that some sort of demonic creature was seen here on the Embassy grounds this evening! Of course we know nothing about it, but His Arrogance has drawn the unfortunate implication that we’re consorting with denizens of the netherworld!” He lowered his voice as Magnan drew close. “Superstitious poppycock, but we’ve got to play along; you and the others spread out and go through a show of looking for this mythical imp. I’ll pacify His Arrogance.”

“Certainly, Mr. Ambassador. But . . . ah . . . what if we find it?”

“Then you’re an even greater idiot than I suspect!” Straphanger twisted his working smile into position and turned back to the Pope.

“Retief, you start along there,” Magnan indicated the front of the house. “I’ll go poke about in the bushes. And whatever you do, don’t turn up anything—like that ghastly creature we encountered upstairs—” A startled look spread across his face. “Good lord, Retief! Do you suppose—?”

“Not a chance. I picture something more like a medium-sized dragon.”

“Still . . . perhaps I’d better mention it to the Ambassador . . .”

“And confirm the Pope’s opinion? Very courageous of you. Mind if I stick around and watch?”

“On the other hand, he’s a busy man,” Magnan said hurriedly. “After all, why bother him with trivia?” He hurried off to take up a position near the Pope and make a show of stooping and peering among the conifer-like hedges. Retief sauntered back to the table, deserted now except for a lone Hoogan bearer at the far end gathering empties onto a wide tray and tossing damp paper napkins into a capacious waste paper receptacle. Retief picked up an empty sandwich plate said hsst!; the Hoogan looked up as Retief tossed the plate. The Hoogan dropped the big paper bag and caught the tossed crockery.

“Here’s some more,” Retief offered helpfully. He gathered up and handed over a pair of saucers, three empty glasses and a couple of cheese sandwiches each minus one bite. “You’d better hump along now and police up behind His Arrogance,” he suggested. “He’s leaving a trail of saucer rims behind him; doesn’t seem to like the floral design.”

“You dry dell me my chop?” the Hoogan demanded truculently as Retief fumbled a spoon, let it drop to the grass just under the edge of the hanging table cloth.

“Certainly not, old boy,” Retief reassured the glowering local. He stooped for the spoon, caught a glimpse of an eye peering from the shadows.

“Get in the bag,” he hissed from the corner of his mouth.

“Who you talg to?” the servant ducked and stared under the table. Behind him, the paper trash container rustled softly as the Spism whisked into it.

“Just addressing a few words to the spoon god,” Retief said blandly. “Bad luck to drop a spoon, you know.”

“Yez?” the Hoogan said. He leaned against the table, got out a much-used toothpick and began plying it on his unpolished teeth. “You voreigners kot grazy iteas. Efrypoty know kood lug trop sboon, bat lug trob forg.”

“Back home, falling from a ten-story building is considered an inauspicious omen,” Retief rambled on, watching the armed Papal Guard as they worked closer. One came over to the table, gave Retief a sharp look, thrust his head under the table, then reached to check the trash container. “How about a little refreshment?” Retief picked up a cup, dipped it full from a bowl of thick purple punch, took a step toward the warrior and seemed to trip; the sticky fluid struck the Hoogan just below the clasp holding the rainbow-hued cape, spread out in an interesting pattern across his polished breastplate. The bearer grabbed up his tray and bag and backed off hurriedly as the spluttering guard slapped limber fingers at the mess.

“Itiot! Clumpsy oaf!” he choked—

“What, boozink on duty?” a vast voice boomed. The Pope bellied past Retief, planted himself before the confused Hoogan. “The benalty is boilink in oil!” he roared. “Take him away!”

Other guardsmen closed in, grabbed their unfortunate fellow.

“That was my fault, Your Arrogance,” Retief started. “I offered him—”

“You would inderfere with the Babal administration of justize?” the Pontiff bellowed, turning on Retief. “You have the demerity to sugchest that the Babal judgment is fallible?”

“Not exactly; you’re just wrong,” Retief said. “I spilled the punch on him.”

The Pope’s face purpled; his mouth worked. He swallowed.

“It’s ben zo long zinze anyone contradicted me,” he said mildly, “that I’ve vorkotten the bunishment.” He waved two fingers in blessing. “You are apzolved, my zon,” he said airily. “In vact, I apzolv you for the whole weekent. Have fun; it’s on the house.”

“Why, isn’t that gracious of His Arrogance?” Magnan chirped, popping up beside the Pope. “What a pity we didn’t find the demon; but I—”

“That reminds me,” the Pope said ominously. He fixed an eye on Ambassador Straphanger as the senior diplomat came up. “I’m still waitink for results!”

“Look here, Your Arrogance! How can we find a demon if there’s no demon here?”

“That’s your broblem!”

There was a yell from the gate. Two guards were man-handling the bearer with the waste-paper bag, who jerked away, making indignant noises. The bag fell, split open, spilling garbage from the midst of which the fugitive Spism burst, sending scraps flying in every direction. With a bound, it was past the astonished guards, heading for the rear gate. More guards appeared in its path, jerking long-barreled guns from tooled holsters. A shot seared a long gouge in the deep grass, narrowly missed other Papal retainers dashing up to get a crack at the action. The Pope yelled, waving his boneless arms.

Cut off, the Spism veered, dashed for the house, was met by a squad charging out from inside. A near-miss smashed dishes on the table beside Magnan, who yelped and hit the dirt.

The Spism skittered, took evasive action, headed for the flower-decked gate letting onto the drive. The guards were all behind it now, the way clear. With a tremendous yell, Pope Ai-Poppy-Googy whipped his giant sword out and leaped to intercept the fleeing creature. As he bounded past Retief, the latter pivoted, thrust out a foot, hooked the papal leg just above a flare-topped bejeweled pink leather shoe. His Arrogance dived forward, struck medals-first, and skidded on his face under the table.

“Why, hi there,” Magnan’s voice piped from under the muffling canopy of the drooping table cloth. “Just a minute, and I’ll scroonch over—”

The Pope roared and rose up, the table lifting with him; dishes, glasses, and food cascaded off on Magnan, crouching on the ground. With a surge, the Pontiff hurled the board aside, roared again, whirling to confront the dancing figure of Ambassador Straphanger, who flapped a napkin at the mud on the ornate canonicals of the guest of honor.

“Treason!” Ai-Poppy-Googy bellowed. “Azzazints! Murderers! Achents of the Unterworlt! Obstructors of chustist! Heretics!”

“Now, now, Your Arrogance! Don’t get upset—”

“Upzet! This iz maybe a choke?” The Pope dashed the muddied cloth from Straphanger’s hand, bent and snatched up his sword, waved it overhead. The Papal Guard was closing in quickly now.

“I hereby eggsgommunigate the lot of you!” he Pope yelled. “No food, no water, no bolice brotection! Alzo, you will be puplicly eggsecuted! Boys, round them up!”

Guns were suddenly leveled at the huddle of diplomats surrounding the Ambassador. Magnan yelped. Straphanger’s wattles quivered.

“Ton’t miss this one!” Ai-Poppy-Googy indicated Retief. “It was his foot I fell over!” A guard poked a gun into Retief’s side.

“Ah, I think Your Arrogance is forgetting that Mr. Retief has a Papal dispensation,” Straphanger said brightly. “Retief, if you’ll just run along to my office and send out a code two-oh-three—or is it three-oh-two—or . . . anyway, a call for aitch ee ell pee—”

“He’ll ko along with the rest of you scoundrels!” the Pope yelled. Half a dozen armed Hoogans were herding the remainder of the staff up to join the group now.

“Any more insite?”

“No, Your Arrokants,” the captain of the guard reported. “Only a few zervants.”

“Poil them in oil for azzociatink with azzazints! As for the rest of you—”

“Your Arrogance,” Straphanger spoke up. “Naturally, I don’t mind dying, if it’s Your Arrogance’s pleasure, but then we won’t be able to give you the gifts and things, will we...?”

“Tamn!” Ai-Poppy-Googy threw his sword down, narrowly missing Magnan’s foot. “I forgot about the gidtz!” He looked thoughtful. “Look, zuppose I make arranchmends for you to write a few chegs in your zell pefore the eggzecution?”

“Oh, I’m afraid that wouldn’t do at all, Your Arrogance. I need the Embassy seal, and the check verifying machine, and the code books and—”

“Well . . . bossibly I might make an egzeption; I’ll defer punishment until the cash arrives—”

“Sorry, Your Arrogance, but I wouldn’t ask you to deviate from tradition just to accommodate me. No, we’re all excommunicated, so I suppose we may just as well get comfortable and start starving—”

“Holt it! Don’t rush me! Who’s doing the eggsgommunigatink, you or me?”

“Oh, you are—”

“Brecizely! And I zay you’re not eggsgommunigated!” The Pope stared around truculently. “Now about the gifd! You can deliver the two million immediately; I juzt happened to pring an armored gar alonk—”

“TWO million? But you said one million!”

“This is touple gift day.”

“But you said Wednesday was double-gift day. This is only Tuesday.”

“It’s now Wentsday, by Babal decree.”

“But you can’t—I mean, how can you . . . ?”

“Calendar Reform,” Ai-Poppy-Googy said. “Lonk overdue.”

“Well, I suppose it could be arranged . . .”

“Kood! I herepy grant you a Babal rebrieve. Put that toesn’t inglude the resd of these untesiraples!” the Pope waved a hand. “Dake them away, poys!”

“Ah . . . I’m grateful for the pardon, I’m sure,” Straphanger said, gaining confidence rapidly; “but of course I won’t be able to process the paper work properly without my staff . . .”

Ai-Poppy-Googy glared with large, damp, red eyes. “All righd! Keeb them! They’re all rebrieved egzebd thad one!” he aimed a finger at Retief like a gun. “I have sbezial blans for him!” The guards shifted their attention to Retief, ringing him in with aimed guns.

“Maybe His Arrogance would be just a teeny bit lenient this time,” Magnan suggested, dabbing at a smear of liver paste along his bare arm, “if Mr. Retief apologized and promised never to do it again.”

“Do whad akain?” the Pope demanded.

“Trip you,” Magnan said. “You know, like he did just now.”

“He dribbed me?” Ai-Poppy-Googy choked. “On burpose?”

“Why, ah, it must have been a mistake—” Straphanger started.

“Your Arrogance has such a keen sense of humor, I’m sure you’ll see the comic aspect of it, if you just think about it,” Magnan offered.

“Retief! Did you—I mean, surely you didn’t—” Straphanger choked.

“Well!” Magnan said indignantly. “I was lying right there—”

“Zearch him!” the Pope bellowed. Guards jumped forward; busy hands grabbed at Retief’s kilt-pockets, almost at once came upon the folded paper the Spism had dropped as it fled his room.

“Ah-hah!” the Pope pounced, opened the paper, read the message.

“A gonsbirazy!” he yelled. “Unter my fery nose! But the ironts on him!”

“I must protest!” Straphanger spoke up. “You can’t go about chaining up diplomats every time a little indiscretion is committed! Leave the matter to me, Your Arrogance; I’ll see that a sharp entry goes in his record—”

“The Kods will nod pe denied their tue!” Ai-Poppy-Googy roared. “Domorrow is the Krant Vestifal of Wentstay—”

“Tomorrow’s Thursday,” Magnan interjected.

“Domorrow is Wentstay! Totay is Wentstay! I herepy teclare a whole weeg of Wentstays, plast it! Now, as I was sayink—this Derran will bartizibade in the vestifal! Zuch is the Babal will! No more arkuments!”

“Oh, he’ll be taking part in a ceremony!” Straphanger said in a relieved tone. “Well, goodness, I suppose we can spare him long enough for that.” He offered a small diplomatic chuckle. “The Corps is always ready to promote worship in whatever form, of course—”

“The only dru Kots are the Hookan Kots, py the Kots!” the Pope boomed. “Any more of your Derran heresy, and I’ll referse my tisbenzation! Now dake thiz one to the demple and brebare him vor the rides of Wentstay! The resd of you will remain unter arresd, undil the will of the Kots is known!”

“Mr. Ambassador,” Magnan quavered, tugging atStraphanger’s arm. “Do you think we should allow them—”

“Merely letting His Arrogance save face,” Straphanger said in a confidential tone. He winked at Retief. “Don’t worry, my boy; good experience for you. You’ll get an inside view of the Hoogan religious concept at work.”

“But—but, what if they . . . I mean, boiling in oil is so permanent . . .” Magnan persisted.

“Quiet, Magnan! I’ll have no whiners in my organization!”

“Thanks for thinking of me, Mr. Magnan,” Retief said. “I still have my good luck charm.”

“Charm?” Magnan looked blank.

“Witchgraft?” the Pope boomed. “I zuzbegted as much!” He turned a large red eye on Straphanger.

“I’ll pe zeeing you at the zeremony! Ton’t pe lade!” He eyed Retief. “Are you goming beazevully?”

“In view of the number of guns aimed at me,” Retief said, “I sincerely hope so.”

The cell was narrow, dark, damp, and unfurnished except for a plain table with a bottle of bitter-smelling wine and a narrow bench on which Retief sat, his wrists chained together, listening to a muffled tapping which sounded faintly from beyond the walls. It had been going on now for twelve hours, he estimated—long enough for the Hoogans to have completed their preparations for the religious ceremonies in which he was to play a part.

The tapping abruptly changed tone, sounding louder, nearer. There was a light clatter, as of pebbles tossed on the floor. A moment later, there was a soft scraping sound, a rasping like fingernails on a blackboard; then silence.

“Retief, are you there?” a thin voice chirped through the pitch darkness.

“Sure, Jackspurt! Come on in and join the party. I’m glad to see you eluded the gendarmes.”

“Those slobs! Hah! But listen, Retief, I’ve got bad news . . .”

“Press on, Jackspurt; I’m listening.”

“This is Festival Day—and old Googy’s scheduled the big all-out push for today, to tie in with the mumbo-jumbo. The Hoogs have been building this king-size fumigator for months—stacking it full of rubbish, old rags, worn-out tires, and what not. At the height of the big ceremony, they set the stuff on fire, and start the smoke-pumps going. They got a system of pipes laid out leading into the burrows, see? There won’t be a safe spot for Spisms for miles around. Our boys will come stampeding out of their hideaways, some of which have been in the family for generations, and zowie! the Pope’s troops lower the boom! It’ll be the finish of Spisms!”

“That’s a heart-rending story, Jackspurt—or it would be, if I weren’t in such a heart-rending position myself at the moment—”

“Yeah, the Wednesday Rites. You scheduled for the matinee or the big evening spectacular?” Jackspurt broke off as clanking sounded from beyond the door.

“Holy Moses, Retief! Time’s up! They’re here! Listen, I was supposed to brief you in, like, but it took longer’n I figured tunneling through that wall, and then I got to yakking—”

A key scraped in the keyhole.

“Listen! Did you drink any of what’s in the bottle?”

“No.”

“Good! It’s doped! When I leave, dump it! You’ll have to pretend you can’t talk or the jig’s up! Put on a kind of zombie routine, see? Whatever they tell you—do it! If they get the idea you’re putting something over, it’s zkkk! for every Terry on Hoog! And remember! Keep your head down and your arms and legs tucked in—”

The lock turned with a rasp of rusty tumblers.

“Got to go! Good luck!” Jackspurt scrambled and was gone. Retief took a step, grabbed up the bottle, poured it down the three-inch hole through which his visitor had fled.

Light blazed as the heavy door swung inward. Three hooded Hoogan pikemen came into the cell, followed by a black-robed priest. Retief stood holding the empty bottle, his body concealing Jackspurt’s escape route.

“How to you veel, Derry?” the priest inquired, looking Retief over. He stepped in, thumbed Retief’s eyelid up, grunted, took the empty bottle from his hand.

“Goked to the eyeprows,” he stated.

“Are you zure?” a pikeman challenged. “I ton’d drust these voreigners.”

“Nadurally I’m zure; the hypervasgulations of the subraoccibital whatchamagallids is dypical; a glassic gase. Dake him alonk.”

Hemmed in by pikes, Retief followed along a torch-lit passage, up winding stone stairs, to emerge abruptly into blinding light and the susurrus of a multitude of voices, above which one rose like the boom of surf:

“ . . . azzure you, my tear Ambassador Hipstinker, our brinzibal teity, Uk-Ruppa-Tooty, is nod only a hantzome degoration and a gonstand reminter to the bobulaze that the nexd tithe is tue—he also brotuzes oragular stadements rekularly efery Wentstay at one B.M. Of gourse, it is nod always kiven to us to undersdant whad he’s dalkink apout, bud the evvegd on the beasandry is most zaludory . . .”

Squinting against the sudden sunlight, Retief made out the resplendently-robed figure of the Pope, seated under a vast parasol on a massive throne of dark wood carved with designs of intertwined serpents, flanked on the left by the Terran Ambassador and on the right by a huddle of lesser diplomats, the group ringed in by stony-faced Hoogan guards with bared scimitars.

The priest who had accompanied Retief bowed unctuously before the Papal throne. “Your Arrokanze, the Zoon-to-pe-Elefated One is here,” he indicated Retief with a wave of the hand.

“Is he . . . ah . . . ?” Ai-Poppy-Googy looked inquiringly at the escort.

“A glassig gase of hypervasgulations of the thinkamapops,” a pikeman spoke up.

“Poil thad one in oil,” the Pope said, frowning. “He dalgs doo mudge.”

“You appear a bit peaked, Retief,” Straphanger commented. “I trust you slept well last night? Comfortable quarters and all that?”

Retief stared absently past the Ambassador’s left ear.

“Retief, the Ambassador’s addressing you,” Magnan said sharply.

“Brobably he’s losd in metitations,” Ai-Poppy-Googy said hastily. “On with the zeremony—”

“Perhaps he’s sick,” Magnan said. “Here, you’d better sit down—”

“Ah-ah,” Ai-Poppy-Googy held up a limber hand. “The mosd imbortand bortion of the zeremony yed remaints to pe zeleprated.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Straphanger sat back. “I’d quite forgotten, Your Arrogance.” He glanced around. “We’ll have a magnificent view of the proceedings from here . . .”

At a prod from a Papal Guard, Retief turned—and found himself staring directly into the vast brass smile of the Hoogan idol.

* * *

From Retief’s elevated viewpoint atop the two-hundred foot high ziggurat, the head of the god reared up another fifty feet, an immense stylized Hoogan face of polished yellow metal, the vast hand upraised beside it. The eyes were deep hollows at the back of which a sullen red glow gave an impression of malignant intelligence. The nose-holes, a yard each in diameter, drooled a thin trickle of smoke which coiled up past soot-streaked cheeks to dissipate in the clear air. The mouth which split the massive head gaped in a crocodile smile set with spade-shaped teeth with spaces between them, beyond which was visible a curve of polished esophagus agleam with leaping reflections from inner fires below.

Two lesser priests stepped forward to hang assorted ornaments on Retief’s shoulders and neck. Another took up a position before him, began intoning 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 anti-viral nasal spray, if that would help. But about that chute—”

“Warm, isn’t it, Your Arrogance?” Straphanger turned to the Pope. “A bit dry, too . . .”

“You ton’t lige our Hoogan weather?” the Pope 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?”

“Is kreat honor,” the Pope said shortly.

“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 Pope 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, 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, dropping down into a blast of searing heat and light, then suddenly, stunningly, slamming against and through a yielding, shredding network of filaments as fine as spiderwebs. He 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.

“Bull’s-eye!” 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, 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 OK now,” Jackspurt said. “Take a breather, and then we’ll go down and meet the boys.”

They were in a cavern, floored with rough masonry, 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 tumerous 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 Jehosaphat, 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. Let’s 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 hob-goblin 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 of which a blue-robed Hoogan priest lounged in a bored attitude, studying a scroll, while 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, 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 round 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, peered down below, then motioned to the other, who went to the door of the tiny chamber, opened it, stepped out on the catwalk, 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, whirled to dart back inside the control room, slipped, fell from the catwalk, grabbed frantically, caught it and held on by one hand, 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, 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, stepped through the door. The priest whirled, gaped, leaped for a microphone-like device on the corner table. Retief eased the power pistol from his sarong, aimed it negligently at the priest.

“I wouldn’t make any announcements just yet,” he said. “The results aren’t all in.”

“Who are you?” The Hoogan sidled toward a corner cabinet.

“If that’s where you keep your prayer books, better let them lie for a while yet.”

“Loog here, berhabs you are unaware that I am His Voracity the Arjpishob Um-Moomy-Hooby, and I have gonnegtions—”

“Doubtless. And don’t try for the door; I have a confederate out there who’s noted for his ferocity.”

Magnan came through the door, panting. Um-Moomy-Hooby backed away.

“Whad—whad to you wand?”

“I understand the god is about to utter oracular statements, as the high point of the Wednesday services,” Retief said.

“Yez—I was jusd going over my sgribt. Now if you’ll eggsguze me—”

“It just happens that it’s the script we want to talk about. There are a couple of special announcements I’d like to see inserted—”

“Whad? Damper with holy sgribture?”

“Nothing like that; just a good word for a group of associates of ours and possibly a short commercial for the CDT—”

“Plasphemy! Herezy! Refishionism! Nefer will I pe a barty to zuch zagrileche!”

Retief clicked off the pistol’s safety catch.

“—Put, on the other hant, bossiply somethink gould pe arranched,” the Archbishop said hastily. “How much did you have in mind offering?”

“I wouldn’t think of attempting to bribe a man of the cloth,” Retief said smoothly. “You’re going to do this for the common welfare.”

“Jusd whad is it you hafe in mind?”

“The first item is the campaign you’ve been waging against the Spisms—”

“Ah, yez! And a wontervul jop our lats hafe peen toing, doo. Uk-Ruppa-Tooty willink, zoon we will zee them stambed oud endirely, and virtue driumvant!”

“The CDT takes a dim view of genocide, I’m afraid. Now, my thought was that we could agree on a reasonable division of spheres of influence—”

“A teal with the Bowers of Tarknezz? Are you oud of your mind?”

“Now, now,” Magnan put in, “a more co-operative attitude would do Your Voracity greater credit—”

“You zugchesd that the jurch should gombromize with zin?”

“Not exactly compromise,” Magnan said placatingly. “Just work out a sort of peaceful coexistence plan.”

“Nefer will I, as arjpishob, gome oud in vafor of dogetherness with Zatan’s Imps!”

“There, there, Your Voracity; if you’d just sit down across the table from them, you’d find these imps weren’t bad fellows at all . . .”

There was a soft sound from the door. Jackspurt, a jaunty, two-foot sphere of red bristles, appeared, waving his eye-stalks exultantly. A looming blue Spism peered over his shoulder.

“Nice going, Retief!” he called. “I see you caught one. Pitch him down after the other one, and let’s clear out of here. This little diversion will give us time to get clear before the smoke starts.”

“Jackspurt, do you suppose your fellows could do a fast job of shifting a few hoses around? You’ll have to block off the sewers and feed the smoke off in some other direction.”

“Say, that’s an idea!” Jackspurt agreed. “And I think I know just the direction.” He gave instructions to the big blue Spism, who hurried away.

The Archbishop had retreated to a corner, eyes goggling, his hands describing mystic passes in the air. More Spisms were crowding into the room now: tall blue ones, tiny darting green ones, sluggish purple varieties—all cocking their eye-stalks at the prelate.

“Help!” he croaked weakly. “The minions of the netherworlt are ubon me!”

Magnan drew out a chair from the table. “Just have a seat, Your Voracity,” he said soothingly. “Let’s just see if we can’t work out a modus vivendi suitable to all parties . . .”

“Gome to terms with the Enemy? Id will mean the ent of the jurch!”

“On the contrary, Your Voracity; if you ever succeeded in eliminating the opposition, you’d be out of a job. The problem is merely to arrange matters in a civilized fashion so that everyone’s interests are protected.”

“You may hafe somethink there,” Um-Moomy-Hooby seated himself gingerly. “Put the nevarious agtifities of these goplins musd pe kebt unter sdrigd gondrol—Babal gongrol, thad is.”

“Look, my boys got to make a living,” Jackspurt started.

“Zellink a vew love-botions, zerdainly,” the Archbishop said. “And the jurch is willink to zmile at a modest draffic in aphrodisiags, dope, and raze-drack tips. But beddling filthy menus to teen-agers, no! The zame goes vor sdealing withoud a licenze, and the zale of algoholic peferaches, with the eggzebtion of small amounts of broberly aged sduff for medicinal use py the glerchy, of gourse.”

“OK, I think we can go along with that,” Jackspurt said. “But you priests will have to lay off the propaganda from now on. I want to see Spisms getting better billing in church art.”

“Oh, I think you could work out something lovely in little winged Spisms with haloes,” Magnan suggested. “I think you owe it to them, Your Voracity, after all this discrimination in the past.”

“Tevils with winks?” Um-Moomy-Hooby groaned. “It will blay hop with our zympolisms—put I zubboze it can be tone.”

“And you’ll have to have guarantees that everything from two feet under the surface on down belongs to us,” Jackspurt added. “We’ll leave the surface to you, and throw in the atmosphere, just so you dedicate a few easements so we can come up and sight-see now and then.”

“Thad zeems egwidaple,” the Archbishop agreed. “Supchegd to vinal approfal py His Arrokanze, of gourze.”

“By the way,” Jackspurt asked casually, “who’s next in line for the Pope’s job if anything happens to Ai-Poppy-Googy?”

“Az it habbens, I am,” Um-Moomy-Hooby said. “Why?”

“Just asking,” Jackspurt said.

A loud thumping started up from the wide floor below.

“What’s that?” Magnan yelled.

“The pumps,” the Archbishop said. “A bity so many Spisms will tie, but it is manivesdly the will of Uk-Ruppa-Tooty . . .”

“I guess old Uk-Ruppa-Tooty had a last-minute change of heart,” Jackspurt said callously. “We shifted the pipes around to feed the fumes back up into the city plumbing system. I guess there’s black smoke pouring up out of every john in town by now.”

“Touble-grozzer!” the Archbishop leaped up, waving his arms. “The teal’s off—”

“Ah, ah, you promised, Your Voracity,” Magnan chided. “And besides, Mr. Retief still has the gun.”

“And now, if you’ll just pick up the microphone, Your Voracity,” Retief said. “I think we can initiate the era of good feeling without further delay. Just keep our role quiet, and take all the credit for yourself.”

“A pity about poor Ai-Poppy-Googy falling off the ziggurat when the smoke came boiling out of Uk-Ruppa-Tooty’s mouth,” Ambassador Straphanger said, forking another generous helping of Hoogan chow mein onto his plate. “Still, one must confess it was a dramatic end for a churchman of his stature, shooting down the slide and disappearing into the smoke as he did.”

“Yez, alrety the canonization papers are peing brepared,” His newly-installed Arrogance, Pope Um-Moomy-Hooby, shot a nervous glance at the Spism seated beside him. “He’ll pe the batron zaint of rehabilidated tevils, imps, and koplins.”

“A pity you missed all the excitement, Magnan,” Straphanger said, chewing. “And you, too, Retief. While you absented yourselves, the Hoogan philosophy underwent a veritable renaissance—helped along, I humbly assume, by my modest peace-making efforts.”

“Hah!” the Pope muttered under his breath.

“Frankly, what with all the smoke, I hadn’t expected the oracle’s pronouncement to be quite so lucid,” Straphanger went on, “to say nothing of its unprecedented generosity—”

“Chenerosity?” interrupted Um-Moomy-Hooby, his heavy features reflecting rapid mental recapitulation of his concessions.

“Why, yes, ceding all minerals rights to the formerly persecuted race here on Hoog—a charming gesture of conciliation.”

“Mineralts right? Whad mineralts?”

Jackspurt, splendid in the newly tailored tunic of Chief Representative for Spismodic Affairs to the Papal court, spoke up from his place along the table set up on the palace terrace.

“Oh, he’s just talking about the deposits of gold, silver, platinum, radium, and uranium, plus a few boulders of diamond, emerald, ruby, and so forth that are laying around below ground. The planet’s lousy with the stuff. We’ll use our easements to ferry it up to the surface where the freighters will pick it up, so we won’t put you Hoogs out at all.”

The Pope’s alligator-hide features purpled. “You—you knew apout these mineralts?” he choked.

“Why, didn’t His former Arrogance mention it to you? That was what brought the mission here; the routine minerals survey our technical people ran from space last year showed up the deposits—”

“And we built our Brincible Kod oud of prass—imborted prass at thad,” the Pope said numbly.

“Too scared of a few Spisms to dig,” Jackspurt said in a stage whisper.

There was a flicker of lightning in the sky to the east. Thunder rolled. A large rain-drop spattered on Straphanger’s plate, followed by another.

“Oh-oh, we’d better head for cover,” Jackspurt said. “I know these flash squalls; lightning out the kazoo—”

A brilliant flash cast the looming figure of the god Uk-Ruppa-Tooty into vivid silhouette against a blue-black sky. Dishes rattled on the table as sound rumbled across the sky on wooden wheels. The Pope and his guests rose hastily, as a third jagged electrical discharge ripped across the sky—and struck the giant idol full on the shoulder. A shower of sparks flew; the mighty right arm, raised in the Hoogan gesture of salute, pivoted slowly at the elbow. The yards-wide hand, seen-edge-on with the fingers extended, swung slowly in a great arc, came to rest with the extended thumb resting firmly against the snub nose. Sparks flew as the digit was welded firmly in place.

The Pope stared, then tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, long and searchingly.

“Chusd pedween us men of the worlt,” he said hoarsely, “do you zubbose thad phenomenon has any sbezial zigniviganze?”

“I think if I were you, Your Arrogance, I’d watch my step,” Jackspurt said in an awed tone. “And, uh, by the way, on behalf of the Spisms, I’d like to make a contribution to the Papal treasury.”

“Hmmm. Have you ever thought aboud tagink inzdruction?” the Pope inquired. “I’m sure it could be arranged, and as for the little contribution you sboge of, dwenty bercend of the take would zuvvice . . .”

They strolled off along the corridor, deep in conversation. Ambassador Straphanger hurried away to prepare his dispatches to Sector HQ, Magnan at his heels. Retief stepped back out onto the terrace, lit up a dope-stick. Far away, Uk-Ruppa-Tooty loomed, solemnly thumbing his nose at the Papal Palace.

Cheerfully, Retief returned the salute.

THE CASTLE OF LIGHT

“The interposition of the stern Corps presence, unflinching champion of underdogs, has more than once frustrated the colonial-imperialist urges of expansion-minded states.

At Yalc, Minister Barnshingle, braving every peril in single-handed confrontation with the forces of tyranny, gallantly reaffirmed the hallowed principle of fair play for all.”

—Vol. II, reel 161, 481 AE (AD 2942)

Retief scaled his pale burgundy afternoon informal beret across the office, narrowly missing the clothes tree, and dumped the heavy carton he was carrying on his desk. A shapely brunette with a turned-up nose appeared at the connecting door to the next office.

“Miss Braswell,” he said before she could speak. “I have here two handsome half-liter wine glasses which I’m about to field-test. Will you join me?”

She made a shushing motion, rolling her eyes toward the inner office. A narrow, agitated face appeared over her shoulder.

“Retief!” Consul-General Magnan burst out. “I’ve been at wit’s end! How does it happen that every time catastrophe strikes you’re out of the office?”

“It’s merely a matter of timing,” Retief said soothingly, stripping paper from the package. He pulled out a tulip-shaped goblet which seemed to be made of coils of jewel-colored glass welded together in an intricate pattern, held it up to the light.

“Pretty, eh? And barely cool from the glass-blower—”

“While you idled about the bazaar,” Magnan snapped, his face an angry pink above a wide, stiff collar of yellow plastiweave, “I’ve been coping single-handedly with disaster! I suggest you put aside your baubles; I’m calling a formal Emergency Staff Meeting in two minutes!”

“That means you, me and Miss Braswell, I take it, since the rest of the staff is off crater-viewing—”

“Just you and I.” Magnan mopped at his face with a vast floral-patterned tissue. “This is a highly classified emergency.”

“Oh, goody, I’ll take the rest of the afternoon off and watch the festivities.” Miss Braswell winked at Retief, extended the tip of her tongue in salute to the Consul-General’s back, and was gone.

Retief plucked a bottle from his desk drawer and followed Magnan into the inner office. The senior officer yanked at his stiff collar, now wilting with perspiration.

“Why this couldn’t have waited until Minister Barnshingle’s return, I don’t know,” he said. “He’s already a day overdue. I’ve tried to contact him, to no avail; this primitive line-of-sight local telescreen system—” he broke off. “Retief, kindly defer your tippling until after the crisis!”

“Oh, this isn’t tippling, Mr. Magnan. I’m doing a commodity analysis for my next report. You fobbed the detail of Commercial Attaché on me, if you recall—”

“As Chargé d’affaires in the absence of the Minister, I forbid drinking on duty!” Magnan roared.

“Surely you jest, Mr. Magnan; it would mean the end of diplomacy as we know it—”

“Well, not until after lunch, at least. And I hereby authorize you to postpone market research until further notice; we’re facing a possible holocaust in a matter of hours!”

“What’s it all about?”

Magnan plucked a sheet of yellow paper from his desk and handed it across to Retief. “This came in over the auto-typer forty minutes ago.”

* * *

UNIDENTIFIED CONVOY COMPRISING FIFTY UHLAN CLASS VESSELS SIGHTED ON COURSE FOR YALC III ETA 1500 GST 33 OCT GSC. SIGNED POMFROY, ENSIGN PATROL NAVY 786-G.

“Uhlans,” Retief said. “Those are thousand-man transports. And oh-nine-hundred on the thirty-third is just about two hours from now.”

“This could be an invasion, Retief! A major breach of the peace! Can you imagine how it would look in my record if the planet were invaded under my very nose!”

“Tough on the natives, too,” Retief commented. “What action have you taken so far?”

“Action? Why, I’ve canceled this afternoon’s social engagements, checked out-going passenger schedules, and sharpened a number of pencils.”

“Have you tried contacting this Ensign Pomfroy for a little more detail?”

“There’s no one on duty in the Message Center but a local Code Clerk; he’s trying to raise him now.” Magnan depressed a button on his desk. “Oo-Gilitit, have you met with any success?”

“Pomfroy-Tic all same have organ cluster up ventral orifice—”

“Gilitit, I’ve warned you to watch your language!” Magnan roared. “It’s no habit for a communications man to get into!” He clicked off. “Confounded locals! It’s hopeless, of course; our equipment was never designed for pin-pointing moving patrol boats at four A-U’s.”

“How do the Yalcans feel about the situation?”

Magnan blinked. “Why, as to that, I, ah . . . was just going to call Oo-Rilikuk.” Magnan punched keys, tuned in a bland yellow and blue face with eyes like gold pinheads and vertically-hinged jaws busy with an oily drumstick.

“Ah, there, Magnan,” a voice like an unoiled wheel said. “Just finishing up my lunch. Roast haunch of giant locust. Delicious.” A tongue like a length of green silken rope flicked a tidbit from a corner of the lipless mouth.

“Oo-Rilikuk, do you know anything of a large convoy due here today?”

Rilikuk dabbed at his chin with a gossamer napkin. “I seem to recall issuing a number of visas to Groaci nationals in recent weeks.”

“Groaci? Fifty shiploads of them?”

“Something like that,” the Yalcan said carelessly. “By the way, if you haven’t already made arrangements, perhaps you’d care to join my Bachelor’s Group for the upcoming festivities—”

“You’re not concerned? Perhaps you’re not aware of the insidious reputation the Groaci enjoy—”

“I don’t mind saying I’ve exercised a trifle of influence to procure a choice mud pocket; the rich, oleaginous kind, you know. And there’ll be no shortage of nubile females along—though you’re not organized to appreciate the latter, it’s true—”

“May I ask the state of the planetary defenses, Rilikuk? I’m warning you, these Groaci are not to be trusted—”

“Planetary defenses?” Rilikuk issued a chirp of amusement. “As confirmed pacifists, we’ve never felt the need for such an extravagance. Now, I’ll be leaving the office in a few minutes; suppose I drop by for you—we’ll go on to my place for dinner, then off to the bog—”

“You’re leaving the Foreign Office at a moment like this?” Magnan yelped. “They’ll be landing in a matter of minutes!”

“I fear I’ll have no time to devote to tourism this week, Magnan,” Rilikuk said. “They’ll just have to manage alone. After all, Voom Festival time comes but once in ninety-four standard years—”

Magnan rang off with a snort. “We’ll receive scant help from that quarter.” He swiveled to gaze out the unglazed window across the gay tiles of the plaza, lined with squat, one-story shops of embossed and colored ceramic brick to the glittering minarets of the mile-distant temple complex.

“If these idlers invested less energy in shard-sorting and more in foreign affairs, I wouldn’t be faced with this contretemps,” he grumbled.

“If the CDT would talk Groac into selling them a few thousand tons of sand, they wouldn’t have to sort shards.”

“There are better uses for CDT bottoms than hauling sand, Retief, though I notice the local scrap pile is about depleted. Possibly now they’ll turn to more profitable pursuits than lavishing the artistry of generations on tenantless shrines.” He indicated the cluster of glass towers sparkling in the sun. “They might even consent to export a reasonable volume of glassware in place of the present token amounts.”

“Rarity keeps the price up; and they say they can’t afford to let much glass off-world. It all goes back in the scrap piles when it’s broken, for reuse.”

Magnan stared across the plain, where the white plumes of small geysers puffed into brief life, while the pale smoke rising from the fumaroles rose straight up in the still air. Far above, a point of blue light twinkled.

“Odd,” Magnan said, frowning. “I’ve never seen one of the moons in broad daylight before . . .”

Retief came to the window.

“You still haven’t. Apparently our Groaci friends are ahead of schedule. That’s an ion drive, and it’s not over twenty miles out.”

Magnan bounded to his feet. “Get your hat, Retief! We’ll confront these interlopers the moment they set foot on Yalcan soil! The Corps isn’t letting this sort of thing pass without comment!”

“The Corps is always a fast group with a comment,” Retief said. “I’ll give it that.”

Outside, the plaza was a-bustle with shopkeepers glittering in holiday glass jewelry, busily closing up their stalls, erecting intricate decorations like inverted chandeliers before their shuttered shops, and exchanging shouted greetings. A long-bodied pink-and-red-faced Yalcan in a white apron leaning in the open door of a shop waved a jointed forearm.

“Retief-Tic! Do me honor of to drop in for last Voom cup before I lock up. Your friend, too!”

“Sorry, Oo-Plif; duty calls.”

“I see you’ve established your usual contacts among the undesirable element,” Magnan muttered, signaling a boat-shaped taxi edging through the press on fat pneumatic wheels. “Look at these lackwits! Completely engrossed in their frivolity, while disaster descends scarcely a mile away.”

Retief eyed the descending ship as it settled in beyond the glittering glass spires of the temple-city.

“I wonder why they’re landing there instead of at the port.”

“They’ve probably mistaken the shrine for the town,” Magnan snapped. “One must admit that it makes a far more impressive display than this collection of mud huts!”

“Not the Groaci; they do their homework carefully before they start anything.”

The cab pulled up and Magnan barked directions at the driver, who waved his forearms in the Yalcan equivalent of a shrug.

“Speak to this fellow, Retief!” Magnan snapped. “Obscure dialects are a hobby of yours, I believe.”

Retief gave the driver instructions in the local patois and leaned back against the floppy cushions. Magnan perched on the edge of the seat and nipped at a hangnail. The car cleared the square, racketed down a side street streaming with locals headed for the bog, gunned out across the hard-baked mud-flat, swerving violently around the bubbling devil’s cauldrons of hot mud that dotted the way. A small geyser erupted with a whoosh!, spattering the open vehicle with hot droplets. A whiff of rotten-egg smoke blew past. Off to the left, the sunlight glinted from the wide surface of the swamp, thickly scattered with exotic lily-like flowers. Here and there, tree-ferns grew in graceful clumps from the shallow water. Along the shore, bright-colored tents had been erected, and local celebrants clustered in groups among them, weaving to and fro and waving their multiple arms.

“It’s disgraceful,” Magnan sniffed. “They’re already staggering and their infernal festival’s hardly begun!”

“It’s a native dance,” Retief said. “Very cultural.”

“What’s the occasion for this idiotic celebration? It seems to have completely paralyzed whatever elementary sense of responsibility these flibbertigibbets possess.”

“It’s related in some way to the conjunction of the four moons,” Retief said. “But there’s more to it than that. It seems to have an important religious significance; the dances are symbolic of death and rebirth, or something of the sort.”

“Hmmph! I see the dancers are now falling flat on their faces! Religious ecstasy, no doubt!”

As they swept past the reeling locals, the driver made cabalistic signs in the air, grabbed the steering bar just in time to swerve past a steam-jet that snorted from a cleft boulder. Ahead, a cloud of dust was rolling out from the landing spot where the Groaci ship had settled in, a scant hundred yards from an outlying shrine, a sparkling fifty-foot tower of red, yellow, and green glass.

“They’re coming perilously close to violating the native holy place,” Magnan observed as the taxi pulled up beside the ship. “There may be mob violence at any moment.”

A pair of locals, emerging from one of the many fanciful glass arches adorning the entrances to the shrine complex, cast no more than a casual glance at the vessel as a port opened in its side and a spindle-legged Groaci in golfing knickers and loud socks appeared.

Magnan climbed hurriedly from the cab. “I want you to note my handling of this, Retief,” he said behind his hand, “a firm word now may avert an incident.”

“I’d better say a firm word to the driver, or we’ll be walking back.”

“Look, Mac-Tic, I got a reserved slot in a hot pocket of mud waiting for me,” the driver called as he wheeled the car around. “Five minutes, OK?”

Retief handed the cabbie a ten credit token and followed Magnan across the scorched ground to the landing ladder. The Groaci descended, all five eye-stalks canted in different directions. One fixed on Magnan.

“Minister Barnshingle,” he said in his faint Groaci voice before Magnan could speak. “I am Fiss, Tour Director for Groac Planetary Tours, Incorporated. I assume you’ve come to assist in clearing my little flock through the Customs and Immigration formalities. Now—”

“Tour Director, did you say, Mr. Fiss?” Magnan cut in. “Fifty shiploads of tourists?”

“Quite correct. I can assure you that passports and visas are all in order, and immunization records are up-to-date. Since we Groaci have no diplomatic mission to Yalc, it is most kind of the CDT to extend its good offices—”

“Just a minute, Mr. Fiss. How long are your tourists planning to stay on Yalc? Just during Voom Festival, I assume?”

“I believe our visas read . . . ah . . . indefinite, Mr. Minister . . .”

“I’m Magnan, Chargé in the absence of the Minister,” Magnan said.

Fiss waved his eyes. “The Minister is not here?”

“No, he’s off mountain climbing. Very keen on sports. Now, ah, may I ask where your other forty-nine vessels might be?”

“Just where is the Minister to be found?” Fiss inquired.

“I really can’t say,” Magnan sniffed. “We’ve had no word for two days. Now, about your other ships—”

“There are, I believe, forty-nine cities here on this charming little world,” Fiss said smoothly. “One transport is calling at each.”

“Curious way to conduct a tour—” Magnan broke off as a cargo port rumbled open and a heavy six-wheeled vehicle churned out. Rows of multi-eyed Groaci heads peered over open sides, on which the words GROAC PLANETARY TOURS, INC. had been hastily lettered. A second vehicle followed the first, and then a third and fourth. Magnan gaped as the emerging carriers took up positions in an orderly double file.

“Here, what’s this, Fiss?” he blurted. “These are tourists?”

“Of course? What else? Please note the presence of the ladies and also a number of lovable Groaci grubs. Yes, innocent, fun-loving tourists all.”

“Why are they in armored cars?” Magnan watched as the vehicles moved off in the direction of the towering glass temples. “Here, where are they going?”

“Since the entire local populace is fully occupied with Voom Festival activities,” Fiss hissed blandly, “Groac Tours has thoughtfully arranged to occupy available unused housing . . .”

“Why, that’s the local Holy of Holies,” Magnan expostulated. “You can’t go in there . . . !”

“The structures are not in use,” Fiss whispered. “And I see no objection on the part of the aborigines.” He indicated the cab driver who was watching indifferently as the first tractor moved under a graceful crystalline arch into the sparkling glass-bricked avenue.

“Hey, Mac-Tic,” the driver called to Retief in Yalc. “Time’s up. I wanna get there before the mud cools . . .”

“Are you out of your mind, Mr. Fiss?” Magnan demanded. “You’re deliberately precipitating an incident! I’m warning you, I’ll refer this to Sector HQ and call for a squadron of Peace Enforcers—”

“What need for Peace Enforcers, my dear fellow?” Fiss murmured. “Peace reigns! We are unarmed; no act of violence is contemplated.”

“We’ll see about this!” Magnan fumed. He turned and stamped toward the waiting taxi.

“So thoughtful of you to welcome us,” Fiss’s faint voice followed him. “I shall be calling at the Legation later to arrange a number of formalities—all quite legal, I assure you.”

“It’s worse than I thought,” Magnan groaned to Retief as he climbed into the cab. “When a Groaci starts citing statutes, you can be sure there’s mischief afoot.”

“This is incredible!” Magnan barked at the screen where Oo-Rilikuk’s multi-colored visage nodded blandly against a background of sinuously moving Yalcan dancing-wenches. “You calmly admit that these foreigners are occupying every pagoda on the planet, strewing dope-stick butts and algae-bar wrappers—”

“This is Voom season, Mr. Magnan,” Rilikuk said reasonably. “What could be more fitting?”

“Your concept of propriety confounds me. There are fifty thousand of these fellows—and I have the distinct impression they’re planning an extended stay!”

“Very likely,” Rilikuk agreed, twitching in time to the music in the background. “And now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” The screen blanked.

Magnan threw up his hands. “I don’t like it, Retief; there’s an aspect of this we’re missing—”

A chime sounded; the door opened and the Groaci Fiss bustled in, breathing noisily under the weight of a heavy briefcase.

“Ah, Mr. Magnan! So good of you to await me. I have the papers here . . .” He hoisted the case onto the desk and undid stout straps. “I’m sure you’ll find all in order: Territorial claims, governmental charter, application for League membership—”

“What’s this?” Magnan scanned the heavy documents. “What are you saying, sir? That Yalc—that the Groaci—that you—”

“Quite right,” Fiss nodded. “This world is now Groaci property.”

There was a loud crash from the direction of the now deserted street. Magnan swiveled, stared out at a band of business-like Groaci, hard at work on a shuttered shop with pry-bars.

“What are they doing?” he yelped. “Mr. Fiss, order those vandals away at once! The situation is getting out of hand!”

“Not at all; those chaps are merely following my instructions. And now if you have any belongings you wish to take along, please feel free—”

“Eh? Belongings? I’m not going anywhere!”

“Permit me to contradict you,” Fiss hissed softly, prodding a paper with a damp-looking finger. “This is the eviction order. I find that this humble structure will adequately fulfill my requirement for a field-office here in the village.”

“F-field office?”

“I expect we shall be busy here for a few days,” Fiss said. “Transferring useful items to our quarters.” He waved airily toward the sparkling towers beyond the swamp.

“You’re violating the Legation?” Magnan’s eyes bulged.

“There has been a change of status quo since my arrival,” Fiss pointed out. “No formal relations exist between my government and the CDT; therefore, this is merely an office, and you are unregistered aliens—”

“This is an outrage!” Magnan sputtered. “I’m not leaving!”

“So?” Fiss murmured. He stepped to the door, opened it, waved in a quartet of bigger-than-average Groaci.

“To intimidate the soft ones,” he hissed in Groaci. “To make threatening gestures.”

Two of the newcomers stepped to Retief. He took them casually by their thin necks, escorted them to the window, and tumbled them out. The second pair jumped at him in time to meet a stiff-arm which slammed both of them onto their backs. Fiss emitted a weak but impassioned bleat.

“Unhand them, brute! These are lawfully appointed bailiffs—”

Retief tossed the stunned Groaci after their fellows and took a step toward Fiss. The Tour Director squeaked and darted through the door.

“Retief!” Magnan yelped. “Stop! After all, these papers—”

Retief gathered in the parchments, tossed them after the intruders. The outraged face of Tour Director Fiss appeared at the opening.

“Ruffians! Bandits! Our legal and just claim—”

“—isn’t worth the plastic it’s printed on,” Retief stated. “And if any more tourists wander into the Legation I won’t be so polite with them.”

Fiss turned and made frantic gestures to the foraging crew. “To enter and evict the madmen!” he hissed. “To cast them forth bodily!”

The several dozen Groaci who had gathered moved in a body toward the Legation door.

“I’m disappointed in you, Fiss,” Retief said, shaking his head sadly. “I thought you were going to pretend that this was all perfectly legal, and here you are about to violate a diplomatic mission in broad daylight.”

Fiss hesitated, then hissed an order to his men. They halted.

“Very well, Soft One,” he whispered. “What need of force? Unlike the higher races, you require water at frequent intervals, I believe. Since, alas, I cannot authorize further deliveries through the village mains, you will soon emerge to seek it. We will be waiting.”

Magnan tottered to Retief’s side. “Mr. Fiss,” he croaked. “This is madness! You can’t possibly hope to justify this outrageous seizure—”

“On the contrary, Mr. Magnan,” Fiss waved a fistful of paper. “If you will re-read your Colonial Code, Title Three, Section XXI, paragraph 9b, you will find that, and I quote, ‘any planetary body lacking an indigenous culture may be considered as available for homesteading by any Power covenant to these articles—’”

“Surely, Fiss, you don’t imply that Yalc is uninhabited! Great Heavens, the world is known throughout the Sector for the beauty of its glass and ceramics work—”

“I refer further to paragraph 12d, ibidem,” Fiss bored on, “which provides the following criteria for determination of cultural level within the meaning of the Code: (a) an active, organized government competent to represent native interests; (b) a degree of social organization characterized by cities of at least one thousand inhabitants; and (c) individual or group IQ (as applicable), averaging .8 (standard) as evidenced by GST Test scores—”

“Have you lost your wits?” Magnan cut in. “You’re standing in the midst of a Yalcan City! I deal daily with representatives of the Yalcan government! And as for intelligence—”

“Inhabited city, Mr. Magnan, permit me to remind you minimum population, one thousand individuals.” Fiss waved a hand at the empty street. “I see no individuals here.”

“But they’re all away participating in a festival—”

“As for government,” Fiss continued blandly, “I have been totally unsuccessful in discovering any active organization. I confess I have been unable to secure a specimen of the local fauna for IQ Testing, but I feel sure any such effort would be unrewarded.”

“You deliberately timed this coup to take advantage of local customs!” Magnan said in shocked tone. “The Code will be amended, Fiss—!”

The Groaci vibrated his throat sac, a contemptuous gesture. “Ex post facto legal manipulations can hardly be expected to affect the present situation retroactively, my dear Magnan.”

Magnan clutched the edge of the window. “Retief,” he gasped weakly. “This is insane, but I have a sudden, awful conviction that he’s legally on firm ground.”

“Of course,” Fiss went on, “article 68 of the Code expressly prohibits occupation by force of any world, cultured or otherwise. However, since our arrival was carried out in complete tranquility, this is hardly germane—”

“The festival will be over tomorrow,” Magnan burst out. “What then?”

“Now that we have established legal possession of this planet,” Fiss whispered, “it will, of course, be necessary to enforce the just laws which are even now being enacted. To this end, certain arms are of course necessary.” He spat rapid Groacian at a trio of newcomers in black hip-cloaks, who silently produced heavy particle-guns from sequined holsters strapped to their thighs.

“You aren’t planning—violence?” Magnan gasped. “Not against us!”

“As to that,” Fiss whispered, “I was about to point out that naturally, a formal request for diplomatic status addressed to the present regimé would, of course, receive consideration.”

“Tour Director Fiss—” Magnan gulped.

“Planetary Coordinator Pro Tem Fiss, if you please,” the Groaci hissed. “A pity the large Soft One acted in such haste, but I am prepared to overlook the incident.”

“Why, ah, very good of you, I’m sure, Pla—”

“You’re out of luck, Fiss,” Retief cut in. “You’ll have to conduct your piracy without CDT sanction.”

Magnan tugged at Retief’s sleeve. “Here, Retief, this is hardly a time for truculence—”

“It’s as good a time as any, Mr. Magnan. And Minister Barnshingle might be irritated if he came back and discovered that these squatters had been recognized as a legal government.”

Magnan groaned. “I . . . I suppose you’re right.”

“So? But, no matter, Soft One,” Fiss whispered. “Why treat with underlings, eh? My scouts report a party of Terrestrials in difficulty on an awkward slope some leagues from here. Doubtless the person Barnshingle of whom you speak will be grateful for relief. A timely rescue by selfless Groaci homesteaders will establish a correct mood for initiation of formal relations.”

“The Minister’s in trouble?” Magnan squeaked.

“He is at present dangling over a crevasse of awesome depth by a single strand of rope. Diplomat muscles appear unequal to the task of drawing him up—”

There was a rending crash from a shop across the plaza as a barred door collapsed under the impact of a power ram. Swarms of Groaci were systematically looting the stalls already opened, loading foodstuffs, glassware, and other merchandise into wheeled vehicles.

“This is wholesale hijackery!” Magnan yelped. “Open pillage! Highway robbery!” You can’t do this without a license!”

“Curb your tongue, sir!” Fiss hissed. “I shall for a while indulge your arrogant preemption of Groaci property out of sentimental respect for the niceties of diplomatic usage, but I shall tolerate no insult!”

“Threats, Mr. Fiss?” Magnan choked.

“Call it what you will, Soft One,” Fiss said. “When you are ready to indicate your acquiescence, send word to me. Meantime, leave this building at your peril!”

Dusk had fallen. The sounds of shattering locks and maneuvering vehicles continued in the streets outside. Beyond the window, booted Groaci Peace-keepers paced monotonously, heavy blast guns at the ready. Now and then, in a momentary lull, the sound of Yalcan voices raised in song could be heard emanating from the bog, where torches flared, reflecting from the mirror-dark waters. The two lesser moons were high in the sky in their slow orbits; the third had risen above the horizon and cast purple shadows across the floor of the silent Legation office.

“It’s nearly dark,” Magnan muttered. “Retief, perhaps I’d better accompany you. Fiss may change his mind and batter the door down—”

“He could come in through the window anytime he decided to,” Retief said. “He’s nicely bluffed for the present, Mr. Magnan, and someone has to stay here to maintain occupancy of the Legation—”

“On second thought, I’m changing my instructions,” Magnan said decisively. “You’d better not go. After all, if Minister Barnshingle wishes to recognize the coup, I see no reason—”

“I don’t think the Minister will be reasoning at his most lucid level while dangling over a precipice. And there’s also Miss Braswell to consider. She’s out there somewhere.”

“Retief, you can’t hope to find her without being apprehended! The city is swarming with armed Groaci!”

“I think I know the back streets better than they do; I’ll stay out of sight. If I can reach Barnshingle before he signs anything, it may save a lot of embarrassment all around.”

“Retief, as Chargé—”

“Don’t give me any instructions I can’t follow, Mr. Magnan,” Retief took a hand-light from a desk drawer, clipped it to his belt. “Just lie low and ignore whatever Fiss says to you. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Retief stepped from a doorless opening into the shadows of a narrow alley running behind the Legation. He waited until a knob-kneed Groaci in an elaborate helmet had strolled past the lighted intersection fifty feet distant, then jumped, pulled himself up onto the low, tiled roof of the adjacent building. In the light of the rising fourth moon, he moved quietly to the far side, lay flat looking down on a side street littered with items discarded by the looters. One or two windows showed lights. A single armed Groaci stood under a corner street-lamp. Silently Retief worked his way along the roofs, jumping gaps between buildings, until he reached a narrow space leading back into darkness a few yards from the corner. He groped, found a chip of broken tile, tossed it down into the alley. The Groaci cocked his eyes alertly, swung his gun around and came over to investigate. Retief tossed down another pebble; as the sentry entered the dark way, Retief dropped behind him, yanked him backward off his feet, and caught the falling gun. He put the muzzle against the Groaci’s pulsating throat sac.

“Tell me where the Terry female is being held,” he growled, “and maybe I won’t tie knots in your eye-stalks.”

“Iiiikkk!” the Groaci said. “To unhand me, demonic one!”

“Of course, you may not know,” Retief said. “In that case I’d have to regretfully kill you and strike up a new acquaintance, which would be a nuisance for both of us.”

“The impropriety of assaulting an innocent tourist! To lodge a complaint with the Travelers Aid Society!”

“No, that was this morning,” Retief corrected his prisoner. “This afternoon you’re a peaceful homesteader. You can think of me as an unpacified aborigine, if it will help any.” He jabbed with the gun. “Make up your mind. I’m on a tight schedule.”

“The ghastliness of your fate,” the Groaci hissed.

“Well, I have to hurry along,” Retief said. “Pardon my thumbs; shooting is such a messy business, and noisy, too.”

“To restrain yourself, prowler in the night! To show you the way to the Soft She—and to savor the moment when you writhe on the hooks!”

“That’s right,” Retief said agreeably. “Think about something cheerful.” He prodded the captive guard to his feet. “In the meantime—” he switched to Groaci—“To play your cards right and maybe to live to see the dawn.”

In a shadowy arcade running beside a rare two-story structure, Retief studied the dark windows in the wall opposite. Faint light gleamed behind two of the glassless openings.

“I’ll have to leave you here, I’m afraid, Tish,” Retief said softly. “I’ll just pop you into one of these convenient garbage storage units; they have nicely-fitted air tight doors, but you’ll be all right for an hour or so. If your information is accurate, with luck I’ll be back in plenty of time to let you out before you suffocate. Of course, if anything happens to delay me—well, that’s just the little risk we have to run, eh?”

“To . . . to try the rear window first,” Tish whispered.

“Whatever you say,” Retief opened the door to the refuse bin and urged the Groaci inside. The alien clinched his olfactory sphincters tight and perched disconsolately on a heap of fruit rinds, locust carapaces, and pottery shards, his head ducked under the low ceiling.

“To remember this trusting one,” he said shakily. “To carefully avoid being killed before returning to release me.”

“With a motivation like that, I’m sure to survive.” Retief clamped the door shut, looked both ways, and darted across the street. The wall tiles were deeply incised with decorative floral motifs; he found finger and toeholds, climbed quickly to the level of the windows, eased through one into a dark room. He paused to listen; there were faint Groaci voices somewhere. In the dim-lit hall, they were more distinct. He moved silently along to the nearmost room. The door opened at a touch.

Miss Braswell jumped up from a long, low Yalcan couch, her mouth open for a scream, cut off as she recognized Retief in the gloom.

“Why—Mr. Retief—”

“Shhh.” He crossed to her. A length of rope was tied firmly to her ankle and looped around a massive clay sculpture. She was barefooted, and her brown hair was in a state of mild disarray; there was a streak of dirt along one cheek.

“What in the world is it all about?” she whispered. “I was just about to buy the darlingest hand-decorated chamber pot, when all of a sudden a whole bunch of these nasty little creatures popped out of nowhere waving their eyes at me—”

“How many are in the building now?” Retief attacked the heavy knots in the rope.

“Heavens, I have no idea. It’s been pretty quiet for the last hour.” She giggled. “That tickles. I tried to untie it, but I only broke a fingernail.”

The knot yielded and Retief tossed the rope aside.

“Do you feel equal to a short climb?”

Miss Braswell came close to Retief. “Whatever you say, Mr. Retief,” she murmured.

“Where are your shoes?”

“I kept kicking them when they were tying me up, so they took them. Ugh! Those creepy, damp hands!”

“If we should get separated, head for the Legation. Mr. Magnan is holding the fort.”

“You mean—these awful little Groaci are there, too?”

“Haven’t you heard? They’re colonizing the place.”

“Why, the nerve!”

There was a sudden hiss of nearby voices. Retief flattened himself against the wall just inside the door. Miss Braswell whirled and sat on the chaise lounge. There was the soft clap of Groaci feet. A small figure stepped into the room.

“Ah, young woman,” a soft Groaci voice hissed. “Time to be going along.”

“Where?” the girl demanded loudly.

“To more comfortable quarters in more attractive surroundings—”

“If it wasn’t so ridiculous, I’d think you were on the make, you sticky little monster. Keep away from me!”

“You mammals are all alike,” the Groaci whispered. “But it’s pointless to flaunt those ugly udders at me, my girl . . .” Two more Groaci had followed the first, who signaled. “To make fast its arms,” he snapped. “Mind its talons—”

Miss Braswell jumped up and swung an open-handed slap that sent the flimsy alien reeling back; Retief stepped quickly behind the other two, cracked their heads together sharply, thrust them aside and chopped a hand across the leader’s neck.

“Time to go,” he breathed. At the window, he glanced out, then swung a leg over the sill. “It’s easy; just hang on with your toes.”

Miss Braswell giggled again. “It’s so sort of sexy, being barefooted, isn’t it?”

“That depends on what’s attached to the feet,” Retief said. “Hurry up, now. We’re in enemy territory.”

“Mr. Retief,” she said from above, “do you think I flaunt my ah . . .”

“Certainly not, Miss Braswell. They flaunt themselves.”

There was a sudden drumming from the shadows of the arcade across the way.

“It just occurred to my friend Tish to use a little initiative,” Retief called softly. He dropped to the street a few feet below. “Jump—I’ll catch you.”

The thumping continued. Miss Braswell squealed and let go, slammed against Retief’s chest. He set her on her feet. “The Groaci have good ears. Come on—” They dashed for the nearest dark alley as a squad of armed Groaci Peace-keepers rounded a corner. There was a weak shout, a clatter of accouterments as the four aliens broke into a run. Gripping Miss Braswell’s hand, Retief dashed along the narrow way. Ahead, a wall loomed, blocking the passage. They skidded to a halt, turned to face the oncoming pursuers.

“Get to the roof,” Retief snapped. “I’ll slow them down—!”

Between Retief and the Groaci, a six-foot-long grating set in the pavement suddenly dropped open with a clank of metal. The leading Groaci, coming on at a smart clip, plunged over the edge, followed an instant later by the second. Retief brought his light up, shone it in the eyes of the other two as the third Groaci reached the pitfall, dropped from sight. As the last of the four faltered, sensing something amiss, the long, sinuous form of a Yalcan native glided from a door set in the wall, gave the Groaci a hearty push, dusted both sets of hands, and inclined its head in a gracious nod.

“Ah, Retief-Tic—and Braswell Ticcim! What jolly surprise! Please do honor to enter humble abode for refreshing snort before continuing!”

“Nice timing, Oo-Plif,” Retief said. “I thought you’d be off to the festival by now.”

The Yalcan reached inside the door, fumbled. The grating swung back in place. “I was busy with brisk trade when Five-eyes arrive,” he explained. “Decide stick around keep eye on store. Plenty time make scene at bog yet.”

Miss Braswell shuddered as she crossed the grate. “What’s down there?”

“Only good honest sewage, nice change for Five-eyes. After brisk swim, fetch up in bog, join in merry-making.”

“I thought you Yalcans were pacifists,” Retief commented, stepping inside a roughly-finished passage running parallel with the outer wall of the building.

“All Yalcan love peace. More peaceful now noisy Five-eyes enjoying swim. Besides, only open drain cover; visitors dive in of own free will.”

“I had the impression you helped that last fellow along.”

“Always try to be helpful when possible. Now for snort.”

They followed Oo-Plif along interior passages to emerge behind the bar of the darkened dram-shop, took seats at a low bench and accepted elaborate glasses of aromatic liquor.

“Oo-Plif, I’d appreciate it if you’d see Miss Braswell back to the Legation,” Retief said. “I have to leave town on an urgent errand.”

“Better stay close, Retief-Tic, come along to bog in time for high point of Voom Festival; only couple hours now.”

“I have an errand to run first, Oo-Plif; I’ve been delegated to find Minister Barnshingle and notify him that the Legation’s under siege and that he shouldn’t sign anything without reading the fine print.”

“Barnshingle Tic-Tic? Skinny Terran with receding lower mandible and abdomen like queen ripe with eggs?”

“Graphically put, Oo-Plif. He’s supposed to be hanging around a mountain somewhere, if the Groaci haven’t yet swooped down to the rescue.”

Oo-Plif was wobbling his head, now enameled in orange and green holiday colors, in the Yalcan gesture of affirmation.

“Barnshingle Tic-Tic here in city at present moment; arrive half-hour ago amid heavy escort of Five-eyes.”

“Hmmm. That simplifies matters, perhaps. I was expecting to have to steal a Groaci heli and hunt him down in the wilds. Did he seem to be a prisoner, Oo-Plif?”

“Hard to say, not get too good look. Busy helping Five-eyes find way to bog.”

“Via the sewer, I take it?”

“Sure; plenty gratings round town. Must be fifty Five-eyes in swim now; plenty company.”

“Are you sure they can swim?”

“Details, details,” Oo-Plif said soothingly. “You want go now, pay visit to Barnshingle Tic-Tic?”

“As soon as Miss Braswell’s taken care of.”

“I’m going with you,” the girl said quickly. “I wouldn’t dream of missing the excitement.”

“This system of hidden passages is certainly handy,” Retief said. “How much farther?”

“Close now. Not really hidden passages; just space in double walls. Yalcan like build plenty strong.”

They emerged into another of the innumerable alleys that characterized the town, crossed it, entered another door. Oo-Plif cautioned silence. “Place swarm with Five-eyes. We sneak up and get lie of land, find way of rescue Barnshingle Tic-Tic from rescuers.”

Five minutes later, crowded into a narrow, dusty passage in the heart of the sprawling building, Retief heard the booming tones of Barnshingle’s voice nearby, and the breathy reply of a Groaci.

“Opening in back of closet just ahead,” Oo-Plif whispered. “Get earful of proceedings there.”

Retief edged forward. Through the half-open closet door he caught a glimpse of Minister Barnshingle seated awkwardly in a low Yalcan easy chair, dressed in dusty hiking clothes. Half a dozen Groaci in vari-colored mufti surrounded him.

“—an exceedingly hairy experience, to be sure,” Barnshingle was saying. “Most gratifying to see your heli appear, Drone-master Fiss. But I don’t quite grasp the import of the present situation. Not that I’m suggesting that I’m being held against my will, you understand, but I really must hurry back to my office—”

“No need for haste, Mr. Minister,” Fiss reassured him. “Everything has been conducted with scrupulous regard for legality, I assure you.”

“But there seemed to be hundreds of your . . . ah . . . esteemed compatriots about in the streets,” Barnshingle pressed on. “And I had the distinct impression that there were a number of highly irregular activities in progress—”

“You refer perhaps to the efforts of some of our people to remove certain obstacles—”

“Breaking down doors, to be precise,” Barnshingle said a trifle snappishly. “As well as hauling away wagon-loads of merchandise from shops, the owners of which appeared to be absent.”

“Ah, yes, impulse buying; hardly consonant with domestic thrift. But enough of this delightful gossip, Mr. Minister. The matter I wished to discuss with you . . .” Fiss gave the Minister a glowing account of his peaceful take-over, citing chapter and verse each time the astounded diplomat attempted to rumble a protest.

“And, of course,” he finished, “I wished to acquaint your Excellency with the facts before permitting you to be subjected to ill-advised counsel by hot-heads.”

“B-but, Great heavens, Drone-master—”

“Planetary Coordinator Pro Tem,” Fiss interjected smoothly. “Now, I shall, of course, be happy to inspect your credentials at once in order to regularize relations between the Corps and my government.”

“My credentials? But I’ve presented my credentials to Mr. Rilikuk of the Foreign Office—”

“This is hardly the time to reminisce over vanished regimes, Mr. Minister. Now . . .” Fiss leaned forward confidentially. “You and I are, if I may employ the term, men of the world. Not for us the fruitless expense of emotional energy over the fait accompli, eh? As for myself, I am most eager to show you around my offices in the finest of the towers of my capitol—”

“Towers? Capitol?”

“The attractive edifices just beyond the swampy area where the local wild-life are now disporting themselves,” Fiss explained. “I have assigned—”

“You’ve violated the native Sanctum Sanctorum?” Barnshingle gasped.

“An unfortunate choice of words,” Fiss hissed. “Would you have me establish my ministries here in this warren of one-story clay huts?”

“The Yalcans—” Barnshingle said weakly.

“The name of the planet is now Grudlu,” Fiss stated. “In honor of Grud, the patron Muse of practicality.”

“Look here, Fiss! Are you asking me to turn my back on the Yalcans and recognize you as the de jure government here? Simply on the basis of this absurd legalistic rationalization of yours?”

“With the exception of a number of slanted adjectives, very succinctly put,” Fiss whispered.

“Why in the world would I do a dastardly thing like that?” Barnshingle demanded.

“Why, good for him,” Miss Braswell breathed behind Retief.

“Ah, yes, terms,” Fiss said comfortably. “First, your Mission would, of course, be raised at once to Embassy level, at Grudlun insistence, with yourself requested by name as Ambassador, naturally. Secondly, I have in mind certain local commercial properties which might make a valuable addition to your portfolio; I can let you in at investor’s prices—the entire transaction to be conducted with the utmost discretion, of course, so as not to arouse comment among the coarse-minded. Then, of course, you’ll wish to select a handsome penthouse for yourself in one of my more exclusive towers . . .”

“Penthouse? Ambassador? Portfolio?” Barnshingle babbled.

“I marvel at the patience Your Excellency has displayed in tolerating the thinly-veiled insult implied in your assignment to grubby quarters in this kennel,” Fiss commented. “Why, a person could disappear in this maze of old crockery and never be heard from again . . .”

“Disappear?” Barnshingle croaked. “And wha-what if I refuse . . . ?”

“Refuse? Please, Mr. Minister—or more properly, Mr. Ambassador—why release the fowl of fancy to flutter among such morbid trees of speculation?”

“What about my staff? Will they . . . ah . . . ?”

“Suitable bribes will be offered,” Fiss whispered crisply. “Pray don’t give it another thought. All surviving members of the Mission will present a united front—with the exception of the two criminals now skulking in the former Legation, of course,” he added.

“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 Yalc. By the time you drag it though 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.”

“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 wide cross-avenue, the flaring torches of the revelers at the bog sparkled cheerfully. The faint sound of Yalcan voices raised in song were audible now in the stillness.

“Just what is this big event we’re hurrying to make?” Retief inquired.

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—but only one time every ninety-four years standard all four moon line up. When this happen—Voom time here!”

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

“Fine old Yalcan word,” Oo-Plif 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 oofed, 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 avenue 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. The 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 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 spider-webs 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 auto-hover 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’ll be 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 to 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 slammed a clean right cross to the side of 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 backward 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 bubbled 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 the 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 mosaiced glass figures depicted glass blowers at work. A huge chunk of the scene fell backward, 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 that had loomed nearby was gone. A sustained crashing, as of nearby surf, drowned the whine of the heli’s turbos as it darted in close.

Retief lowered Barnshingle, now pawing weakly and blinking vague eyes, half lifted, half shoved him into the rear seat.

“Hurry, Mr. Retief! It’s going . . . !” The noise was deafening now. Retief grasped a strut to pull himself up, and suddenly he was hanging by one hand, his feet treading air. The heli surged, lifting. He looked down. The tower was dropping away below, a cloud of vari-colored glass splinters puffing out as the upper stories thundered down into the depths. A slender sapphire spire, thrusting up almost alone now, rippled like a dancer, then broke into three major fragments, dropped gracefully from view. Retief hauled himself up, got a foot inside the heli, pulled himself into the seat.

“Mr. Retief, you’re bleeding!” He put a hand up, felt slickness across his cheek.

“A lot of splinters flying around. It was a little too close—”

“Mr. Retief . . . !” Miss Braswell worked frantically at the controls. “We’re losing altitude!”

There was a harsh droning noise. Retief looked back. A heavy armored heli with Groaci markings was dropping toward them.

“Make for the bog!” Retief called over the racket.

There was a buzz, and garish light glared across the struts above Retief’s head, bubbling paint.

“Hang on!” Miss Braswell shouted. “Evasive action!” The heli tilted. Barnshingle yelled. The heli whipped up in the opposite direction, spun, dropped like a stone, darted ahead. The futile buzzing of the Groaci’s blaster rattled around the faltering vehicle.

“Can’t do much more of that,” Miss Braswell gasped. “Losing altitude too fast—”

A vast, dark shadow flitted overhead.

“We’re sunk,” Miss Braswell squeaked. “Another one—”

There was a flare of actinic blue from above and behind, followed by a muffled clatter. Retief caught a glimpse of the Groaci heli, its rotors vibrating wildly falling away behind them. Something huge and shadowy swept toward them from the rear in a rising whistle of air.

“Get set,” Retief called. He brought up the blaster he had taken from Oo-Plif, steadied his hand against the heli—

The shadow dropped close; the running lights of the heli gleamed on thirty-foot canopies of translucent tracery spread wide above a seven-foot body. Oo-Plif’s gaily painted face beamed down at them. He floated on spread wings, arms and legs folded close.

“Ah, Retief-Tic! Punch in thorax hasten metamorphosis. Got clear of chrysalis just in time!”

“Oo-Plif!” Retief yelled. “What are you doing here?”

“Follow to warn you, dear buddy! Not want you meet gods with crowd of Five-eyes! Now on to bog for festivities!”

Below, the torch-lit surface of the swamp rushed up. Miss Braswell braked, threw herself into Retief’s arms as the battered heli struck with a massive splatter at the edge of the mud. Painted Yalcan faces bobbed all around.

“Welcome, strangers!” voices called. “Just in time for fun!”

* * *

Barnshingle was groaning, holding his head.

“What am I doing here, hip-deep in mud?” he demanded. “Where’s Magnan? What happened to that fellow Fiss?”

“Mr. Magnan is coming now,” Miss Braswell said. “You bumped your head.”

“Bumped my head? I seem to recall . . .”

Someone floundered up, gasping and waving skinny, mud-caked arms.

“Mr. Minister! These primitives dragged me bodily from the street—”

“I thought you were going to stay inside the Legation,” Retief said.

“I was merely conducting a negotiation,” Magnan huffed. “What are you doing here, Retief—and Miss Braswell!”

“What were you negotiating for, a private apartment just below the Ambassadorial penthouse?” she snapped.

“Miss Braswell! Kindly bend your knees! You’re exposing yourself!”

“I’ve got a quarter-inch layer of black mud on; that’s more than I wear to the office!”

“Here, what’s this?” Barnshingle exclaimed. “What’s happened to my clothes? I’m stark naked!”

“Why, it’s a sort of symbolic shedding of the chrysalis, as I understand it, sir,” Magnan babbled. “One must go along with native religious observances, of course—”

“Gee, Mr. Retief,” Miss Braswell murmured. “It’s sort of sexy at that, isn’t it?”

“Wha-whatever’s happened?” Barnshingle burst out. “Where’s the city gone?” He stared across at the glowing heap that marked the site of the fallen towers.

“It seems to have—ah—been offered to the local deities,” Magnan said. “It seems to be the custom.”

“And all those nasty little bug-eyes with it,” Miss Braswell put in.

“Really, Miss Braswell! I must ask you to avoid the use of racial epithets!”

“It’s really too bad about the towers; they were awfully pretty.”

Oo-Plif, perched like a vast moth on a nearby tree-fern, spoke up. “Is OK; re-use glass; make plenty bowl and pot from fragments.”

“But, what about all those Groaci mixed in with the pieces?”

“Impurities make dandy colors,” Oo-Plif assured her.

“My jaw,” Barnshingle grated. “How did I fall and hit my jaw?”

“Retief-Tic arrive in nick of time to snatch you from sacrificial pile. Probably bump chin in process.”

“What in the world were you doing there, Mr. Minister?” Magnan gasped. “You might have been killed.”

“Why, ah, I was trepanned there by the Groaci—quite against my will, of course. They . . . ah . . . had some fantastic proposal to make. I was just on the point of daring them to do their worst, when you appeared, Retief. After that, my recollection grows a bit hazy.”

“These head-blows often have retroactive effects,” Retief said. “I’ll wager you don’t recall a thing that was said from the time they picked you off the mountain.

“It’s even possible that Oo-Plif has forgotten some of the things he overheard—about penthouses and gilt edge stocks,” Retief went on. “Maybe it was the excitement generated by your announcement that Yalc will be getting some large shipments of fine grey silica sand from Groac suitable for glass-making, courtesy of the CDT.”

“Announcement?” Barnshingle gulped.

“The one you’re going to make tomorrow,” Retief suggested gently.

“Oh . . . that one,” the Minister said weakly.

“Time to go along now to next phase of celebration,” Oo-Plif called from his perch.

“How jolly,” Magnan said. “Come along, Mr. Minister—”

“Not you, Magnan-Tic, and Barnshingle Tic-Tic,” Oo-Plif said. “Mating rite no place for elderly drones. You scheduled for cozy roost in thorn-tree as ceremonial penitence for follies of youth.”

“What about us?” Miss Braswell asked breathlessly.

“Oh, time for you to get in on youthful follies, so have something to repent later!”

“You said . . . mating rite. Does that mean . . . ?”

“Voom Festival merely provide time, place, and member of opposite gender,” Oo-Plif said. “Rest up to you . . .”

WICKER WONDERLAND

“Patiently toiling in humble consulates on many a remote world, Junior Corps officers, ever-mindful of the welfare of emergent non-Terrestrial peoples, labored on in their unending quest to bring the fruits of modern technology to supplement native arts and crafts, enriching their halcyon days with the awareness of the profound effect their efforts might have on entire populations. The examples set by such dedicated public servants as Vice-consuls Pird and Wimperton stand as an inspiration to us all . . .”

—Vol. VII, Reel 21, 487 AE (AD2948)

Consul-General Magnan clutched his baggy chartreuse velvet beret against the blast of air from the rotor of the waiting heli, beckoned Retief closer.

“I’ll be candid with you, Retief,” he said from the side of his mouth. “I’m not at all happy about leaving you here as deputy chief under a Groaci superior; the combination of unpredictable elements is an open invitation to disaster.”

“I’ve never known disaster to wait for an invitation, where our Groaci colleagues were concerned,” Retief commented.

“Naturalizing a Groaci was irregular enough in itself—” Magnan went on. “Tendering him an appointment in the Corps smacks of folly.”

“Don’t underestimate the boys at headquarters,” Retief said cheerfully. “Maybe this is just the first step in a shrewd scheme to take over Groac.”

“Nonsense! No one at HQ would want to go on record as favoring such a policy . . .” Magnan looked thoughtful. “Besides, what does Groac have that we need?”

“Their cast-iron gall would be a valuable acquisition—but I’m afraid that’s the sort of intangible that will elude the wiliest diplomacy.”

Magnan pursed his lips. “Take care, Retief: if anything goes awry, I’ll hold you fully responsible.” The senior diplomat turned to the other staff members waiting nearby on the tower-top helipad, moved among them shaking hands, then scrambled into the heli; it lifted, beat it way eastward against a backdrop of vermilion-bellied clouds in a sky of luminous violet. Behind Retief, the voice of Vice-Consul Wimperton rose to a shrill bark.

“No want um basket! No need um beads! Want um heavy metal, you blooming idiot!”

Retief turned. A short-legged, long-torsoed local draped in a stiff lime-green garment stood round-shouldered before the Commercial Attaché dwarfed under a load of fancifully woven and beaded baskets.

“No want um?” the Poon inquired in a voice that seemed to thrum in his chest. “Plenty too cheap—”

“No bloody want um! How many times do I have to tell you, you bug-eyed—”

A curtain twitched aside from a narrow doorway; a spindle-legged Groaci in Bermuda shorts, argyle socks and a puce and magenta aloha shirt peered out.

“Mr. Wimperton,” he said faintly, “I must request that you refrain from abusing the locals so loudly; I have a splitting headache . . .”

The deck lifted, creaking, sank back gently. The Groaci put a hand against his midriff and clutched the doorframe.

“My, that was a dandy,” Wimperton said. “Felt like my stomach came right up and bumped my chin!”

“I’m sure we’re all aware of the motion, Mr. Wimperton—all too aware . . .”

“Say, you don’t look at all well, Mr. Consul-General,” Wimperton said solicitously. “It’s this constant rocking, up and down, to and fro; you can never tell which way the tower will lean next—”

“Yes, yes, a penetrating observation, Mr. Wimperton.” The Consul-General tilted two eye-stalks toward Retief. “If you’d step inside a moment, Mr. Retief . . . ?” He held the curtain aside, let it drop behind Retief.

Late sunlight filtering through the open-work walls of the consulate splashed a checkered pattern across colorful rugs of kelp fibre, low couches, desks, and chairs of woven wickerwork. Consul-General Dools looked at Retief nervously.

“Mr. Retief,” he said in his faint voice. “Now that our previous chief, Mr. Magnan, has departed, I, of course, find myself in charge . . .” He paused while the floor lifted and sank; his eye-stalks waved sickeningly.

“As a newcomer, perhaps you’ve noticed . . . ah . . . irregularities in our little organization here . . .” Four of his eyes studied different corners of the room. Retief said nothing.

“I wished merely to caution you: It would be unwise to evince excessive curiosity . . .”

Retief waited. The tower leaned to the steady pressure of the rising gale. The floor slanted. Consul-General Dools clung to a desk, his throat-sacs vibrating.

“There are many ways,” he started, “in which accidents could befall one here . . .”

The floor sagged, rose abruptly. Dools gulped, threw Retief a last despairing glance and fled as Wimperton came in, still muttering. He looked after the departing Groaci.

“Consul-General Dools isn’t a very good sailor,” he commented. “Of course, in the week you’ve been here, you haven’t seen a real blow yet—”

The native peddler poked his round head through the door hanging, padded across the room on large, bare webbed feet, paused before Retief.

“You want um basket?” The round, amber-and-olive patterned face gazed hopefully at him.

“I’ll take that one,” Retief said in the native language, pointing.

The lipless mouth stretched wide in the local equivalent of a delighted grin.

“A sale! I was beginning to think you High-Pockets—excuse me, sir—you Terries were tighter than weed-ticks in a belly-button.” He lowered his wares, extracted the basket.

“You shouldn’t encourage him,” Wimperton said snappishly. “For months I’ve been indoctrinating him to bring in some gold nuggets; the land-masses are practically solid with them—but no, they build their town on a raft of seaweed in mid-ocean and weave baskets!”

“They evolved in the weed,” Retief said mildly. “And if they lifted the embargo on gold, in six months the planet would be swarming with prospectors, dumping their tailings into the ocean. They like it the way it is.”

The Poon caught Retief’s eyes, jerked his head toward the doorway, then ducked out through the door hanging.

Retief waited half a minute, then rose lazily, stepped out on the wide observation deck. All around, lesser towers, intricately patterned, rose from the miles-long mat of yellow-green seaweed far below, moving restlessly with the long ocean swells. Sea fowl with weed-colored backs and sky-blue undersides wheeled and screamed. Between the swaying pinnacles, a spider-web complex of catwalks swung in hundred-yard festoons. A continuous creaking of rattan filled the air. Far away, the white-flecked surface of the open sea was visible.

Retief crossed to where the Poon waited by the stairwell entry.

“You seem like a good fellow,” the native said as Retief came up. “So I’ll give you some free advice.” He glanced around at the color-drenched sky. “There’ll be a Big Blow tonight. Get down below—don’t waste any time.” He hitched at his load of baskets, turned to the stairs. “And don’t bother to tell those clowns—” he jerked his head toward the consular offices. “They’re bad medicine.” He bobbed his head and was gone.

Retief threw a sharp glance at the clouds, got out a cigar and lit up, turned from the rail.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a somber uniform stood by the catwalk mouth. He looked Retief over casually, then came across the close-woven deck, thrust out a large, well-tanned hand.

“My name’s Klamper, Planetary Monitor Service. I guess you’re the new man.”

Retief nodded.

“Let me give you some advice: watch out for the natives. They’re sly, tricky devils . . .” He paused. “You were talking to one just now. Don’t let him lure you into going down into the native quarter. Nothing down there but natives and dark holes to fall into. A helluva place for a Terry. Knifings, poisonings—Nothing there worth climbing down thirty flights of wicker steps to look at.”

Retief puffed at his dope-stick. The wind swirled the smoke away.

“Sounds interesting,” he said. “I’ll think it over.”

“Plenty to do right up here in the consulate tower,” Klamper said. “I guess you’ve seen the Tri-D tank—a twenty-footer—and the sublimation chamber—and there’s a pretty good auto-banquet. And don’t overlook the library. They’ve got a few dandy sense-tapes there; I confiscated them from a Joy-boat in a twelve-mile orbit off Callisto last year.” The Constable got out a dope-stick, cocked an eye at Retief.

“What do you think of your Groaci boss, Consul-General Jack Dools?”

“I haven’t seen much of him, he’s been seasick ever since I got here.”

“First time I ever ran into a Groaci in the CDT,” Klamper said. “A naturalized Terry, I hear. Well, maybe he hasn’t got all five eyes on an angle—but I’d say watch him.” Klamper hitched up his gun belt. “Well, I’ll be shoving off.” He glanced at the stormy sky. “Looks like I’ve got a busy night ahead tonight . . .”

Retief stepped back into the office. A small, round man with pale hair and eyebrows looked up from the chair by Wimperton’s desk.

“Oh,” Wimperton blinked at Retief. “I thought you’d gone for the day . . .” He folded a sheaf of papers hurriedly, snapped a rubber band around them, turned and dropped them in the drawer of the filing cabinet. The round man hooked a small, glassy smile in position.

Wimperton rose. “Well, I’ll be nipping along to dorm tower, I believe, before the wind gets any worse. This breeze is nothing to what we get sometimes. I’d suggest you take care crossing the catwalk, Mr. Retief. It can be dangerous. In a cross-wind, it sets up a steady ripple . . .” His limber hands demonstrated a steady ripple. “Other times it seems to float up and down.” He eyed Retief. “I hope the motion isn’t bothering you . . . ?”

“I like it,” Retief said. “As a boy, I had a habit of eating candy bars—you know, the sticky kind—while standing on my head on a merry-go-round.”

Wimperton’s eyes stared fixedly at Retief. A fine sweat popped out on his forehead.

“Feels like it’s building up, all right,” Retief said genially. “Feel that one?”

A distant, thoughtful look crept over Wimperton’s face.

“It’s good and hot in here, too,” Retief went on. “And there’s that slight odor of fish, or octopus, or whatever it is . . .”

“Uh . . . I’d better see to the goldfish,” Wimperton gasped. He rushed away.

Retief turned to the round-faced man. “How was your trip, Mr. Pird?”

“Ghastly,” Pird piped. His voice sounded like a rubber doll. “I visited continents One and Two. Bare rock. No life higher than insects, but plenty of those. You know, it never rains on Poon. All five continents are deserts, and the heat—”

“I understood the Zoological Investigation and Liaison Council Headquarters had financed a couple of wildlife census stations over there,” Retief said.

“To be sure, facilities were provided by ZILCH, but, unhappily, no volunteers have come forward to man them.” Pird smiled sourly. “A pity; Consul-General Dools has expressed a passionate interest in wildlife.” Pird grabbed at a paperweight as it slid across the desk-top. The walls creaked; wind shrilled, flapping the door hanging. The floor heaved, settled back. Pird swallowed, looking pale.

“I believe I’d best be going.” He started toward the door.

“Hold it,” Retief called. Pird jerked. His eyes blinked.

“Aren’t you going to warn me about anything?”

Pird stared for a moment, then scurried off.

Alone, Retief stood with braced feet in the consular office, gloomy now in the eerie light of the stormy sunset. He crossed to the filing cabinet, took a small instrument from a leather case, went to work on the lock. After five minutes’ work, the top drawer popped out half an inch.

Retief pulled it open; it was empty. The second contained a dry sandwich and a small green flask of blended whiskey. In the bottom drawer were four dog-eared copies of Saucy Stories, a prospectus in full-dimensional color illustrating Playtime on Paradise, the Planet with a Past, glossy catalogs describing the latest in two-seater sport helis, and a fat document secured by a wide rubber band.

Retief extracted the latter, opened the stiff paper. It was an elaborately worded legal instrument. In the fifth paragraph, he read:

“ . . . whereas such body is otherwise uninhabited, unimproved and subject to no prior claim filed with the proper authorities as specified in paragraph 2A (3) d and;

Whereas claimant has duly established, by personal occupancy for a period of not less than six Standard Months, or by improvement to a value of . . .”

Retief read on, then removed the elaborately engraved cover sheet of the document, folded the rest and fitted it into an inside pocket. Outside, the wind rose to a howling crescendo; the floor shuddered, the walls tilted precariously. Retief took a magazine from the drawer, fitted the document cover over it, folded it and snapped the red rubber band in place, then replaced it in the drawer and closed it. The lock seated with a snick. He left the consulate and crossed the swaying catwalk to the next tower.

Retief stood in the doorway of his room, smoking a cigar. Pird, just starting down the stairway, clucked. “Better hurry, sir. Everyone else has gone down. The wind is rising very rapidly.”

“I’ll be along,” Retief looked down the empty corridor, undulating in the dim late-evening light, then went along to a curtain-hung doorway, stepped out onto a windswept balcony from which a swaying wicker catwalk launched itself in a dizzy span to the consulate tower, a hundred yards distant. A dim light winked on in the consular offices, moved above slowly. Retief watched for a moment, then turned up the collar of his windbreaker, stepped off into the dark tunnel of the wildly swinging passage. The gale buffeted at it with a ferocity that had increased even in the quarter-hour he had spent in the dorm tower. The sky had darkened to an ominous mauve, streaked with fiery crimson. Below, lights sparkled all across the lower levels.

Abruptly, the catwalk dropped three feet, came to a stop with its floor canted at a sharp angle. Retief steadied himself, then went on, climbing now. Ten feet ahead, the yellow and blue hanging at the end of the passage was visible. It moved. The slight figure of Consul Dools appeared for a moment, wrapped in a dark poncho, then whisked back out of view.

Retief made another two yards against the bucking of the sloping passage. He could hear a rasping now, a harsh sawing sound. A wedge of electric-purple sky appeared through the wicker roof ahead, widened . . .

With an abrupt crackling of breaking fibers, the end of the catwalk broke free and dropped like an express elevator. Retief locked his fingers in the twisted rattan and held on. The face of the tower flashed past; then the end of the catwalk whipped aside; Retief slid two feet, caught himself with his torso half out the open end. Air shrieked past his face. A foot from his eyes, the severed end of the supporting cable whipped in the wind—cut clean.

Retief looked down, saw the massed lights of the native section swooping up to meet him. A wall rushed close; Retief felt the whistle of air as he brushed it; then he was hurtling past low towers with lighted windows behind which alien faces gaped briefly. He swept low over a narrow street ablaze with colored lights, felt a shock as the catwalk brushed a building somewhere above; then the street was falling away below as the free-swinging catwalk cracked-the-whip, soaring upward, slowing now . . .

A wall loomed before him with a narrow balcony before lighted windows. For an instant, it seemed to hang before his face—and Retief lunged, kicked his legs free of the twisted wicker—and caught the heavy rattan guard rail. He hung on, groping with his feet, with the gale tearing at, shrieking in his ears . . .

Hands gripped him, hauling him up. He shook his head to clear it, felt a heavy hanging brush his face. Then he was standing on a yielding floor, blinking in the soft light of a primitive incandescent lamp, feeling the warmth and strange, spicy odor of an alien room.

A five-foot native stood before him, staring up anxiously with large protruding green eyes in a smooth, olive-colored face. A wide, almost human mouth opened, showing a flash of pink interior.

“Are you all right, buddy?” a strangely resonant voice inquired in the bubbly local tongue.

Retief felt of his jaw, moved his shoulders gingerly. “A little dazed by the speed with which the boys work, but otherwise fine,” he replied.

“You speak Poon like a native, by Hoop!” the alien said. “Here, sit down. How about a drink of yiquil?” He indicated a low couch heaped with varicolored cushions, turned to a cupboard, wide webbed feet in bright yellow sandals gripping the swaying floor.

“You fell off a catwalk, eh?”

“Something like that,” Retief accepted a deep two-handled porcelain jug, delicately shaped. He sniffed the drink, then sipped.

“My name’s Url Yum. I’m a netter for Matwide Fooderies.”

“I’m Retief. I’m with the Terran Consulate.” He glanced around the room. “Handsome apartment you have here.”

“Oh, it’s all right—” There was a sharp whistle at the door.

“You feel like meeting a bunch of people? I guess they saw you fall, and they’ll be crowding in now to take a look at you; we don’t often see Terries here in town, you know.”

“I’d rather not go on exhibit right now, Yum.”

“Sure, I know how you feel. I had to go over to Dryport on business a few months back, and every other do-gooder wanted to have me in for tea and look me over.”

The whistle sounded again at the door. Url Yum padded across to the closet, brought out a large satchel, pulled out bright-colored gear of plastic and metal.

“I was just about to go for a swim. Why don’t you join me? You don’t want to go back up tonight—in this wind. We can go down the back way. How about it?”

“A swim? In this weather?”

“The best time. Hunting’s good; the small stuff shelters under the Mat, and the big stuff is in there hunting them—and we hunt the big stuff.” He held up a polished spear-head.

“Look, Yum, I’m just a Terry; I can’t hold my breath more than a minute or two.”

“Neither can I. That’s what the gear’s for. You burn oxygen, same as we do, don’t you?”

The whistle came again, more peremptory now. “Hey, Yum!” a voice called.

Retief finished his drink. “That yiquil’s great stuff, Yum; it’s already affecting my judgment. Let’s go!”

They stood in a narrow way that wound between high walls hung with lights and signboards, studded with balconies from which pennants fluttered, crowded with brilliantly mantled and jeweled Pupoony, filled with the shriek of wind, the chatter of whistled conversation, and over all the polyphonic creaking of the city.

“I’ve heard of twisting roads,” Retief called. “This is the first time I ever saw one that fit the description.”

Yum put his mouth close to Retief’s ear. “You know the whistle dialect?”

“I can understand it,” Retief shouted back. “But I can’t whistle it.”

Yum motioned, led the way down a side alley to a sea-shell ornamented hanging, pushed into a low room with couches along one wall, open shelves on another. A portly Poon waddled forward.

“Oi, Yum! Oi, stranger.”

“Oi,” Yum said. “Gipp, this is Retief. We’re going down. Can you fix him up with a spray job?”

“Lucky you came to my place, Yum. I happen to have a compound specially prepared for Terry requirements, a fresh batch, just concocted yesterday.”

“Good. Retief, put your stuff over there . . .” Yum opened his satchel, took out equipment, laid it out on a low table. He selected a pair of goggles, handed them to Retief. “These are a little big, but I think they’ll seat all right.” He handed over a heavy cylinder the size and shape of a beer bottle, added other items.

“OK: propulsion, communication, lights, breathing apparatus, emergency gear. Now, after you strip and get your equipment buckled on, Gipp will fit you with water foils, and spray you in.”

Retief donned the gear, watched with interest while the portly proprietor shaped a putty-like material to his feet, forming large fins which stiffened to a rubbery consistency, then brought out a portable apparatus with a tank, compressor, and hose with a wide nozzle.

“Give him a Striding Devil job, Gipp,” Yum ordered.

Gipp hesitated, looking at Retief. “I suppose you’ve had a lot of experience . . . ?”

“He’ll be all right,” Yum put in. “He catches on fast, and he’s got a good arm.”

“Whatever you say, Yum—but you ought to warn him that a Death Angel will jump a Strider on sight.”

“Sure—that way we don’t have to go looking for ’em.”

“Well, if you get one, remember I’m paying top sprud for stones.”

“You’ll get first crack.”

Gipp started up the compressor, twiddled knobs, then directed a heavy spray of viscous, greenish fluid on Retief’s chest, working it in a pattern that covered him to the knees, then shut down and set about changing hoses.

“What’s this stuff for?” Retief inquired, studying the thick, soft layer hardening on his skin.

“Protective covering; it’s tough as yuk skin. And it has an osmotic action; passes oxygen in, and CO2 out. The color disguises you so you don’t scare off the game—and the finished job holds all your gear in place. It’s a good insulation, too. That water’s cold. It strips off easily when you come back in.”

Gipp worked for another five minutes. Retief craned his neck to look at himself. His back, he saw, was a dull black, with red and white flecks, separated from the glossy green front by pale grey sides. Broad pink gill-flaps flared from throat to shoulders. The ankles and fin-covered feet were a vivid red-orange.

“He’s got the build for it,” Gipp said, looking him over. “If I hadn’t done the job myself, I’d swear he was a Strider, by Hoop!”

“That’s the idea, Gipp. Now just give me a straight Big Mouth outfit.” Yum took a flask from a side pocket, offered it to Retief, who took a generous pull, then passed it to Gipp, busy with his apparatus.

“No thanks; I don’t need any delusions of grandeur tonight. I hope to do a good volume of business before the storm hits its peak.” He worked carefully, covered Yum with a uniform dull grey, added a peaked crest of garish yellow.

“All right, Retief.” Yum handed him a light, short-barreled rifle from the muzzle of which a razor-edged spear head protruded. “Let’s go down.”

Gipp led the way to a back room, opened a wide wicker cover set in the floor. Retief looked down at the sloping surface of a three-foot tube of close-woven strips.

“Follow me,” Yum said, and dived, head first, out of sight. Retief gripped his spear-gun, waved Gipp a cheery farewell, and dived after him.

The water was ink-black, alive with darting lights in red and yellow, ponderous-moving patterns of green and blue, and far below, dull gleams of violet. Retief kicked his feet, watched lights scatter before him in a boil of phosphorescence.

A dark shape darted from the gloom, hovered before him; he recognized Yum’s yellow crest, waving gently in the moving water.

“Only peaceful place in town, when the wind’s working,” Yum’s voice crackled in Retief’s ears. “Let’s work our way east to get clear of the activity around here; then we’ll see if we can’t bait an Angel up.”

“How deep are we?”

“The Mat’s thirty meters thick here; we’re going to work Underside first; if that’s no go, we’ll move down.”

Yum darted off with a flick of webbed feet. Retief followed. Above, the mass of the floating continent of weed was a fairyland tangle of waving fronds, fantastically shaped corals, moving lights.

“Use the knob on your left hip as a jet control,” Yum said. “Steer with your feet—and keep your rifle ready. If you see anything that looks like you, let him have it.”

Retief tried the knob, felt water churn past his knees; he leaped ahead, driving through the water with a speed that blurred the weedscape above. A slight twist of the ankles sent him angling sharply toward the depths; a minute adjustment brought him back to Yum’s side. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, picked out the shapes behind the lights now. Massive, sluggish swimmers cruised, wide jaws open. Slim torpedo shapes darted and wheeled. A nebulous form, glowing with a nacreous pink, rose up, reached out with feathery arms; Yum swerved away, Retief following fifteen feet to one side of his bubble-trail.

After a ten-minute run, Yum slowed, rose until he brushed the tops of the coral trees, then reached up with his feet, planted them in a swirl of smoky mud, and stood, inverted. Retief came alongside, twisted, felt the soft ooze under his feet.

“It’s a little confusing at first,” Yum’s voice came clear in Retief’s ears. “But you’ll get used to it.”

Retief looked around. The undulating surface of the weed mass stretched away into deep gloom, studded with waving fronds, stiff-branched trees of red-violet, orange and chartreuse coral, feathery banks of leafy undergrowth set with multi-colored flowers as big as dinner plates, among which moving lights sparkled and played.

“I’ll pace you, off to the left,” Yum said. “Move along with big, leaping strides. Anything your size except another Strider will give you a wide berth. If you see one, hit him fast. Aim for the mid-section. Now, if we pick up an Angel, you’ll notice the shadow first. Just keep moving; I’ll get under him and hit him where it hurts. When he turns, give it to him near the big red spot on his back. Got it?”

“How many rounds in this rifle?”

“Five in the magazine, and a spare magazine on your left shoulder.”

“How do we know there aren’t other hunters around? I’d hate to spear a friend of yours by mistake.”

“You’ll get a recognition tone in your phones if anybody gets within fifteen yards—maybe. That’s part of the game. I got a nice barb cut out of my left leg last year—some joker wanted a Big Mouth for cut bait.” Yum waved and flicked away. Retief picked an open avenue between towering corals and started off. Walking was not too difficult after the first few steps; rather like tramping the dusty surface of an asteroid, he reflected—except that the diving gear was considerably less bulky than a space suit.

There was a movement to Retief’s right. A tall biped stalked into view ten yards distant, barely visible in the glow of phosphorescence. Retief halted, brought the gun around. The newcomer moved on in great floating leaps. Retief turned to follow.

“Never mind the Strider,” Yum said. “He didn’t see you; must have just fed. We’ll work off to the right here and let him have this territory.”

Retief watched as the biped bounded off into the gloom, then moved on. Ahead, the darkness seemed deeper; a cow-sized creature with warts and glowing rings around wide eyes blundered past, rocking him with a surge of water. Tiny fish flashed past. The gloom deepened.

“Action!” Yum’s voice came, tense in the earphones. “Keep going; we’ve got a big one coming up to take a look . . .”

Retief twisted to look toward the depths, like a black sky in which a dark cloud moved. He went on.

“That’s the stuff, act like you don’t notice him; otherwise he’ll let fly with his musk, and we’ll be working in the dark . . .”

The shadow moved, spreading. All around, the scene darkened. A last sluggish sea-creature humped past, raising a trail of mud-fog.

“Hey,” Yum’s voice came. “He’s by-passing us, moving on . . .”

“Maybe he’s just not hungry tonight—”

“It’s that Strider we saw; he’s after him. Let’s go!”

Retief turned, saw a swirl of phosphorescence, jetted after it. The surface of the weed sloped, an inverted hill. Retief moved up beside Yum, following the immense shadow that fled across the rolling surface. The Strider came into view, leaping back toward the two hunters.

“Take him!” Yum barked. “I’ll get under the big boy . . .” He swirled away. Retief brought the rifle to his shoulder, aimed—

A brilliant light flashed from the Strider’s chest. The creature reached, grabbing at its back . . .

“Hold it!” Yum’s voice snapped. “That’s no Strider . . . !”

The long greenish beam of the searchlight swung, flashing from coral trees, glowing through drifting mud-clouds.

“The damned fool! He’d better douse that light . . . !”

The Death Angel closed, like a hundred-foot blanket of black jelly settling in; the stranger backed, worked frantically to fit a magazine to his rifle, bringing it up—

The Angel struck; for a moment it hugged the surface of the weed, rippling its edges—then it heaved, recoiling violently—

“Good-O!” Yum yelled. “I planted one fair and square! Move in and hit the hot-spot, Retief, and we’ll be up half the night counting gold over a bottle of hundred-year yiquil!”

Retief hurled himself forward, kicked clear of the weed-bed, centered his sights on a foot-wide patch of luminous red at the center of the vast writhing shape, and fired, fired again, then went tumbling as the turbulence caught him and bowled him over.

Retief and Yum crouched by the prone body of the Angel’s victim.

“He’s a Terry, all right, Retief. I wonder what he was doing Underside—alone?”

“Probably a tourist, out to see the sights—though I hadn’t heard of any travelers registered with the consulate.”

“You may be right. We’re not far from the Tap Root; he was headed that way, and he seemed to know where he was going.”

Retief checked the man’s equipment, noted his pulse and respiration.

“He seems to be all right.”

“Sure. He just took a good jolt of current. We didn’t give the Big Boy a chance to get his shredding hooks into him.”

“We’d better take him up.”

“Sure—soon as we stone out our Angel, before the Big Mouths get him. There’s a Public Entry Well not far away; probably the one he used. We’ll just tow him along with us. He’ll be OK.”

The vast bulk of the Angel drifted fifty yards from the crowns of the coral trees. They swam to it, shooed off an inquisitive scavenger, moved around to the red spot on the expanse of black hide. A short spear stood, half its length buried dead center in the target. A second spear protruded a foot away.

Yum whistled. “You work close, Retief. Nice shooting.” He unclipped a slim-bladed knife, made an incision, plunged an arm into the rubbery body, brought out a lumpy organ the size of a grapefruit. He whistled again.

“This must be the beachmaster of all Angels! Look at the size of that pouch!” He slit the leathery bag carefully, dipped in two fingers and extracted a black sphere as big as a large grape.

“Retief, we make a great team! Look at those stones!”

“What do you use them for?”

“We grind them up and sprinkle them on our food. A great delicacy.”

“Yum, what’s this Tap Root you mentioned?”

“Eh? Why, its—well, it’s the root that supplies the Mat.”

“Just one—for all this weed?”

“Sure; it’s all one plant—the whole Mat.”

“I’d like to take a look at it. I can’t picture a Terry swimming around down here at the height of a storm, just to rubberneck—not unless it’s a pretty spectacular sight.”

“It doesn’t look like much; just a big, tough cable, running down into the Big Deep.” Yum tucked the pearls into a pouch clipped to his belt and led the way along the sloping weed surface, indicated a dark mass ahead.

“That’s it—back in that tangle of rootlets there. The Tap’s a hundred feet in diameter and over a mile long. It anchors the Mat, and feeds it, too.”

“Let’s take a closer look.”

Retief moved in among the waving rootlets.

“Say—what’s that?” Yum’s voice came over the earphones. Ahead, a large dark shape nestled among the entwining roots. Retief swam up alongside.

“It’s a scout boat—Terry design . . .” He swam to the entry port, found it locked. “Let’s reconnoiter a little, Yum.”

The two moved over the waving mass of rootlets, cruising beside the moss-grown, barnacled wall of the immense root. Retief caught a glimpse of a white object, fluttering in the dark water. He headed for it. It was a plastic tag, wired to a spike driven into the husk of the root. Below it hung a small box, metal covered, with an insulated cable projecting from one side.

“What is it? Who’d come here and tamper with the Root?” Yum asked, puzzled.

“It’s a detonator,” Retief said. “The cable is designed to plug into a packaged explosive charge—”

“Explosive! Here, by the Root?”

“How long would the weed last with the root cut?”

“Last? It wouldn’t last a day. You can cut a sprig of the weed, it crumbles in a matter of minutes. Oh, the fruit, leaves, husks, are tough enough—but the main mass would disintegrate like a sugar lump in a mug of hot roca.”

“Somewhere there’s a bomb to go with the detonator, Yum,” Retief said. “Probably aboard the boat. Our swimmer was on the way to get it, I’d guess. Let’s check him for keys.”

Yum fumbled over the limp body. “He’s clean, Retief. He must have lost them in the fight.”

“All right; let’s get him to the surface and see what he has to say . . .”

In the damp-smelling cavern of the Public Entry Well, Retief stood over the unconscious man. Water dripped from him, puddled on the heavy-duty rattan ramp that sloped up from the water. The attendant on duty came forward, clucked at the sight of the inert body.

“He left here, not fifteen minutes ago. Wouldn’t accept my offer of a guide. I warned him . . .”

“Where are his clothes?” Retief asked.

“On the shelf—there.” The attendant pointed to a coat, trousers, boots, a tangle of heavy leather belts, and am empty holster in a neat pile.

“A cop?” Retief said. He examined the garments. “No identification,” he said. “And no keys.”

“What happened?” the attendant asked.

“An angel hit him.”

“He’ll be out for hours, then,” the attendant said. “A big angel gives a pretty good shock. Hah! These tourists are all alike.”

“Yum, you don’t have a police force here—or an army . . . ?”

“No, what would we need with those?”

“Can you get a few friends together—volunteers, to watch the patrol boat?”

“Sure, Retief. All you want.”

“Station about a dozen in the underbrush around the boat; tell them to keep out of sight—we don’t want to scare anybody off. But be careful—a spear-gun is no match for a Mark IV blaster.”

“I’ll call the boys.” Yum went into the attendant’s office, emerged five minutes later.

“All set,” he declared. “What about him?” he indicated the sleeping cop.

“Have the fellow on duty watch him until your friends get here—meanwhile, he’d better put him somewhere out of sight.”

“What about the bomb?”

“We’ll have to try to stampede somebody. Whoever sent our friend here doesn’t know he didn’t make it.”

Retief looked at Yum, frowning in thought. “Yum, peel out of that scare suit and put the uniform on.” He began stripping off the Striding Devil disguise. “I’ll borrow some local garb.”

“You’ve got an idea?”

“Not much of one. Just a wild hunch.”

Yum kicked free of the last of the diving gear, pulled on the shapeless patrol outfit. It hung ludicrously on his squat frame.

“Retief, I wouldn’t fool anybody in this . . .”

“That’s just the point, Yum. Now let’s move . . . !”

Yum stopped before a dark entry, pointed up at a lighted floor above. “This is it,” he called over the howling wind. Retief’s long violet cloak whipped at his ankles; Yum held onto his Patrolman’s cap with one hand.

“All right.” Retief leaned close to Yum and shouted. “You wait five minutes, Yum; then just move off down the street. Move as though you were in a hurry. Then you’d better go back and help out the boys. If anybody comes close, let him get the port open; then hit him fast.”

“Well—I guess you know what you’re doing.”

Retief climbed the trembling wicker stairway, gripping the handrail as a violent gust bounced him against the swaying wall. Two flights up he pushed aside a hanging lettered TERRESTRIAL CONSULATE-GENERAL—EMERGENCY QUARTERS.

Wimperton and Pird looked up from a table on which a meal of emergency rations was laid out in the bleak light of a feeble DC lamp. Wimperton’s mouth opened wide. Pird scrambled up and stood wiping his fingers on his pink vest.

“Hi, boys,” Retief said cheerfully. “Damnedest thing happened to me. You’ll never guess.”

“Ah . . . you fell out a window?” Wimperton hazarded.

“Close, but no dope-stick; the catwalk broke under me. Quite a ride.” He strolled to the window. “Some wind out there. Say . . .”

“Yes, indeed, quite a wind, you’re right,” Pird piped.

“Look here,” Retief said. “Is that a Patrolman? Wonder what he’s doing out in the storm!”

Wimperton and Pird jumped to the window, craned. Below, Yum’s ungainly figure waddled briskly along the pitching street, turned a corner.

“Hey, that’s—” Wimperton started.

“Yes, that’s strange, all right,” Pird cut in. “Poor weather for a stroll.”

“But that wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t anything for us to worry about, ha ha,” Pird babbled. He pretended to yawn. “Well, about time to turn in, eh?” He patted his mouth, watching Retief.

“I’m glad you suggested that,” Retief said. “I was afraid you’d want to sit up and talk.”

“Just take that first room there,” Pird said eagerly. “Lovely room. Just lie right down and drift right off. Wimperton, you show Mr. Retief the room and I’ll just . . . ah . . . check a few things.”

Retief glanced back from the door, caught a glimpse of Pird darting past the outer hanging. He stepped into the room. There was a tidy bunk, an easy chair, a rug, a tri-D set.

“This is dandy.” He patted the bed. “Well, Wimperton, have a pleasant night.”

“Yes indeed—you too . . .” Wimperton disappeared. Retief flipped the light off, lay back and waited. A minute passed. The door curtain twitched aside for a moment, dropped back. Lights winked off in the outer room.

Retief rose, glanced out. The shelter was deserted. He crossed to the outer hanging, went down the swaying wicker stairs three at a time, stepped out into the storm-whipped street. Pird and Wimperton, each dragging a suitcase, staggered out of sight around the corner. Retief wrapped the cloak close and followed.

Standing in the shadows by the straining wicker-work wall of a Public Entry Well, Retief watched Wimperton and Pird as they paced the ramp. Pird glanced at a finger watch.

“ . . . any time now . . .” the words came faintly through the hammer of the wind and the groaning of wicker. Pird stopped before Wimperton, apparently asking a question.

Wimperton reached inside his coat, brought out a thick packet of papers restrained by a red rubber band, waved them at Pird, put them back. Retief edged closer.

“ . . . don’t like it either,” Wimperton’s nasal voice stated. “Either the locals are wise—or they’ve got a deal with . . .” The wind whirled the words away.

Retief stepped back into the street, saw the pink glow of a public phone fifty yards distant. He fought his way to it through the wind, dialed, asked for Yum.

“No action here yet,” the native said. “How did the routine go over?”

“Our pigeons flew the coop, all right. They know they’ve got troubles, but they’re not sure just what kind. They’re at a Public Entry near the consulate, waiting for a pick-up.”

“They’ll have a long wait; their driver’s still asleep.”

“Yum, I have a feeling the bomb’s timed to go off at the peak of the storm. How long will that be?”

“Oh, about two hours, I’d say.”

“What will conditions be like at the top of the consulate tower now?”

“Rough. The towers lean to the wind. The ceilings fold right down against the floors in a good blow—and this one’s a dandy.”

“We’re about out of time, Yum—and there are two parties still unaccounted for. I’m afraid I have one more trip in this wind.”

“You’re coming back here?”

“I’m going up—and I’d better get moving while there’s still crawl space in the consulate.”

A howling gale struck Retief’s head as he hauled himself up from a dark opening onto the thirtieth-floor balcony, looked up the long slant of the tower face. Forty feet above, the guard rail lining the terrace of the consulate penthouse was dimly visible in the murk.

Under Retief, the tower wall trembled and moved like a living thing. He reached for a handhold, started up the thirty-degree slope. Gusts tore at him; he rested, hugging the surface, then went on. Ten minutes later he pulled himself over, lay full length on the steep slope of the tower roof.

The wind was less, here in the shelter of the canted floor. Retief slid down, then jumped, tumbled through the wind-tattered entry hanging, caught himself and blinked through the gloom of the deserted office.

From the far wall, a grunt sounded. Retief made his way across the room, flicked a wall switch. Dim light glowed, showed him the trussed form of Consul-General Jack Dools huddled in the angle of wall and floor. Five bloodshot eye-stalks quivered appealingly at Retief.

He went to a tilted desk, extracted a letter knife from a clip, came back and sawed at the cords binding the Groaci, then pulled the gag free of the mandibles.

“Ah, the shining of the sun on your ancestral egg-hill,” Dools gasped in Groaci. “To express heartfelt gratitude; to vow eternal chum-ship . . .”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Dools. You feel well enough to travel? We’ll have to go down the outside; the stairs are collapsed.”

“How pleasant to see you alive, dear fellow,” Dools went on in Terran. “I feared the miscreants had done their worst. I tried to interfere, but alas—”

“I saw you; at the time, I had the idea you were doing the sawing, but then I got to thinking about the booze and girly-book supply in the filing cabinet. Alcohol would poison you; and as for unadorned mammals—”

“Mr. Retief, take care,” Dools hissed. “My hearing is keen; someone comes . . .”

Retief looked toward the doorway, then hastily tucked the cut ends of the rope out of sight under Dools’ body. “Play ’em close to your thorax, Mr. Dools,” he cautioned.

A tall figure climbed through the flapping door hanging, crouched on the sloping floor, braced by one hand. The other held a power pistol, aimed at Retief.

“Just stay where you are, bright boy,” Klamper called over the screech of the wind. “Don’t bother untying him. My errand won’t take but a minute.”

He half-slid, half-crawled to the filing cabinet, keeping both eyes on Retief, fumbled a key from a pocket. He opened the top drawer, then the next, rummaged, tried the last drawer, then turned on Retief, showing even white teeth in an expression that was not a smile.

“I ought to have my head examined. I let those two light-weights sell me a story. What an act; Wimperton gobbled like a turkey when he opened up that phoney cover and got a load of the funnybooks inside. So I let ’em sucker me into a goose-chase—unless you’ve got it?” He came closer. “Turn out your pockets, hot-shot.”

Retief shook his head. “If you’re looking for the papers, forget it. I left them in my other suit.”

“You loused up six months’ work, greenhorn. But I’ll be back to fill out some fresh forms. Too bad you won’t be here to watch.”

He raised the power pistol; behind him, Dools lunged for the Patrolman’s ankle. A bolt of blue fire crackled harmlessly past Retief’s ear as he leaned aside, chopped at Klamper’s gun hand, followed up with a knee to the face. Klamper rolled with the blow, scrambled over a sagging desk, and dived for the doorway. Dools grabbed up the gun, started after him.

“Let him go, Mr. Dools,” Retief said. “I think I know where he’s headed. Now let’s get out of here before we get our clothes pressed with us in ’em.”

At the Public Entry Well, Yum and a group of well-muscled locals met Retief.

“Our man was here about ten minutes ago,” Yum said blandly. “Big fellow, in a hurry.”

“You let him through?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you warned the boys at the boat to stop him . . . ?”

“Well, no, Retief. I told them to let him go. As you pointed out, he had a blaster . . . He’s several hundred miles out by now . . .”

Retief folded his arms. “There’s something funny going on here, Yum. What about the bomb? It’s probably timed to go off at the height of the storm—say in another ten minutes.”

“Oh, that. I found it. It’s taken care of.”

“Found it where? And how do you take care of a sealed titanite charge . . . ?”

“It was aboard the boat. You were right about that—”

“Come on, Yum. Give!”

“Well, Retief, I was a little curious; you can’t blame me, after meeting you under such—unusual circumstances. I took a look through your clothes. I found this . . .” He held up the document Retief had extracted from the consulate files. “A fancy piece of paper laying claim to the whole damned planet of Poon—which it states is uninhabited—which it would have been if the bomb idea had worked out. The Mat would have broken up in the wind, and when the sky cleared, it would look like just another natural disaster. And in a few months, all five continents would be one big gold mine.”

“So?”

“So I held out on you. Our slumbering pal had keys, all right. I went back and opened up the boat. There sat the bomb—a nice little ten-kilo charge of titanite, all labeled and ready to go—”

“Except for the detonator; that was wired to the root—”

“Uh-huh. A safety precaution. But I found another one. It wasn’t hard to install. I had an idea the owner would be along to see about it before zero hour; but I didn’t like the sight of the thing sitting out in the middle of the floor, so I tucked it away.”

“Where?”

“In the chart storage bin.”

Retief whirled to the discarded Terran uniform, jerked the communicator from the lapel clip, keyed it on the official frequency.

“Klamper, if you can hear me, answer—fast!”

After a moment, Klamper’s voice came back, a thin piping in the miniature ear-phone. Yum and Dools leaned close.

“Klamper here. Who’re you?”

“This is Retief, Klamper—”

“Oh, yeah, the bright young official. Well, I predict a big change in the near future for you. In about thirty seconds, to be exact.”

“Klamper, there’s a bomb—”

“Well, well, so you found out about that, too. Sorry I can’t help you. So long, su—” The earphones went dead.

“Klamper!”

Yum looked at his watch. “Right on the button,” he said.

“At least,” Dools said, “he lived long enough to exonerate Mr. Retief . . .”

There was a patter of hurried footsteps. Retief and Yum turned. In the door, Wimperton and Pird stood like ruffled birds, staring.

“I’m afraid you lads missed the boat,” Retief called. Yum signaled with his hand. Half a dozen local citizens fanned out to hem in the newcomers.

“Ah, why, Mr. Retief . . . what are you doing out of bed?” Pird squeaked.

“Oh, I just dropped down to offer you boys a crack at a peachy new opportunity in the Achievement Corps. Consul-General Dools here has need of two volunteers to man the new wildlife census stations over on continents One and Two. I’m going to give you first grabs at it. We’ll go over to the Shelter and type out your resignations from the CDT, and a couple of five-year enlistment contracts in the A.C.—on a non-compensatory basis, of course.”

Wimperton’s mouth sagged open.

“And I have a number of micro-tape recordings I’ll contribute,” Dools said. “They’re quite exciting—all about bombs and land claims and gold mines. You can play them over during your leisure time—during sandstorms, perhaps.”

“But—Mr. Retief,” Pird cried. “We—we’ve found conditions here somewhat less than congenial . . .”

“What if—if we refuse?” Wimperton gulped.

“In that case, Yum and his associates would like to interview you on the subject of homesteading . . .”

“Your pen or mine?” Pird said hastily.

“I’ll ask a couple of the boys to help these two philanthropists over to the consulate,” Yum said. “Let the business wait till morning. You and I have a bottle of yiquil to finish, Retief.”

“Show Mr. Dools a few of those pearls we netted, Yum.”

Yum fished out the stones, handed them to Dools, who canted two pairs of eye-stalks at the lustrous one-inch spheres.

“Gentlemen—this is precisely the product I need to qualify Poon as a Class One commercial world! Can these be supplied in any volume? Say, a dozen a month?”

“I think it could be arranged,” Yum said in heavily accented Terran. “Why don’t you join Retief and the boys and me in a snort?”

“Well, I really don’t think . . .”

“I know a barman who can concoct a suitable booze for any metabolism,” Yum urged. “And a hangover cure afterward.”

Retief linked arms with the slender Groaci. “Come along, Mr. Consul-General,” he said. “We won’t take no for an answer.”

NATIVE INTELLIGENCE

“For all their professional detachment from emotional involvement in petty local issues, tough-minded CDT envoys have ever opened their hearts to long-suffering peoples striving to cast off the yoke of economic oppression. At Glave, Ambassador Sternwheeler’s dedicated group selflessly offered their services, assisting the newly unshackled populace in savoring the first fruits of freedom . . .”

—Vol. IV, Reel 71, 492 AE (AD 2953)

Retief turned back the gold-encrusted scarlet cuff of the mess jacket of a First Secretary and Consul, gathered in the three eight-sided black dice, shook them by his right ear, and sent them rattling across the floor to rebound from the bulkhead.

“Thirteen’s the point,” the Power Section Chief called. “Ten he makes it!”

“Oh . . . Mr. Retief.” A tall thin youth in the black-trimmed grey of a Third Secretary flapped a sheet of paper from the edge of the circle surrounding the game. “The Ambassador’s compliments, sir, and will you join him and the staff in the conference room at once . . .”

Retief rose and dusted his knees. “That’s all for now, boys,” he said. “I’ll take the rest of your money later.” He followed the junior diplomat from the ward room, along the bare corridors of the crew level, past the glare panel reading NOTICE—FIRST CLASS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT, through the chandeliered and draped ballroom and along a stretch of soundless carpet to a heavy door bearing a placard with the legend CONFERENCE IN SESSION.

“Ambassador Sternwheeler seemed quite upset, Mr. Retief,” the messenger said.

“He usually is, Pete,” Retief took a cigar from his breast pocket. “Got a light?”

The Third Secretary produced a permatch. “I don’t know why you smoke those things instead of dope-sticks, Mr. Retief,” he said. “The Ambassador hates the smell.”

Retief nodded. “I only smoke this kind at conferences; it makes for shorter sessions.” He stepped into the room. Ambassador Sternwheeler eyed him down the length of the conference table.

“Ah, Mr. Retief honors us with his presence. Do be seated, Retief.” He fingered a yellow Departmental dispatch. Retief took a chair, puffed out a dense cloud of smoke.

“As I have been explaining to the remainder of my staff for the past quarter hour,” Sternwheeler rumbled, “I’ve been the recipient of important intelligence.” He blinked at Retief expectantly. Retief raised his eyebrows in polite inquiry.

“It seems,” Sternwheeler went on, “that there has been a change in regime on Glave. A week ago, the government which invited the dispatch of this mission—and to which we’re accredited—was overthrown. The former ruling class has fled into exile, and a popular workers’ and peasants’ junta has taken over.”

“Mr. Ambassador,” Counselor Magnan broke in, rising; “I’d like to be the first—” he glanced around the table—“or one of the first, anyway—to welcome the new government of Glave into the family of planetary ruling bodies—”

“Sit down, Magnan!” Sternwheeler snapped. “Of course the Corps always recognizes de facto sovereignty. The problem is merely one of acquainting ourselves with the policies of this new group—a sort of blue-collar coalition, it seems. In what position that leaves this Embassy I don’t yet know.”

“I suppose this means we’ll spend the next month in a parking orbit,” Counselor Magnan sighed.

“Unfortunately,” Sternwheeler went on, “the entire affair has apparently been carried off without recourse to violence, leaving the Corps no excuse to step in—that is, it appears our assistance in restoring order will not be required.”

“Glave was one of the old Contract Worlds,” Retief said. “What’s become of the Planetary Manager General and the technical staff?—And how do the peasants and workers plan to operate the atmospheric purification system, and weather control station, and the tide-regulation complexes?”

“I’m more concerned at present with the status of the Mission. Will we be welcomed by these peasants and workers, or peppered with buckshot?”

“You say that this is a popular junta, and that the former leaders have fled into exile,” someone said. “May I ask the source of this information, Mr. Ambassador?”

“The dispatch cites a ‘reliable Glavian source.’”

“That’s officialese for something cribbed from a broadcast news tape,” Retief commented. “Presumably the Glavian news services are in the hands of the revolution. In that case—”

“Yes, yes, there is the possibility that the issue is yet in doubt; of course, we’ll have to exercise caution in making our approach; it wouldn’t do to make overtures to the wrong side.”

“Oh, I think we need have no fear on that score,” the Chief of the Political Section spoke up. “I know these entrenched cliques; once challenged by an aroused populace, they scuttle for safety—with large balances safely tucked away in neutral banks.”

“I’d like to go on record,” Magnan piped, “as registering my deep gratification at this fulfillment of popular aspirations—”

“The most popular aspiration I know of is to live high off someone else’s effort,” Retief said. “I don’t know of anyone outside the Corps who’s managed it.”

“I’d like to propose that immediate arrangements be made for a technical mission,” Magnan said. “It’s my experience that one of the most pressing needs of newly established democracies is—”

“Is someone to tell them how to run what they’ve stolen after they’ve kicked out the legitimate owners,” Retief suggested.

The Political Officer blinked at Retief. “Are you implying approval of technocratic totalitarianism?”

“I won’t know,” Retief said, “until I look that up in a dictionary.”

“Gentlemen!” Sternwheeler bellowed. “I’m awaiting your constructive suggestions—not an exchange of political views. We’ll arrive off Glave in less than six hours. I should like before that time to have developed some notion regarding to whom I shall expect to offer my credentials!”

There was a discreet tap at the door; it opened and the young Third Secretary poked his head in.

“Mr. Ambassador, I have a reply to your message—just received from Glave. It’s signed by the Steward of the GFE, and I thought you’d want to see it at once . . .”

“Yes, of course; let me have it.”

“What’s the GFE?” someone asked.

“It’s the revolutionary group,” the messenger said, passing the message over.

“GFE? GFE? What do the letters signify?”

“Glorious Fun Eternally,” Retief suggested. “Or possibly Goodies For Everybody.”

“I believe that’s ‘Glavian Free Electorate’,” the Third Secretary said.

Sternwheeler stared at the paper, lips pursed. His face grew pink. He slammed the paper on the table.

“Well, gentlemen! It appears our worst fears have been realized! This is nothing less than a warning! A threat! We’re advised to divert course and by-pass Glave entirely. It seems the GFE wants no interference from meddling foreign exploiters, as they put it!”

Magnan rose. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Ambassador, I want to get off a message to Sector HQ to hold my old job for me—”

“Sit down, you idiot!” Sternwheeler roared. “If you think I’m consenting to have my career blighted—my first Ambassadorial post whisked out from under me—the Corps made a fool of—”

“I’d like to take a look at that message,” Retief said. It was passed along to him. He read it.

“I don’t believe this applies to us, Mr. Ambassador.”

“What are you talking about? It’s addressed to me—by name!”

“It merely states that ‘meddling foreign exploiters’ are unwelcome. Meddling foreigners we are, but we don’t qualify as exploiters unless we show a profit—and this appears to be shaping up as a particularly profitless venture.”

“What are you proposing, Mr. Retief?”

“That we proceed to make planetfall as scheduled, greet our welcoming committee with wide diplomatic smiles, hint at largesse in the offing, and settle down to observe the lie of the land.”

“Just what I was about to suggest,” Magnan said.

“That might be dangerous,” Sternwheeler said.

“That’s why I didn’t suggest it,” Magnan said.

“Still it’s essential that we learn more of the situation than can be gleaned from official broadcasts,” Sternwheeler mused. “Now, while I can’t justify risking the entire Mission, it might be advisable to dispatch a delegation to sound out the new regime—”

“I’d like to volunteer,” Magnan said, rising.

“Of course, the delegates may be murdered—”

“—but unfortunately, I’m under treatment at the moment.” Magnan sat down.

“—which will place us in an excellent position, propaganda-wise.”

“What a pity I can’t go,” the Military Attaché said. “But my place is with my troops.”

“The only troops you’ve got are the Assistant Attaché and your secretary,” Magnan pointed out.

“Say, I’d like to be down there in the thick of things,” the Political Officer said. He assumed a grave expression. “But, of course, I’ll be needed here, to interpret results.”

“I appreciate your attitude, gentlemen,” Sternwheeler said, studying the ceiling. “But I’m afraid I must limit the privilege of volunteering for this hazardous duty to those officers of more robust physique, under forty years of age—”

“Tsk. I’m forty-one,” Magnan said.

“—and with a reputation for adaptability.” His glance moved along the table.

“Do you mind if I run along now, Mr. Ambassador?” Retief said. “It’s time for my insulin shot.”

Sternwheeler’s mouth dropped open.

“Just kidding,” Retief said. “I’ll go. But I have one request, Mr. Ambassador: no further communication with the ground until I give the all-clear.”

Retief grounded the lighter in the center of Glave spaceport, cycled the lock, and stepped out. The hot yellow Glavian sun beat down on a broad expanse of concrete, an abandoned service cart, and a row of tall ships casting black shadows toward the silent control tower. A wisp of smoke curled up from the shed area at the rim of the field. There was no other sign of life.

Retief walked over to the cart, tossed his valise aboard, climbed into the driver’s seat, and headed for the operations building. Beyond the port, hills rose, white buildings gleaming against the deep green slopes. Near the ridge, a vehicle moved ant-like along a winding road, a dust trail rising behind it. Faintly, the tiny rap! of a distant shot sounded.

Papers littered the ground before the Operations Building. Retief pushed open the tall glass door, stood listening. Slanting sunlight reflected from a wide, polished floor, at the far side of which illuminated lettering over empty counters read IMMIGRATION, HEALTH, and CUSTOMS. He crossed to the desk, put the valise down, then leaned across the counter. A worried face under an over-sized white cap looked up at him.

“You can come out now,” Retief said. “They’ve gone.”

The man rose, dusting himself off. He looked over Retief’s shoulder. “Who’s gone?”

“Whoever it was that scared you.”

“Whatta ya mean? I was looking for my pencil.”

“Here it is.” Retief plucked a worn stub from the pocket of the soiled shirt sagging under the weight of braided shoulder-boards. “You can sign me in as a Diplomatic Representative; a break for you—no formalities necessary. Where can I catch a cab for the city?”

The man eyed Retief’s bag. “What’s in that?”

“Personal belongings under duty-free entry.”

“Guns?”

“No, thanks, just a cab, if you don’t mind.”

“You got no gun?” the man raised his voice.

“That’s right, fellows,” Retief called out. “No gun; no knife, not even a small fission bomb; just a few pairs of socks and some reading matter.”

A brown-uniformed man rose from behind the Customs counter, holding a long-barreled blast-rifle centered on the Corps insignia stitched to the pocket of Retief’s powder-blue blazer.

“Don’t try nothing,” he said. “You’re under arrest—”

“It can’t be overtime parking; I’ve only been here five minutes.”

“Hah!” the gun-handler moved out from the counter, came up to Retief. “Empty out your pockets!” he barked. “Hands over head!”

“I’m just a diplomat, not a contortionist,” Retief said, not moving. “Do you mind pointing that thing in some other direction?”

“Looky here, Mister, I’ll give the orders. We don’t need anybody telling us how to run our business—”

“I’m telling you to shift that blaster before I take it away from you and wrap it around your neck,” Retief said conversationally. The cop stepped back uncertainly, lowering the gun.

“Jake! Horny! Pud! Come on out!”

Three more brown uniforms emerged from concealment.

“Who are you fellows hiding from? The top sergeant?” Retief glanced over the ill-fitting uniforms, the unshaved faces, the scuffed boots. “Tell you what—when he shows up, I’ll engage him in conversation, and you beat it back to the barracks and grab a quick bath—”

“That’s enough smart talk.” The biggest of the three newcomers moved up to Retief. “You stuck your nose in at the wrong time. We just had a change of management around here.”

“I heard about it,” Retief said. “Who do I complain to?”

“Complain? What about?”

“The port’s a mess,” Retief barked. “Nobody on duty to receive official visitors! No passenger service facilities! Why, do you know I had to carry my own bag—”

“All right, all right, that’s outside my department. You better see the boss.”

“The boss? I thought you got rid of the bosses.”

“We did, but now we got new ones.”

“They any better than the old ones?”

“This guy asks too many questions,” the man with the gun said. “Let’s let Sozier answer ’em.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s the Military Governor of the City.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Retief said. “Lead the way, Jake—and don’t forget my bag.”

Sozier was a small man with thin hair oiled across a shiny scalp, prominent ears, and eyes like coal chips set in rolls of fat. He glowered at Retief from behind a polished desk occupying the center of a spacious office.

“I warned you off,” he snapped. “You came anyway.” He leaned forward and slammed a fist down on the desk. “You’re used to throwing your weight around, but you won’t throw it around here! There’ll be no spies pussy-footing around Glave!”

“Looking for what, Mr. Sozier?”

“Call me General!”

“Mind if I sit down?” Retief pulled out a chair, seated himself, and took out a cigar. “Curiously enough,” he said, lighting up, “the Corps has no intention of making any embarrassing investigations. We deal with the existing government, no questions asked—” His eyes held the other’s. “Unless, of course, there are evidences of atrocities or other illegal measures.”

The coal-chip eyes narrowed. “I don’t have to make explanations to you or anybody else—”

“Except, presumably, the Glavian Free Electorate,” Retief said blandly. “But tell me, General—who’s actually running the show?”

A speaker on the desk buzzed. “Hey, Corporal Sozier! Wes’s got them two hellions cornered. They’re holed up in the Birthday Cake—”

“General Sozier, damn you! And plaster your big mouth shut!” He gestured to one of the uniformed men standing by.

“You! Get Trundy and Little Moe up here—pronto!” He swiveled back to Retief. “You’re in luck; I’m too busy right now to bother with you. You get back over to the port and leave the same way you came—and tell your blood-sucking friends the easy pickings are over as far as Glave’s concerned. You won’t lounge around here living high and throwing big parties and cooking up deals to get fat on the expense of the working man.”

Retief dribbled ash on Sozier’s desk and glanced at the green uniform front bulging between silver buttons.

“Who paid for your pot-belly, Sozier?” he inquired carelessly.

Sozier’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I could have you shot—”

“Stop playing games with me, Sozier,” Retief rapped. “There’s a squadron of Peace Enforcers standing by just in case any apprentice statesmen forget the niceties of diplomatic usage. I suggest you start showing a little intelligence about now, or even Horny and Pud are likely to notice.”

Sozier’s fingers squeaked on the arms of his chair. He swallowed.

“You might start by assigning me an escort for a conducted tour of the capital,” Retief went on. “I want to be in a position to confirm that order has been re-established, and that normal services have been restored—otherwise, it may be necessary to send in a Monitor Unit to straighten things out.”

“You can’t meddle with the internal affairs of a sovereign world—”

Retief sighed. “The trouble with taking over your boss’s job is discovering its drawbacks. It’s disillusioning, I know, Sozier—but—”

“All right! Take your tour! You’ll find everything running as smooth as silk! Utilities, police, transport, environmental control—”

“What about Space Control? Glave Tower seems to be off the air.”

“I shut it down. We don’t need anything from outside.”

“Where’s the new Premier keeping himself? Does he share your passion for privacy?”

The general got to his feet. “I’m letting you take your look, Mr. Big Nose. I’m giving you four hours. Then out! And the next meddling bureaucrat that tries to cut atmosphere on Glave without a clearance gets burned!”

“I’ll need a car.”

“Jake! You stick to this bird. Take him to the main power plant, the water works, and the dispatch center, ride him around town and show him we’re doing OK without a bunch of leeches bossing us; then dump him at the port—and see that he leaves.”

“I’ll plan my own itinerary, thanks. I can’t promise I’ll be finished in four hours—but I’ll keep you advised.”

“I warned you—”

“I heard you. Five times. And I only warned you once. You’re getting ahead of me,” Retief rose, motioned to the hulking guard. “Come on, Jake; we’ve got a lot of ground to cover before dinner.”

At the curb, Retief held out his hand. “Give me the power cylinder out of your rifle, Jake.”

“Huh?”

“Come on, Jake. You’ve got a nervous habit of playing with the firing stud. We don’t want any accidents.”

“How do you get it out? They only give me this thing yesterday.”

Retief pocketed the cylinder. “You sit in back. I’ll drive.” He wheeled the car off along a broad avenue crowded with vehicles and lined with flowering palms behind which stately white buildings reared up into the pale sky.

“Nice looking city, Jake,” Retief said conversationally. “What’s the population?”

“I dunno. I only been here a year.”

“What about Horny and Pud? Are they natives?”

“Whatta ya mean, natives? They’re just as civilized as me.”

“My boner, Jake. Known Sozier long?”

“Sure; he useta come around to the club.”

“I take it he was in the army under the old regime?”

“Yeah—but he didn’t like the way they run it. Nothing but band playing and fancy marching. There wasn’t nobody to fight.”

“Just between us, Jake—where did the former Planetary Manager General go?” Retief watched Jake’s heavy face in the mirror. Jake jumped, clamped his mouth shut.

“I don’t know nothing.”

Half an hour later, after a tour of the commercial center, Retief headed toward the city’s outskirts. The avenue curved, leading up along the flank of a low hill.

“I must admit I’m surprised, Jake,” Retief said. “Everything seems orderly; no signs of riots or panic. Power, water, communications normal—just as the general said. Remarkable, isn’t it, considering that the entire managerial class has packed up and left . . .”

“You wanta see the Power Plant?” Retief could see perspiration beaded on the man’s forehead under the uniform cap.

“Sure. Which way?” With Jake directing, Retief ascended to the ridge top, cruised past the blank white façade of the station.

“Quiet, isn’t it?” Retief pulled the car in to the curb. “Let’s go inside.”

“Huh? Corporal Sozier didn’t say nothing—”

“You’re right, Jake. That leaves it to our discretion.”

“He won’t like it.”

“The corporal’s a busy man, Jake. We won’t worry him by telling him about it.”

Jake followed Retief up the walk. The broad double doors were locked.

“Let’s try the back.”

The narrow door set in the high blank wall opened as Retief approached. A gun barrel poked out, followed by a small man with bushy red hair. He looked Retief over.

“Who’s this party, Jake?” he barked.

“Sozier said show him the plant,” Jake said.

“What we need is more guys to pull duty, not tourists. Anyway, I’m Chief Engineer here. Nobody comes in here ’less I like their looks.”

Retief moved forward, stood looking down at the red-head. The little man hesitated, then waved him past. “Lucky for you, I like your looks.”

Inside, Retief surveyed the long room, the giant converter units, the massive bussbars. Armed men—some in uniform, some in work clothes, others in loud sport shirts—stood here and there. Other men read meters, adjusted controls, or inspected dials.

“You’ve got more guards than workers,” Retief said. “Expecting trouble?”

The red-head bit the corner from a plug of spearmint. He glanced around the plant. “Things is quiet now; but you never know . . .”

“Rather old-fashioned equipment, isn’t it? When was it installed?”

“Huh? I dunno. What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s your basic power source, a core sink? Lithospheric friction? Sub-crustal hydraulics?”

“Beats me, Mister. I’m the boss here, not a dern mechanic.”

A grey-haired man carrying a clip-board walked past, studied a panel, made notes, glanced up to catch Retief’s eye, moved on.

“Everything seems to be running normally,” Retief remarked.

“Sure; why not?”

“Records being kept up properly?”

“Sure; some of these guys, all they do is walk around looking at dials and writing stuff on paper. If it was me, I’d put ’em to work.”

Retief strolled over to the grey-haired man, now scribbling before a bank of meters. He glanced at the clip board.

Power off at sunset. Tell Corasol was scrawled in block letters across the record sheet. Retief nodded, rejoined his guard.

“All right, Jake. Let’s have a look at the communications center.”

Back in the car, headed west, Retief studied the blank windows of office buildings, the milling throngs in beer bars, shooting galleries, tattoo parlors, billiards halls, pin-ball arcades, bordellos, and half-credit casinos.

“Everybody seems to be having fun,” he remarked.

Jake stared out the window. “Yeah.”

“Too bad you’re on duty, Jake. You could be out there joining in.”

“Soon as the corporal gets things organized, I’m opening me up a place to show dirty tri-di’s. I’ll get my share.”

“Meanwhile, let the rest of ’em have their fun, eh, Jake?”

“Look, Mister, I been thinking: Maybe you better gimme back that kick-stick you taken outa my gun . . .”

“Sorry, Jake; no can do. Tell me, what was the real cause of the revolution? Not enough to eat? Too much regimentation?”

“Naw, we always got plenty to eat. There wasn’t none of that regimentation—up till I joined up in the corporal’s army.”

“Rigid class structure, maybe? Educational discrimination?”

Jake nodded. “Yeah, it was them schools done it. All the time trying to make a feller go to some kind of class. Big shots. Know it all. Gonna make us sit around and view tapes. Figgered they are better than us.”

“And Sozier’s idea was you’d take over, and you wouldn’t have to be bothered.”

“Aw, it wasn’t Sozier’s idea. He ain’t the big leader.”

“Where does the big leader keep himself?”

“I dunno. I guess he’s pretty busy right now.” Jake snickered. “Some of them guys call themselves colonels turned out not to know nothing about how to shoot off the guns.”

“Shooting, eh? I thought it was a sort of peaceful revolution; the managerial class were booted out, and that was that.”

“I don’t know nothing,” Jake snapped. “How come you keep trying to get me to say stuff I ain’t supposed to talk about? You want to get me in trouble?”

“Oh, you’re already in trouble, Jake. But if you stick with me, I’ll try to get you out of it. Where exactly did the refugees head for? How did they leave? Must have been a lot of them; I’d say in a city of this size they’d run into the thousands.”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course, it depends on your definition of a big shot. Who’s included in that category, Jake?”

“You know, the slick-talking ones; the fancy dressers; the guys that walk around and tell other guys what to do. We do all the work and they get all the big pay.”

“I suppose that would cover scientists, professional men, executives, technicians of all sorts, engineers, teachers—all that crowd of no-goods.”

“Yeah, them are the ones.”

“And once you got them out of the way, the regular fellows would have a chance; chaps that don’t spend all their time taking baths and reading books and using big words; good Joes that don’t mind picking their noses in public.”

“We got as much right as anybody—”

“Jake, who’s Corasol?”

“He’s—I don’t know.”

“I thought I overheard his name somewhere.”

“Uh, here’s the communication center,” Jake cut in.

Retief swung into a parking lot under a high blank façade. He set the brake and stepped out.

“Lead the way, Jake.”

“Look, Mister, the corporal only wanted me to show you the outside—”

“Anything to hide, Jake?”

Jake shook his head angrily and stamped past Retief. “When I joined up with Sozier, I didn’t figger I’d be getting in this kind of mess . . .”

“I know, Jake; it’s tough. Sometimes it seems like a fellow works harder after he’s thrown out the parasites than he did before.”

A cautious guard let Retief and Jake inside, followed them along bright lit aisles among consoles, cables, batteries of instruments. Armed men in careless uniforms lounged, watching. Here and there a silent technician worked quietly.

Retief paused by one, an elderly man in a neat white coverall, with a purple spot under one eye.

“Quite a bruise you’ve got there,” Retief commented heartily. “Power failure at sunset,” he added softly. The technician hesitated, nodded, and moved on.

Back in the car, Retief gave Jake directions. At the end of three hours, he had seen twelve smooth-running, heavily guarded installations.

“So far, so good, Jake,” he said. “Next stop, sub-station Number Nine.” In the mirror, Jake’s face stiffened. “Hey, you can’t go down there—”

“Something going on there, Jake?”

“That’s where—I mean, no; I don’t know.”

“I don’t want to miss anything, Jake. Which way?”

“I ain’t going down there,” Jake said sullenly.

Retief braked. “In that case, I’m afraid our association is at an end, Jake.”

“You mean . . . you’re getting out here?”

“No, you are.”

“Huh? Now wait a minute, Mister; the corporal said I was to stay with you.”

Retief accelerated. “That’s settled, then. Which way?”

Retief pulled the car to a halt two hundred yards from the periphery of a loose crowd of brown-uniformed men who stood in groups scattered across a broad plaza, overflowing into a stretch of manicured lawn before the bare, functional facade of Sub-station Number Nine. In the midst of the besieging mob, Sozier’s red face and bald head bobbed as he harangued a cluster of green-uniformed men from his place in the rear of a long open car.

“What’s it all about, Jake?” Retief inquired. “Since the parasites have all left peacefully, I’m having a hard time figuring out who’d be holed up in the pumping station—and why. Maybe they haven’t gotten the word that it’s all going to be fun and games from now on.”

“If the corporal sees you over here—”

“Ah, the good corporal. Glad you mentioned him, Jake. He’s the man to see.” Retief stepped out of the car and started through the crowd. A heavy lorry loaded with an immense tank with the letter H blazoned on its side trundled into the square from a side street, moved up to a position before the building. A smaller car pulled alongside Sozier’s limousine. The driver stepped down, handed something to Sozier. A moment later, Sozier’s amplified voice boomed across the crowd.

“You in there, Corasol. This is General Sozier, and I’m warning you to come out now or you and your smart friends are in for a big surprise. You think I won’t blast you out because I don’t want to wreck the plant. You see the tank aboard the lorry that just pulled up? It’s full of gas—and I got plenty of hoses out here to pump it inside with. I’ll put men on the roof and squirt it in the ventilators . . .”

Sozier’s voice echoed and died. The militiamen eyed the station. Nothing happened.

“I know you can hear me, damn you!” Sozier squalled. “You’d better get the doors open and get out here fast—”

Retief stepped to Sozier’s side. “Say, Corporal, I didn’t know you went in for practical jokes—”

Sozier jerked around to gape at Retief.

“What are you doing here!” he burst out. “I told Jake—where is that—”

“Jake didn’t like the questions I was asking,” Retief said, “so he marched me up here to report to you.”

“Jake, you damn fool!” Sozier roared. I gotta good mind—”

“I disagree, Sozier,” Retief cut in. “I think you’re a complete imbecile. Sitting out here in the open yelling at the top of your lungs. For example: Corasol and his party might get annoyed and spray that fancy car you’ve swiped with something a lot more painful than words.”

“Eh?” Sozier’s head whipped around to stare at the building.

“Isn’t that a gun I see sticking out?”

Sozier dropped. “Where?”

“My mistake; just a foreign particle on my contact lenses.” Retief leaned on the car. “On the other hand, Sozier, most murderers are sneaky about it; I think making a public announcement is a nice gesture on your part. The Monitors won’t have any trouble deciding who to hang when they come in to straighten out this mess.”

Sozier scrambled back onto his seat. “Monitors?” he snarled. “I don’t think so. I don’t think you’ll be around to do any blabbering to anybody.” He raised his voice. “Jake! March this spy over to the sidelines. If he tries anything, shoot him!” He gave Retief a baleful grin. “I’ll lay the body out nice and ship it back to your cronies. Accidents will happen, you know. It’ll be a week or two before they get around to following up—and by then I’ll have this little problem under control.”

Jake looked at Retief uncertainly, fingering his empty rifle.

Retief put his hands up. “I guess you got me, Jake,” he said. “Careful of that gun, now.”

Jake glanced at Sozier, gulped, aimed the rifle at Retief, and nodded toward the car. As Retief moved off, a murmur swept across the crowd. Retief glanced back; a turret on the station roof was rotating slowly. A shout rose; men surged away from the building, scuffling for way; Sozier yelled. His car started up, moved forward, horns blaring. As Retief watched, a white stream arced up from the turret, catching the sun as it spanned the lawn, down to strike the massed men in a splatter of spray. It searched across the mob, came to rest on Sozier’s car. Uniformed men scrambled for safety as the terrified driver gunned the heavy vehicle. The hose followed the car, dropping a solid stream of water on Sozier, kicking and flailing in the back seat. As the car passed from view down a side street, water was overflowing the sides.

“The corporal will feel all the better for an invigorating swim in his mobile pool,” Retief commented. “By the way, Jake, I have to be going now. It wouldn’t be fair to send you back to your boss without something to back up your story that you were outnumbered, so—”

Retief’s left fist shot out to connect solidly with Jake’s jaw. Jake dropped the gun and sat down hard. Retief turned and headed for the pumping station. The hose had shut down now. A few men were standing, eyeing the building anxiously. Others watched his progress across the square. As Retief passed, he caught scattered comments:

“—seen that bird before.”

“—where he’s headed.”

“—feller Sozier was talkin to . . .”

“Hey, you!” Retief was on the grass now. Ahead, the blank wall loomed up. He walked on, briskly.

“Stop that jasper!” a shout rang out. There was a sharp whine and a black spot appeared on the wall ahead. Near it, a small personnel door abruptly swung inward. Retief sprinted, plunged through the opening as a second shot seared the paint on the doorframe. The door clanged behind him. Retief glanced over the half-dozen men confronting him.

“I’m Retief, CDT, Acting Chargé,” he said. “Which of you gentlemen is Manager-General Corasol?”

* * *

Corasol was a tall, wide-shouldered man of fifty, with shrewd eyes, a ready smile, capable-looking hands, and an urbane manner. He and Retief sat at a table at one side of the large room, under a maze of piping, tanks and valves, Corasol poured amber fluid into square glass tumblers.

“We spotted you by the blazer,” he said. “Baby blue and gold braid stand out in a crowd.”

Retief nodded. “The uniform has its uses,” he agreed. He tried the drink. “Say, what is this? It’s not bad.”

“Sugar-weed rum; made from a marine plant. We have plenty of ocean here on Glave; there’s only the one continent, you know, and it’s useless for agriculture.”

“Weather?”

“That’s part of it; Glave is moving into what would be a major glaciation if it weren’t for a rather elaborate climatic control installation. Then there are the tides; half the continent would be inundated twice a year when our satellite is at aphelion; there’s a system of baffles, locks and deep-water pumps that maintain the shore-line more or less constant; we still keep our cities well inland. Then there are the oxygen generators, the atmosphere filtration complex, vermin control, and so on. Glave in its natural state is a rather hostile world.”

“I’m surprised that your mines can support it all.”

“Oh, they don’t.” Corasol shook his head. “Two hundred years ago, when the company first opened up Glave, it was economical enough. Quintite was a precious mineral in those days. Synthetics have long since taken over. Even fully automated, the mines barely support the public services and welfare system.”

“I seem to recall a reference in the Post Report to the effect that a Company petition to vacate its charter had been denied . . .”

Corasol nodded, smiling wryly. “The CDT seemed to feel that as long as any of the world’s residents desired to remain, the Company was constrained to oblige them. The great majority departed long ago, of course—relocated to other operational areas. Only the untrainables, living off welfare funds—and a skeleton staff of single men to operate the technical installations—have stayed on.”

“What do you mean—untrainable?”

“There’s always a certain percentage of any population with the conviction that society is a conspiracy to deny them their rights. The right to be totally ignorant of any useful knowledge seems to be the basic one. Most societies can carry the burden of these drones—along with the criminal and idiot classes—as mere minority problems. Here on Glave, they’ve constituted the population—with the planet operated to maintain them. Some of them have opened small businesses—of the kind that require only a native shrewdness and a stomach for the popular tastes. Of course, they still regard any material advantages possessed by the productive as flagrant evidence of discrimination.”

“That explains the mechanics of the recent uprising,” Retief said.

The bottle clinked against glasses for a second round. “What about the good corporal?” Retief asked. “Assuming he’s a strong swimmer, you should be hearing from him soon.”

Corasol glanced at his finger watch. “I imagine he’ll be launching his gas attack any minute.”

“The prospect doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“Sozier is a clever enough chap in his own way,” Corasol said. “But he has a bad habit of leaping to conclusions. He’s gotten hold of a tank of what someone has told him is gas—as indeed it is. Hydrogen, for industrial use. It seems the poor fellow is under the impression that anything masquerading as gas will have a lethal effect.”

“He may be right—if he pumps it in fast enough.”

“Oh, he won’t be pumping it—not after approximately five minutes from now.”

“Hmmm. I think I’m beginning to see the light. ‘Power off at sunset . . . ’”

Corasol nodded. “I don’t think he realizes somehow that all his vehicles are operating off broadcast power.”

“Still, he has a good-sized crowd of hopefuls with him. How do you plan to get through them?”

“We don’t; we go under. There’s an extensive system of service ways underlying the city; another detail which I believe has escaped the corporal’s notice.”

“You’ll be heading for the port?”

“Yes—eventually. First, we have a few small chores to see to. Sozier has quite a number of our technical men working at gun point to keep various services going.”

Retief nodded. “It won’t be easy breaking them out; I made a fast tour of the city this afternoon; locked doors, armed guards—”

“Oh, the locks are power-operated, too. Our fellows will know what to do when the power fails. I think the sudden darkness will eliminate any problem from the guards.”

The lights flickered and died. The whine of the turbines was suddenly noticeable, descending. Faint cries sounded from outside.

Corasol switched on a small portable lantern. “All ready, gentlemen?” he called, rising. “Let’s move out. We want to complete this operation before dawn.”

Four hours later, Retief stood with Corasol in a low-ceilinged tunnel, white-tiled, brilliantly lit by a central glare strip, watching as the last of the column of men released from forced labor in the city’s utilities installations filed past. A solidly-built man with pale blond hair came up, breathing hard.

“How did it go, Taine?” Corasol asked.

“They’re beginning to catch on, Mr. Corasol. We had a brisk time of it at Station Four. Everybody’s clear now. No one killed, but we had a few injuries.”

Corasol nodded. “The last few crews in have reported trouble. “Ah—what about—”

Taine shook his head. “Sorry, Sir. No trace. No one’s seen them. But they’re probably at the port ahead of us, hiding out. They’d know we’d arrive eventually.”

“I suppose so. You sent word to them well in advance . . .”

“Suppose I stand by here with a few men; we’ll patrol the tunnels in case they show up. We have several hours before daylight.”

“Yes. I’ll go along and see to the preparations at Exit Ten. We’ll make our sortie at oh-five-hundred. If you haven’t seen anything of them by then . . .”

“I’m sure they’re all right.”

“They’d better be,” Corasol said grimly. “Let’s be off, Retief.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Manager-General, I’ll stay here with Taine; I’ll join you later.”

“As you wish. I don’t imagine there’ll be any trouble—but if there is, having a CDT observer along will lend a certain air to the operation.” He smiled, shook Retief’s hand and moved off along the tunnel. The echo of feet and voices grew faint, faded to silence. Taine turned to the three men detailed to him, conversed briefly, sent them off along branching corridors. He glanced at Retief.

“Mr. Retief, you’re a diplomat. This errand is not a diplomatic one.”

“I’ve been on a few like that, too, Mr. Taine.”

Taine studied Retief’s face. “I can believe that,” he said. “However, I think you’d better rejoin the main party.”

“I might be of some use here, if your missing men arrive under fire.”

“Missing men?” Taine’s mouth twisted in a sour smile. “You fail to grasp the picture, Mr. Retief. There’ll be no missing men arriving.”

“Oh? I understood you were waiting here to meet them.”

“Not men, Mr. Retief. It happens that Corasol has twin daughters, aged nineteen. They haven’t been seen since the trouble began.”

Half an hour passed. Retief leaned against the tunnel wall, arms folded, smoking a cigar in silence. Taine paced, ten yards up the corridor, ten yards back . . .

“You seem nervous, Mr. Taine,” Retief said.

Taine stopped pacing, eyed Retief coldly. “You’d better go along now,” he said decisively. “Just follow the main tunnel; it’s about a mile—”

“Plenty of time yet, Mr. Taine.” Retief smiled and drew on his cigar. “Your three men are still out—”

“They won’t be back here; we’ll rendezvous at Exit Ten.”

“Am I keeping you from something, Taine?”

“I can’t be responsible for your safety if you stay here.”

“Oh? You think I might fall victim to an accident?”

Taine narrowed his eyes. “It could happen,” he said harshly.

“Where were the girls last seen?” Retief asked suddenly.

“How would I know?”

“Weren’t you the one who got word to them?”

“Maybe you’d better keep out of this.”

“You sent your men off; now you’re eager to see me retire to a safe position. Why the desire for solitude, Taine? You wouldn’t by any chance have plans . . . ?”

“That’s enough,” Taine snapped. “On your way. That’s an order!”

“There are some aspects of this situation that puzzle me, Mr. Taine. Mr. Corasol has explained to me how he and his Division Chiefs—including you—were surprised in the Executive Suite at Planetary Control, by a crowd of Sozier’s bully-boys. They came in past the entire security system without an alarm. Corasol and the others put up a surprisingly good fight and made it to the service elevators—and from there to the Sub-station. There was even time to order an emergency alert to the entire staff—but somehow, they were all caught at their stations and kept on the job at gun point. Now, I should think that you, as Chief of Security as well as Communications, should have some idea as to how all this came about.”

“Are you implying—”

“Let me guess, Taine. You have a deal with Sozier. He takes over, ousts the legal owners, and set himself up to live off the fat of the land, with you as his technical chief. Then, I imagine, you’d find it easy enough to dispose of Sozier—and you’d be in charge.”

Without warning, Taine put his head down and charged. Retief dropped his cigar, side-stepped, and planted a solid right on Taine’s jaw. He staggered, went to his hands and knees.

“I suppose you’d like to get word to Sozier that his work force is arriving at the port at oh-five-hundred,” Retief said. “Of course, he’ll want to have a good-sized reception committee on hand as they come out—”

Taine plunged to his feet, threw a vicious left that went past Retief’s ear, then abruptly dropped, clamped a lock on Retief’s leg, twisted—

The two men rolled, came to rest with Taine on top, Retief face-down, his arm bent back and doubled. Taine, red-faced and puffing, grunted as he applied pressure.

“You know a lot about me,” he granted, “but you overlooked the fact that I’ve been Glavian Judo champion for the past nine years.”

“You’re a clever man, Taine,” Retief said between clenched teeth. “Too clever to think it will work.”

“It will work. Glave’s never had a CDT mission here before; we’re too small. Corasol invited your Embassy in because he had an idea there was something in the wind. That forced my hand. I’ve had to move hastily. But by the time I invite observers in to see for themselves, everything will be running smoothly. I can even afford to let Corasol and the others go—I’ll have hostages for his good behavior.”

“You’ve been wanting to boast about it to someone who could appreciate your cleverness, I see. Sozier must be an unappreciative audience.”

“Sozier’s a filthy pig—but he had his uses.”

“What do you plan to do now?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself—but I think the best solution is simply break your arm for now. You should be easy to control then. It’s quite simple; I merely apply pressure, thus . . .”

“Judo is a very useful technique,” Retief said. “But in order to make it work, you have to be a pretty good man . . .” He moved suddenly, shifting his position. Taine grabbed, holding Retief’s arm by the wrist and elbow, his own arm levering Retief’s back, back . . . Retief twisted onto his side, then his back. Taine grunted, following the movement, straining. Slowly, Retief sat up against Taine’s weight. Then, with a surge, he straightened his arm. Taine’s grip broke. Retief came to his feet. Taine scrambled up in time to meet a clean uppercut.

“Ah, there you are,” Retief said as Taine’s eyes fluttered and opened. “You’ve had a nice nap—almost fifteen minutes. Feeling better?”

Taine snarled, straining against the bonds on his wrists.

“Gold braid has its uses,” Retief commented. “Now that you’re back, perhaps you can answer a question for me. What’s the Birthday Cake?”

Taine spat. Retief went to stand over him.

“Time is growing short, Mr. Taine. It will be dawn in another two hours. I can’t afford the luxury of coaxing you. You’d better answer my question.”

“You won’t get away with this.”

Retief looked at the glowing end of his cigar. “This won’t be subtle, I agree—but it will work . . .”

“You’re bluffing.”

Retief leaned closer. “In my place—would you hesitate?” he asked softly.

Taine cursed, struggled to break free, eyes on the cigar.

“What kind of diplomat are you?” he snarled.

“The modern variety; throat-cutting, thumb-screws, poison and stiletto work were popular in Machiavelli’s time; nowadays we go in more for the administrative approach—but the cigar-end still has its role.”

“Look—we can come to an agreement—”

“What’s the Birthday Cake?” Retief snapped.

“I’m in a position to do a lot for you—”

“Last chance—”

“It’s the official Residence of the Manager-General!” Taine screeched, writhing away from the cigar.

“Where is it? Talk fast!”

“You’ll never get close! There’s a seven-foot wall and by this time the grounds are swarming with Sozier’s men—”

“Nevertheless, I want to know where it is—and the information had better be good. If I don’t come back, you’ll have a long wait.”

Taine groaned. “All right. Put that damned cigar away. I’ll tell you what I can . . .”

Retief stood in the shadow of a vine-grown wall, watching the five-man guard detail at the main gate to the Residence grounds. The bluish light of the Glavian satellite reflected from the rain-pocked street, glinted from the leaves of a massive tree ten yards from the gate. The chill in the air cut through Retief’s wet clothes; the men at the gate huddled, hands in pockets, coat collars turned up, backs to the wind—and to Retief. He moved silently forward, caught a low branch of the tree, pulled himself up. The men at the gate exchanged muttered remarks. One lit a cigarette. Retief waited, then moved higher. The guards talked in low voices, edged closer to the shelter of the gate-house. Retief lowered himself onto the wall, dropped down onto the sodden lawn, crouched, waiting. There was no alarm.

Through the trees the dark shape of the house loomed up, its top story defiantly ablaze with lights. Retief moved off silently, from the shadow of one tree to the next, swinging in an arc that would bring him to the rear of the great round structure. He froze as the heavy footfalls of one of Sozier’s pickets slogged past five yards from him, then moved on. The glow of a camp-fire flickered near the front of the house. Retief could make out the shapes of men around it—a dozen or two, at least. Probably as many more warmed themselves at each of the other fires visible on the grounds—and most of the rest had doubtless found dryer shelter in the lee of the house itself.

Retief reached the conservatory at the rear of the house, studied the dark path leading to the broad terrace, picked out the squat shape of the utilities manifold behind a screen of shrubbery. So far, Taine’s information had been accurate. The next step was to—

There was a faint sound from high above, followed by a whoosh!— Then, with a sharp crack, a flare appeared overhead, rocking gracefully, floating down gently under a small parachute. Below it, inky shadows rocked in unison. In the raw white light, Retief counted eighteen men clinging to handholds on the side of the house, immobile in the pitiless glare. Above them, a face appeared, then a second, peering over the edge of the fourth-story gallery. Both figures rose, unlimbering four-foot bows, fitting arrows to strings—

Whok! Whok! Two men lost their holds and fell, yelling, to slam into the heavy shrubbery. A second flight of arrows found marks. Retief watched from the shadows as man after man dropped to flounder in the wet foliage. Several jumped before the deadly bows were turned on them. As the flare faded, the last of the men plunged down to crash among their fellows. Retief stepped out, ran swiftly to the manifold, forcing his way among the close-growing screen, scrambled to its top. His hand fell on a spent arrow. He picked it up. It was a stout wooden shaft twenty inches long, terminating in a rubber suction cup. Retief snorted, dropped the arrow and started up.

Twenty feet above ground level, the wide windows of the third floor sun terrace presented a precarious handhold as Retief swung back a foot, kicked in a panel. Inside, he dimly made out the shape of a broad carpeted room, curving out of sight in both directions. There were wide-leafed tropical plants in boxes, groups of padded chairs, low tables with bowls of fruit. Retief made his way past them, found an inner door, went into a dark hall. At the far end, voices exchanged shouted questions. Feet pounded. A flicker of light from a hand lantern splashed across the wall, disappeared. Retief found a stair, went up it noiselessly. According to Taine, the elevator to the top floor apartment should be to the left—

Retief flattened himself to the wall. Footsteps sounded near at hand. He moved quickly to a doorway. There was a murmur of voices, the wavering light of lanterns. A party of uniformed men tiptoed past a cross corridor, struggling under the weight of a massive log, two feet in diameter and twelve feet long.

“ . . . on signal, hit it all together. Then . . .” someone was saying.

Retief waited, listening. There was the creak of a door, the fumbling of awkwardly-laden feet on a stair, hoarse breathing, a muffled curse.

“ . . . got my fingers, ya slob . . .” a voice snarled.

“Shaddup!” another voice hissed.

There was a long moment of silence, then a muffled command—followed an instant later by a thunderous crash, a shout—cut off abruptly by a ponderous blam! followed instantly by a roar like a burst dam, mingled with yells, thumps, crashes. A foamy wash of water surged along the cross corridor, followed a moment later by a man sliding on his back, then another, two more, the log, fragments of a door, more men.

In the uproar, Retief moved along to the elevator, felt over the control panel, located a small knurled button. He turned it; the panel came away. He fumbled cautiously, found a toggle switch, flipped it. A light sprang up in the car; instantly, Retief flipped the light switch; the glow faded. He waited. No alarm. Men were picking themselves up, shouting.

“ . . . them broads dropped a hundred gallon bag of water . . .” someone complained.

“ . . . up there fast, men. We got the door OK!”

Feet thumped. Yells sounded.

“No good, Wes! They got a safe or something in the way!”

Retief silently closed the lift door, pressed the button. With a sigh, the car slid upward, came to a gentle stop. He eased the door open, looked out into a dim-lit entrance hall. Footsteps sounded beyond a door. He waited, heard the clack of high heels crossing a floor. Retief stepped out of the car, went to the door, glanced into a spacious lounge with rich furniture, deep rugs, paintings, a sweep of glass, and in an alcove at the far side, a bar. Retief crossed the room, poured a stiff drink into a paper-thin glass, and drained it.

The high-heeled steps were coming back now. A door opened. Two leggy young women in shorts, with red-gold hair bound back by ribbons—one green, one blue—stepped into the room. One held a coil of insulated wire; the other carried a heavy-looking grey-enameled box eight inches on a side.

“Now, see if you can tinker that thing to put out about a thousand amps at two volts, Lyn,” the girl with the wire said. “I’ll start stringing . . .” her voice died as she caught sight of Retief. He raised his glass. “My compliments, ladies. I see you’re keeping yourselves amused.”

“Who . . . who are you?” Lyn faltered.

“My name’s Retief; your father sent me along to carry your bags. It’s lucky I arrived when I did, before any of those defenseless chaps outside were seriously injured.”

“You’re not . . . one of them?”

“Of course he’s not, Lyn,” the second girl said. “He’s much too good-looking.”

“That’s good,” Lyn said crisply. “I didn’t want to have to use this thing.” She tossed a bright-plated 2mm needler onto a chair and sat down. “Dad’s all right, isn’t he?”

“He’s fine, and we’ve got to be going. Tight schedule, you know. And you’d better get some clothes on. It’s cold outside.”

Lyn nodded. “Environmental Control went off the air six hours ago; you can already feel snow coming.”

“Don’t you suppose we have time to just rig up one little old circuit?” the other twin wheedled. “Nothing serious; just enough to tickle.”

“We planned to wire all the window frames, the trunk we used to block the stair, the lift shaft—”

“And then we thought we’d try to drop a loop down and pick up the gallery guard rail, and maybe some of that wrought-iron work around the front of the house—”

“Sorry, girls; no time.”

Five minutes later, the twins were ready, wrapped in fur robes. Retief had exchanged his soaked blazer for a down-lined weatherproof.

“The lift will take us all the way down, won’t it?” he asked.

Lyn nodded. “We can go out through the wine cellar.”

Retief picked up the needler and handed it to Lyn. “Hang on to this,” he said. “You may need it yet.”

A cold wind whipped the ramp as dawn lightened the sky.

“It’s hard to believe,” Corasol said. “What made him do it?”

“He saw a chance to own it all.”

“He can have it.” Corasol’s communicator beeped. He put it to his ear. “Everything’s ship-shape and ready to lift,” a tiny voice said.

Corasol turned to Retief. “Let’s go aboard—”

“Hold it,” Retief said. “There’s someone coming . . .”

Corasol spoke into the communicator. “Keep him covered, but don’t fire unless he does.”

The man slogging across the concrete was short, wrapped in heavy garments. Over his head a white cloth fluttered from a stick.

“From the set of those bat-ears, I’d say it was the good corporal.”

“I wonder what he wants.”

Sozier stopped twenty feet from Retief and Corasol.

“I want to . . . ah . . . talk to you, Corasol,” he said.

“Certainly, General. Go right ahead.”

“Look here, Corasol. You can’t do this. My men will freeze. We’ll starve. I’ve been thinking it over, and I’ve decided we can reach an understanding.”

Corasol waited.

“I mean, we can get together on this thing. Compromise. Maybe I acted a little hasty.” Sozier looked from Corasol to Retief. “You’re from the CDT. You tell him. I’ll guarantee his people full rights . . .”

Retief puffed at his cigar in silence; Sozier started again.

“Look, I’ll give you a full voice in running things. A fifty-fifty split. Whatta you say?”

“I’m afraid the proposal doesn’t interest me, General,” Corasol said.

“Never mind the General stuff,” Sozier said desperately. “Listen, you can run it. Just give me and my boys a little say-so.”

“Sorry,” Corasol shook his head. “Not interested, General.”

“OK, OK! You win! Just come on back and get things straightened out! I got a belly fully of running things!”

“I’m afraid I have other plans, General. For some time I’ve wanted to transfer operations to a world called Las Palmas on which we hold a charter. It has a naturally delightful climate, and I’m told the fishing is good. I leave Glave to the Free Electorate with my blessing. Goodbye, General.” He turned to the ship.

“You got to stay here!” Sozier howled. “We’ll complain to the CDT! And don’t call me General. I’m a Corporal—”

“You’re a General now—whether you like it or not,” Corasol said bluntly. He shivered. There was a hint of ice in the air. “If you or any of your men ever decide to go to work, General, I daresay we can train you for employment on Las Palmas. In the meantime—Long Live the Revolution!”

“You can’t do this! I’ll sue!”

“Calm down, Sozier,” Retief said. “Go back to town and see if you can get your radio working. Put in a call for Mr. Magnan aboard the CDT vessel. Tell him your troubles. It will make his day. And a word of advice: Mr. Magnan hates a piker—so ask for plenty.”

“My boy, I’m delighted,” Ambassador Sternwheeler boomed. “A highly professional piece of work. A stirring testimonial to the value of the skilled negotiator! An inspiration to us all!”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said, glancing at his watch.

“And Magnan tells me that not only will the mission be welcomed, and my job secure for another year—that is, I shall have an opportunity to serve—but a technical mission has been requested as well. I shall look forward to meeting General Sozier. He sounds a most reasonable chap.”

“Oh, you’ll like him, Mr. Ambassador. A true democrat, willing to share all you have.”

Counselor of Embassy Magnan tapped and entered the office.

“Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Ambassador,” he said breathlessly, “but—”

“Well, what is it man! The deal hasn’t gone sour . . . ?”

“Oh, far from it! I’ve been exploring General Sozier’s economic situation with him via scope—and it seems he’ll require a loan . . .”

“Yes, yes? How much?”

Magnan inhaled proudly. “Twenty. Million. Credits.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Magnificent! Good lord, Magnan, you’re a genius! This will mean promotions all around. Why, the administrative load alone—”

“I can’t wait to make planetfall, Mr. Ambassador. I’m all abubble with plans. I hope they manage to get the docking facilities back in operation soon.”

“Help is on the way, my dear Magnan. I’m assured the Environmental Control installations will be coming back in operation again within a month or two.”

“My, didn’t those ice-caps form quickly—and in the open sea.”

“Mere scum-ice. As my Counselor for Technical Affairs, you’ll be in charge of the ice-breaking operation once we’re settled in. I imagine you’ll want to spend considerable time in the field. I’ll be expecting a record of how every credit is spent.”

“I’m more the executive type,” Magnan said. “Possibly Retief—”

A desk speaker hummed. “Mr. Corasol’s lighter has arrived to ferry Mr. Retief across to the Company ship . . .”

“Sorry you won’t be with us, Retief,” Sternwheeler said heartily. He turned to Magnan. “Manager-General Corasol has extended Retief an exequatur as Consul General to Las Palmas.”

Retief nodded. “Much as I’d like to be out in that open boat with you, breaking ice, I’m afraid duty calls elsewhere.”

“Your own post? I’m not sure he’s experienced enough, Mr. Ambassador. Now, I—”

“He was requested by name, Magnan. It seems the Manager-General’s children took a fancy to him.”

“Eh? How curious. I never thought you were particularly interested in infant care, Retief.”

“Perhaps I haven’t been, Mr. Magnan.” Retief draped his short blue cape over his left arm and turned to the door. “But remember the diplomat’s motto: be adaptable . . .”

THE PRINCE AND THE PIRATE

“The ancient defender of the principle of self-determination of peoples threw the elite of its diplomatic shock troops into the fight when local tradition was threatened at Elora. Holding himself aloof from internal bickering, Ambassador Hidebinder dealt shrewdly with diverse elements of the power picture, to forge a bright new page in Corps history . . .”

—Vol. VIII, Reel 7, 450 AE (AD 2951)

Retief reined in the tall-shouldered urze-beast with a jangle of the hunting-bells attached to the long-legged mount’s harness. The trail of the dirosaur led straight ahead, into a dense thicket of iron-rod trees fifty feet distant, now bent and twisted by the passing of the wounded monster. Far away, the hunting horns of the main party sounded; Retief smiled. Prince Tavilan would employ a choice selection of royal oaths when he learned that a mere diplomat had beaten him to the quarry’s turn-at-bay . . .

A windy screech sounded from the depths of the thicket; Retief raised his saddle-horn, blew an answering blast. There was a clanging of branches, a scraping of armored hide on metallic bark. Retief dropped the horn to swing at the pommel; with a pull of a lever, he cocked his cross-bow, sat his mount, waiting. A tiny head, mostly jaws, armed with a foot-long spike below the mouth, snaked out from the grove, hissing a ferocious warning. Retief’s urze-beast stirred, tossed its head at the scent of the dirosaur. Trees shuddered aside as the great carnivore forced its bulk between them, its golden-yellow eyes fixed on the man. A clawed foreleg as big as a man’s body set with rusty scales raked the ground, dragging the predator’s multi-ton bulk into the clear. With a final clangorous flick of its log-like tail, the dirosaur broke free, reared its head into striking position, and charged. Retief raised the cross-bow, took aim—

The cross-bow bucked; Retief spurred aside; he had a momentary glimpse of a two-foot shaft of polished steel protruding from the eye socket of the monster as it blundered past, the long neck falling, to collapse in a cloud of dust, lie twitching, then still.

It was five minutes before the hunt galloped into view, Prince Tavilan’s black crested urze-beast in the lead. He slowed to a canter, rode up beside the fallen dirosaur, sat looking down at the open-jawed head, the yellow eyes, glazing in death.

“That’s another barrel of royal vintage I owe you, Retief,” he said. “If I ever see the palace cellars again.” He was a tall, wide, sandy-haired man with a turned-up sunburned-nose. His leather forest garb was well worn; there were cockleburrs in the snow-tiger facings of his royal Eloran blue cape. The cross-bow slung across his back was his only weapon.

“We’re wasting time hunting game,” a rider at the prince’s side said. “There’s a plentiful supply of cross-bow bolts at the lodge; I propose we ride down to Elora City and distribute them among the good Prime Minister’s Greenbacks—point first.”

“The King still has hopes the CDT will revise its policy,” Tavilan glanced at Retief. “If the triple-damned embargo were lifted, Minister Prouch and his talk of a regency would evaporate faster than the royal treasury has under his control.”

“Oh, it’s not an Embargo, Your Highness,” Retief said. “I believe Ambassador Hidebinder refers to it as a unilateral shift in emphasis balance-of-trade-wise to a more group-oriented—”

“What it adds up to is the Royal Eloran Navy grounded, while traitors plot in the palace and Dangredi’s pirates raid shipping at the edge of Eloran atmosphere!” Tavilan smacked a fist into his palm. “I’ve got the finest corps of naval-combat commanders in the Eastern Arm, forty-five battle-ready ships of the line—and, thanks to CDT policy, no fuel! So much for my co-operation with your Ambassador, Retief!”

“Didn’t he explain that, Your Highness? If you had the Big Picture, it would all make sense. Of course, I’m a Small Picture man myself, so I’m afraid I can’t be of much help.”

“It’s not your doing, Retief. But ten million Elorans are about to have a dictatorship clamped on them because I lack a few megaton/seconds of firepower . . .”

“Your great-grandfather’s mistake was in being a romantic. If he’d named his planet Drab Conformity, set up a committee of bureaucrats to run it and used the forest to supply paper mills instead of hunting in them, you’d be the apple of the collective CDT eye today.”

“The old man led a hard life; when he found Elora it was a wilderness. He made his fortune—and then arranged matters here to suit himself—and we Elorans still like parties!”

Retief glanced at the sun. “Speaking of which, I’d better be starting back; the Grande Balle d’Elore is tonight and Mr. Magnan will be upset if I’m not there to help him hover nervously for at least an hour before the Ambassador comes down.”

“Retief, you’re not riding back to the city . . . ?” Count Arrol looked up from cutting out the dirosaur’s chin-horn. He stood. “I told you what my man reported. Your sympathies are too well-known to suit Prouch. Tonight, at the ball—”

“I don’t think the worthy Prime Minister will go that far. He’s dependent on the good will of the CDT—and diplomat-killing is bad publicity.”

“The Palace Guard is still loyal,” Tavilan said. “And remember the lad, Aric; you can trust him with any mission within his strength. He’s working in the palace as a mess-servant.” He laughed bitterly. “Think of us as you dance with the fair ladies of the court, Retief. If you see my father, tell him that my Invincibles and I will continue to skulk here in the Deep Forest as he commands—but we long for action.”

“I’ll get word to you, Tavilan,” Retief said. “My conspiratorial instinct tells me that there’ll be action enough for everybody before sunrise tomorrow.”

In the Grand Ballroom at the Palace of Elora, Retief cast an eye over the chattering elite of the court, the gorgeously gowned and uniformed couples, the glum representatives of the People’s Party, the gaudily uniformed diplomats from Yill, Fust, Flamme, and half a hundred other worlds. A cluster of spider-lean Groaci whispered together near a potted man-eating plant, one leaf of which quivered tentatively, seemed to sniff the aliens, withdrew hastily. Retief plucked a glass from a wide silver tray offered by a bright-eyed mess-boy in a brocaded bolero jacket and a cloth-of-gold turban, who glanced quickly around the crowded ballroom, then stepped close to whisper:

“Mr. Retief—the rascals are forcing the lock on your room!”

Retief passed the glass under his nose, sipped.

“Exactly which rascals do you mean, Aric?” he murmured. “We’ve got about four sets to choose from.”

Aric grinned. “A couple of the Groaci Ambassador’s boys,” he whispered. “The ones he usually uses for high-class back-alley work.”

Retief nodded. “That would be Yilith and Sith, formerly of the Groaci Secret Police. Things must be coming to a head. It’s not like old Lhiss to take such direct action.” He finished the drink in his hand, put the empty glass on a black marble table.

“Come on, Aric. Ditch that tray and let’s take a walk.”

In the broad mirror-hung corridor, Retief turned to the right.

“But, Mr. Retief,” Aric said. “Your apartment’s in the other direction . . .”

“They won’t find anything there, Aric—and it would be embarrassing for all concerned if I caught them red-handed. So while they’re occupied, I’ll just take this opportunity to search their rooms.”

At the top of the wide spiral staircase that led from the public areas of the palace to the living quarters assigned to foreign diplomatic missions, Retief paused.

“You wait here, Aric.” He went along the corridor to the third door, a simple white-painted panel edged with a tiny carved floral design. He tried the large gold doorknob, then took a slender instrument from an inner pocket of his silver-epauletted tangerine mess jacket and delicately probed the lock. The bolt snicked back. He eased the door open, glanced around, then stepped back out and beckoned Aric to him.

“How’d you get it open, Mr. Retief?”

“Locks are a hobby of mine. Patrol the corridor, and if you see anybody, cough. If it’s one of my Groaci colleagues, have a regular paroxysm. I won’t be long.”

Inside the room, Retief made a fast check of the desk, the dresser drawers, the undersides of furniture. He slapped sofa cushions, prodded mattresses for telltale cracklings, then opened the closet door. Through the wall, faint voices were audible, scratchy with the quality of narrow-range amplification. He stooped, plucked a tiny earphone from a miniature wall bracket. Ambassador Lhiss, it appeared, was not immune from eavesdropping by his own staff.

Retief put the ’phone to his ear.

“ . . . agreed, then,” Ambassador Hidebinder’s voice was saying. “Seventy-two hours from now, and not a moment before.”

“Just see that you keep your end of the bargain,” a thin Groaci voice lisped. “This would be a poor time for treachery . . .”

“I want it clearly understood that our man will be treated in a reasonably civilized fashion, and quietly released to us when the affair is completed.”

“I suggest you avoid over-complicating the arrangements with last minute conditions,” the Groaci voice said.

“You’ve done very well in this affair,” Hidebinder came back. “Your profits on the armaments alone—”

“As I recall, it was you who proposed the scheme; it is you who wish to place homeless Soetti rabble on Elora, not we . . .”

Retief listened for another five minutes before he snapped the phone back in its bracket, stepped quickly to the door; in the hall, Aric came to meet him.

“Find anything, Mr. Retief?”

“Too much . . .” Retief took a pen from his pocket, jotted a note.

“See that this gets to Prince Tavilan at the lodge; tell him to get the Invincibles ready, but to do nothing until I get word to him—no matter what.”

“Sure, Mr. Retief, but—”

“Let’s go, Aric. And remember: you’re more help to me outside than inside . . .”

“I don’t follow you, Mr. Retief . . .” Aric trotted at his side. “Outside what . . . ?”

“We’ll know in a few minutes; but wherever I wind up, watch for a signal . . .”

From the head of the Grand Staircase, Retief saw the glint of light on steel. Two men in the dull black and green of the People’s Volunteers stood in the corridor.

“Hey, Mr. Retief,” Aric whispered. “What are Greenbacks doing in the palace . . . ?”

“Simple, Aric. They’re standing guard over my door.”

“Maybe somebody caught those Groaci trying to break in . . .”

“Drop back behind me, Aric—and remember what I said . . .”

Retief walked up to his door, took out an old-fashioned mechanical key, inserted it in the lock. One of the two armed soldiers stepped up, made a threatening motion with his rifle butt.

“Nobody goes in there, you,” he growled. He was a broad-faced blonde, a descendant of the transported felons who had served as contract labor on Elora a century earlier.

Retief turned casually, moved to one side far enough that the man before him was between him and his companion, then moved suddenly, caught the stock of the rifle in his left hand and with his right yanked the barrel forward; the butt described a short arc, smashed against the soldier’s chin. He gave a choked yell, stumbled back. Retief jerked the door open, slipped inside, slammed it behind him. He shot the bolt, then started a fast check of his room. The door rattled; heavy poundings sounded. Retief pulled open the desk; a loose heap of unfamiliar papers lay there. A glance at one showed the letterhead of the Office of the Commercial Attaché, Terrestrial Embassy. It appeared to be a delivery order for one hundred thousand rounds of fractional-ton ammunition made out to a Bogan armaments exporter. Another was an unsigned letter referring to drop-points and large sums of money. A heavy parchment caught Retief’s eye. It was stamped in red: UTTER TOP SECRET. Below the seal of the Eloran Imperial Department of War was a detailed break-out of the disposition of units of the Imperial Fleet and the Volunteer Reserve.

The telephone buzzed. Retief picked it up. There was a sound of breathing at the other end.

“Yilith . . . ?” a faint voice inquired.

“No, you damned fool!” Retief snapped. “They finished up ten minutes ago. When do the Greenbacks arrive?”

“Why, they should be there now. The pigeon has left the ballroom—” There was a pause. “Who is this?”

Retief slammed down the phone, whirled to the wide fireplace, flipped the switch that started a cheery blaze licking over the pseudo-logs. He grabbed up a handful of papers from the desk, tossed them into the fire, started back for another—

With a rending of tough plastic panels, the door bulged, then slammed open. Half a dozen Greenbacks charged into the room, short bayonets fixed and leveled. Retief’s hand went behind him, felt over the small table at his back, plucked open the drawer, fished out a tiny slug gun, dropped it into a back pocket.

A tall man with a small head, a body like a bag of water, and tiny feet bellied his way through the armed men. He wore a drab cutaway of greyish-green adorned with the star of the Order of Farm Production. Behind him, the small, spindle-armed figure of the Groaci Military Attaché was visible, decked out in formal jewel-studded eyeshields and a pink and green hip-cloak.

“Don’t touch anything!” the water-bag man called in a high, excited voice. “I want everything undisturbed!”

“What about the fire, Mr. Minister?” the Groaci lisped. “The miscreant seems to have been burning something . . .”

“Yes, yes. Rake those papers out of there!” The large man wobbled his chin agitatedly. He fixed Retief with eyes like peeled eggs. “I’m warning you, don’t make any violent moves—”

“Let me have a crack at him,” a Greenback said. “He fixed Horney so he won’t be able to eat nothing but mush for six months—”

“None of that!” the big-bellied man folded his arms. A striped vest bulged under his voluminous frock coat like a feather mattress. “We’ll just hold him for the criminal authorities.”

“Any particular reason why you and your friends came to play in my room?” Retief inquired mildly. “Or were you under the impression it was my birthday?”

“Look here,” a man called from across the room. “Under the mattress . . .” He held up a paper. “A letter from the pirate, Dangredi, addressed to Retief, thanking him for the latest consignment of arms and supplies!”

“If you’ll wait just a minute,” Retief said, “I’ll get my scrapbook; it’s full of all kinds of incriminating evidence I’ve been saving for just this occasion.”

“Ah, then you confess! Where is it?” the Groaci whispered hoarsely, pushing to the fore.

“Oh, I forgot; when I heard you coming, I ate it.”

There was a stir at the rear of the group. The ranks parted and a short, round Terrestrial with a stiff white moustache and a mouth like a change-purse pushed through. He yanked at the overlapping lapels of a grape-juice colored mess-jacket caked with decorations.

“Here, what’s this, Mr. Retief! Contraband? Pilfered documents? Evidence of traffic with piratical elements?”

“No, Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said, “I’m only charging them with breaking and entering, assault with a deadly weapon, abuse of diplomatic privilege, and loitering. If you’ll—”

“Here, don’t let him confuse the issue, Ambassador Hidebinder!” The egg-like eyes rolled toward the stout diplomat. “He stands self-convicted—”

“Don’t say too much, Mr. Minister,” Retief cut in. “After all, you haven’t had time yet to read those scraps the boys are fishing out of the fire, so it wouldn’t do for you to know what they are.”

“Enough of this pointless chatter!” Prime Minister Prouch piped. “Obviously, there’s treason afoot here!” He jabbed a finger at the Terrestrial Ambassador. “In view of the seriousness of the offense—in a time of grave crisis in inter-world affairs—I demand that you suspend this criminal’s diplomatic immunity!”

The Groaci spoke up: “As a neutral party, I propose that he be turned over to my mission for restraint until the time of trial.”

“Well . . .” Ambassador Hidebinder blinked. “I’m not at all sure . . .”

“We’ll tolerate no stalling tactics!” the Minister squeaked. “The security of Elora is at stake!” He motioned. The troops closed in around Retief.

“I propose to take this man into custody at once,” he bulged his eyes at Hidebinder. “I trust there will be no protest . . . !”

Hidebinder looked around at the room, the scattered papers, the smoldering fire, then past Retief’s ear.

“Your penchant for mischief is well-known, Mr. Retief,” he said solemnly. “I’m sure this fits the pattern nicely.”

“Not as nicely as you seem to imagine,” Retief said. “Maybe you’d better think it over—without any help from Ambassador Lhiss.”

Hidebinder purpled; he sputtered. “The man’s insane! You have my permission to place him under protective restraint!” He stamped from the room.

General Hish stepped forward. “Soldiers, you heard the order of the Minister,” he hissed. “Take the criminal away . . .”

The cell was ten feet square, with a twelve by eighteen inch opening just under the ten-foot high ceiling. The furnishings included a plastic cot with one blanket, the minimum in plumbing facilities, one small, unshielded neon lamp, numerous large roaches, and a bristly rat over a foot long, which sat by the open floor drain from which it had emerged, regarding Retief with beady eyes.

Retief’s hand went slowly to the small, hard pillow on the cot beside him. He picked it up, pegged it suddenly; with a squeal of rage, the rat dove for cover, scrabbled for a moment in a frantic attempt to squirm past the cushion, now wedged in the drain; then it darted for the darkest corner of the cell.

Retief picked up the blanket and a length of yarn worked from it earlier, moved toward the rat. It crouched, making a sound like a rusty-bed-spring. Suddenly it leaped—straight at Retief’s face—and met the enveloping blanket in mid-air. Cautiously, Retief folded back the blanket to expose the chinless, snouted face, armed with back-slanting yellow fangs half an inch long. He looped the string over the vicious head, drew it snug, and knotted it.

He went to the drain, kicked the obstruction from it, then released the tethered rat. It dived down the dark opening and was gone. The carefully coiled string paid out rapidly, loop after loop. It slowed, then fed down the drain more slowly as the rat traveled through the piping. The guard’s footsteps approached, Retief jumped for the cot; he was stretched out at ease when the sentry looked in. When he had passed, Retief looped the end of the string over his finger, pulled in the slack. In the gloomy light of the neon lamp, the thread was invisible against the dark floor. He sat on the bunk and waited.

An hour passed. The barred rectangle of moonlight slanting through the window crept across the floor. Regularly, at nine minute intervals, feet sounded in the passage outside the metal slab door. Suddenly the string in Retief’s hand twitched, once, twice, three times. He gave three answering tugs. For a moment there was no response; then there was a single firm tug. Aric was on the job . . .

Retief pulled at the string; it dragged heavily. He hauled it in slowly, hand over hand. Twice it caught on some obstruction far away in the drain line; he tugged gently until it came free. He thrust the accumulating pile of thread under the mattress. Each time the guard looked in, he was sitting quietly, staring at the wall. Suddenly, the end of a half-inch rope appeared, securely tied to the end of the string. Retief let it slip back a few inches, waited until the sentry passed, then quickly began hauling in the rope.

Five minutes later, a hundred feet of polyon cable was tucked out of sight under the mattress. Retief slipped the bundle of hacksaw blades which had been tied to the end of the rope into the pocket of the gold-braided white trousers which he had been allowed to retain along with his short boots. He stood under the window, gauged the distance, then jumped; he pulled himself up, got a firm grip on the bars, then took out a saw and started in.

An hour later, both bars were cut through, ready to be removed by a single firm twist. Retief waited for the guard to pass, then dropped the blades down the drain, looped the cable over his shoulder and leaped up to the window again. Far below, he could see the moonlight sparkling on a fountain in the palace garden; the shadows of trees and hedges were dark against the grass. On the graveled walks, armed sentries passed.

Retief wrenched the bars free, tied the rope to one, tossed the coil of rope through the window, then pulled himself up, and carefully fitted the short bar across the corner of the window opening on the inside. Keeping pressure on the rope, he eased out, then slid quickly down.

Twenty feet below, Retief dropped onto a narrow balcony before a rank of darkened glass doors. With a flick, he freed the upper end of the rope; the bar clattered against the stone wall as it fell; he pulled the rope in, dropped it in a heap, then tried door handles, found one that turned. He stepped in through heavy drapes, felt his way across to a door, opened it and looked out into a wide corridor. At the far end, two ornately uniformed guards stood stiffly at attention. There was no one else in sight. Retief slipped the slug gun into the palm of his hand, stepped out, walked boldly toward the guards. They stood unmoving. As he passed, one spoke quietly from the corner of his mouth:

“Greenback patrolling one flight up . . .”

“They’re on the look-out for any suspicious activity,” the other sentry added.

“If you see any, let us know,” the first said.

“I’ll do that,” Retief said softly. “If you hear any loud noises, pay no attention. General Hish will be entertaining a guest . . .”

Retief followed the corridor, took a turn to the left, then a right, found the passage housing the Groaci Embassy, now brightly lit. The apartment of the Military Attaché was on the left, four doors along . . .

A black-booted Greenback officer stepped into view from the far end of the passage, paused at sight of Retief striding unconcernedly toward him. The Greenback narrowed his eyes uncertainly, started along the corridor toward Retief. At fifteen feet, sure now of the identity of the intruder, he snapped back the flap covering his sidearm, tugged at the heavy power pistol. Retief brought the slug gun up, fired at point-blank range. At the muffled whoomp! the officer slammed back, hit the floor and lay sprawled; his gun bounced against the wall. Retief scooped it up, turned to the door of the Groaci General’s quarters, needle-beamed the lock at low power. The hardware dissolved in a wash of blue flame, an acrid stink of burned plastic and metal. He kicked the door wide, caught the fallen Greenback by the ankles, dragged him inside. A swift examination of the room revealed that it was deserted. He picked up the phone, dialed.

“Post number twenty-nine,” a crisp voice answered promptly.

“This is the General’s guest,” Retief said. “The light in the hall might hurt the General’s eyes; corridor 9-C. Think you could douse it?”

“We’ve had some trouble with fuses in that wing lately; I’ve got a feeling one might go out any minute now—and it will take maybe an hour to fix.” The phone clicked off.

Retief flipped off the lights in the room, went into the small, lavishly equipped kitchen, rummaged through the supplies of Groaci delicacies, found a one-pound jar of caviar and a package of grain wafers. He ate hurriedly, keeping an eye on the door, drank a small bottle of Green Yill wine, then returned to the living room. He stripped the Greenback, donned the drab uniform.

The phone buzzed. Retief went to it, lifted the receiver.

“Two minute alert,” a low voice said. “He’s alone . . .”

Retief went to the door, opened it half an inch, stood in the shadows beside it. He heard the soft approach of mincing Groaci footsteps, then a soft exclamation—

He swung the door open, reached out, caught the Groaci by the throat and dragged him inside. He grunted as a booted foot caught him in the ribs; then he jammed the pistol hard against the Groaci’s horny thorax.

“No loud noises, please, General; it’s my hour for meditation . . .”

Retief pushed the door shut with a foot, leaned against the light button; a soft glow sprang up. Retief released the Groaci, holding the gun aimed at a three-inch broad Grand Cordon of the Legion d’Cosme crossing the bulging abdomen.

“I’m going out; you’re coming with me. Better hope we make it.”

He holstered the pistol, showed the small, smooth-stone-shaped slug gun. “This will be a foot from your back, so be a good little soldier and give all the right answers.”

The Groaci’s throat sacs dilated, vibrating. He cast a sidelong glance at the stripped body of the Greenback.

“The swift inevitability of your death,” he hissed in Groaci. “To anticipate with joy your end in frightful torment . . .”

“To button your mandible and march,” Retief interrupted. He pulled the door open. “After you, General . . .”

The blaze of stars scattered from horizon to horizon above the palace roof gleamed on the polished fittings of a low-slung heli parked on the royal pad. As Retief and his prisoner emerged from the service stair into the cold night air, there was a crunch of boots on gravel, the snick! of a power gun’s action. A dark shadow moved before Retief. Abruptly a searchlight’s beam glared in his eyes.

“Stand aside, idiot!” the Groaci hissed. The light flashed across to him; five beady, stemmed eyes glinted angrily at the guard.

“General Hish, sir . . .” The guard snapped off the light, presented arms hurriedly. Other boots sounded, coming across the rooftop helipad.

“What’s going on here? Tell these—” the voice broke off. In the gloom, barely relieved by starlight, Retief saw the newcomer start, then put a hand to his pistol butt.

“We require the use of the royal gig,” Hish whispered. “Stand aside!”

“But the orders—” the first guard started.

“General, drop!” the second bawled, hauling his gun out. Retief shot him, took a short step and drove a hard punch to the jaw of the first Greenback, then caught the Groaci’s arm, jumped for the heli. Yells sounded across the roof. A yard-wide light-cannon, gymbal-mounted atop the guard shack, winked on, throwing a grey-blue tunnel of light into the sky; it pivoted, depressed, swept a burning disc across to Retief—

He drew the power pistol, thumbed it to narrow beam, blasted the light; it exploded in a shower of tinkling glass, a billow of orange smoke that faded, winked out.

Retief shoved the slender Groaci ahead of him, yanked wide the heli’s entry hatch, tumbled his prisoner in, jumped after him. He flipped switches, rammed the control lever to EMERGENCY FULL CLIMB. With a whine of power, the finely-engineered craft leaped from the roof, surged upward in a buffet of suddenly stirred air. From below, the blue and yellow flashes of blasters winked briefly against the discs of the screaming rotors; then they dwindled away and were gone.

Half an hour later, Retief dropped the heli in low over the black tree-tops of the Deep Forest. A gleam of light reflected across rippling water. He edged the machine forward, swung out over the lake; below, the water churned in the down-draft from the rotors as the heli settled gently into two feet of water. Retief cut the engine and popped the hatch. Cold mountain air swirled in; somewhere, water lizards shrilled.

“What place of infamy is this?” the captive general hissed. He stared out into the darkness. “Do you bring me here to slay me unseen, vile disrespecter of diplomatic privilege?”

“The idea has merit,” Retief said, “but I have other plans for you, General.” He climbed down, motioned the Groaci out. Hish grumbled, scrambling down into the icy water of the lake, slogging to shore. From the darkness, a night-fowl called. Retief whistled a reply. There was the sound of a footstep in the brush, the click! of a cross-bow’s cocking mechanism.

“It’s Retief,” he called. “I have a guest: General Hish, of the Groaci Embassy.”

“Ah, welcome, Retief,” a soft voice drawled. “We’re honored, General. Good of you to call. His Highness was hoping you’d be along soon . . .”

Inside the high-beamed lodge, Prince Tavilan came across the room; behind him, Aric grinned.

“I caught the rat all right, Mr. Retief—”

“Retief!” Tavilan clapped him on the shoulder. “Aric reached me with your message an hour ago. I heard the news of your arrest on Tri-D; they broke into a concert to announce that a plot involving the CDT and reactionary Royalist elements had been uncovered.”

“Hidebinder will be very unhappy with that version of events,” Retief said. “The agreement was that it was all to be blamed on a rotten apple in the Corps barrel, namely me—”

“We were saddling up to storm the palace and free you, when your message reached me—”

“How many reliable men do you have available on short notice, Your Highness?” Retief cut in.

“I have thirty-eight of the Invincibles with me here; at least three others are under arrest on various pretexts. Four more managed to report in that they’re pinned down by ‘protective escorts’ but we can still strike—”

Retief shook his head. “That was the idea of arresting me, Your Highness—as a personal challenge to you, since my sympathies are well-known. Prouch wanted to bring you out into the open. An armed attack was just what he needed—and he was ready for you. He has at least two hundred Greenbacks in the palace—armed to the nines. Your raid would have been the signal for his take-over—to preserve the domestic tranquility, of course—and your death in the fighting would have left him a clear field.”

“What about the Palace Guard? They haven’t gone over . . . ?”

“Of course not . . .” Retief accepted a cigar, took a seat by the fire. “They’re standing fast, playing it by ear. The Grand Ball tonight gave them an excuse for full dress, including weapons, of course. The Greenbacks aren’t quite ready to start anything with them—yet.”

Tavilan stamped across the fire-beast-hide rug. “Blast it, Retief, we can’t sit here and watch Prouch and his mob move in unopposed! If we hit them now—before they’ve had time to consolidate—”

“—you’ll get every Royalist supporter in Elora City killed,” Retief finished for him. “Now, let’s consider the situation. Item: the Royal Fleet is grounded, courtesy of CDT policy. Item two: Prouch’s People’s Volunteer Naval Reserve Detachment of late-model Bogan destroyers is sitting in its launch-cradles at Grey Valley, fifteen miles from here—”

“They’re no threat to us; they can’t operate without fuel either.”

“They won’t have to,” Retief said, pulling out smoke. “Corps policy is nothing if not elastic. It seems that the Big Picture called for the supplying of the Volunteer Reserve with full magazines—”

“What!”

“—and the topping off of all tanks.”

Tavilan’s face was pale. “I see,” he said quietly, nodding. “The CDT talked disarmament to me while it was arming Prouch’s revolutionaries. It never intended to see the monarchy survive.”

“Well, Your Highness, the CDT is a very clean-minded organization, and it heard somewhere that ‘monarchy’ was a dirty word—”

“All right!” Prince Tavilan turned to Count Arrol. “We have mounts for every man—and plenty of cross-bow bolts. There’ll be Greenback blood on the palace floors before the night is out—”

“If I might make a suggestion . . . ?”

“You’re not involved in this, Retief. Take the copter and get clear—”

“Clear to where? I’ve been disowned by my colleagues and slapped in jail by the Prime Minister. To get back to the Little Picture: I see no point in our riding into Elora City and being shot down at long range by Greenbacks—”

“We’ll ride in at the Marivale Gate, move up through the fire-lanes—”

“If you’ll pardon my saying so,” Retief said, “I’ve got a better idea. It’s only fifteen miles to the Grey Valley . . .”

“So?”

“So I suggest we take a ride over and look at the Volunteer Navy.”

“You just told me Prouch’s renegades are armed to the teeth . . .”

Retief nodded. “Since we need guns, Your Highness, I can’t think of a closer place to get ’em . . .”

At the head of the troop of thirty-eight riders, including General Hish, lashed to a mount, Retief and Tavilan reined in at the crest of the slope that faced the barracks of the Peoples’ Volunteer Naval Reserve, a blaze of light all across the narrow valley. On the ramp a quarter of a mile beyond the administrative and shop areas, fifty slim destroyers loomed, bathed in the glare of polyarcs. Prince Tavilan whistled.

“Prouch and the CDT seem to have struck it off even better than I thought. That’s all brand-new equipment.”

“Just defensive, of course,” Retief said. “I believe Minister Prouch has given assurances that the elimination of Dangredi’s free-booters will be carried out with dispatch—just as soon as the CDT recognizes his regime.”

Tavilan laughed shortly. “I could have swept Dangredi off the space lanes six months ago—if the CDT hadn’t blockaded me.”

“Such are the vagaries of Galactic policy—”

“I know: the Big Picture again.” Tavilan turned to Arrol. “We’ll split into two parties, work around both ends of the valley, and pick our targets at close range. Retief, you ride with me. Let’s move out.”

It was a forty-minute ride along the forested slopes walling the valley to the rendezvous point Prince Tavilan had designated, a sheltered ravine less than a hundred yards from the nearest of the parked war vessels. The access ladder was down, and light spilled from the open entry port. A Reservist in baggy grey and green lounged in the opening. Two more stood below, power rifles slung across their backs.

“You could pick those three off from here,” Retief remarked. “Cross-bows are a nice quiet weapon—”

Tavilan shook his head. “We’ll ride down in formal battle-order. No war’s been declared. They won’t fire on the Prince Royal.”

“There may be forty more inside—to say nothing of the crews of the next ships in line, sentries, stand-by riot squads, and those two pill-boxes commanding the ends of the valley.”

“Still—I must give those men their chance to declare themselves.”

“As the Prince wishes—but I’ll keep my blaster loose in its holster—just in case . . .”

The Prince rode in the lead with his guidon at his left, followed by thirty-five men, formed up in a precise triangle of seven ranks, with two honor guards out on the flanks. The rear guard followed, holding the reins of the mount to which General Hish, still hissing bitter complaints, was lashed.

The Invincibles moved down the slope and out onto the broad tarmac, hooves clattering against the paved surface. The two men on the ramp turned, stoop gaping. The one above at the ship’s entry port whirled, disappeared inside.

The troop rode on; they were halfway to the ship now. One of the waiting Greenbacks unlimbered his power gun, cranked the action, the other followed suit. Both stepped forward half a dozen paces, brought their weapons up uncertainly.

“Halt! Who the Hell’s there!” one bawled.

Tavilan flipped the corner of his hunting cape forward over his shoulder to show the royal Eloran device, came on in silence.

The taller of the two Greenbacks raised his rifle, hesitated, half-lowered it. Riding half a pace behind Tavilan, Retief eased his pistol from its holster, watching the doorway above. On his right, Count Arrol held his crossbow across his knee, a bolt cocked in the carriage, his finger on the trigger.

Ten feet from the two Greenback sentries, Prince Tavilan reined in.

“Aren’t you men accustomed to render a proper salute when your Commander makes a surprise inspection?” he said calmly.

The Greenbacks looked at each other, fingering their guns.

“It looks as though the word had gone out,” Arrol whispered to Retief.

“You cover the Prince; I’ll handle the entry port,” Retief murmured.

At that moment a figure eased into view at the port; light glinted from the front sight of a power gun as it came up, steadied—

Retief sighted, fired; in the instantaneous blue glare, the man at the port whirled and fell outward. The Greenback nearest Tavilan made a sudden move to swing his gun on the Prince—then stumbled back, a steel quarrel from Arrol’s cross-bow standing in his chest. The second Greenback dropped his weapon, stood with raised hands, his mouth open and eyes wide, then turned and ran.

Tavilan leaped down from his steed, dashed for the access ladder, his cross-bow ready. As though on command, four men followed him, while others scattered to form a rough semi-circle at the base of the ladder. Sheltered behind a generator unit, Retief and Arrol covered the port. Tavilan disappeared inside, the men at his heels. There was a long half-minute of dead silence. Then a shout sounded from the next vessel in line, a hundred yards distant. Tavilan reappeared, gestured.

“Everybody in,” Arrol called. The men went for the ladder, sprang up in good order; those waiting on the ramp faced outward, covering all points.

A light flashed briefly from the adjacent vessel; a sharp report echoed. A man fell from the ladder; others caught him, lifted him up. Far away, a harsh voice bellowed orders.

“They aren’t using any heavy stuff,” Arrol said. “They wouldn’t want to nick the paint on their new battle wagon . . .”

A squad of men appeared, running from the shadows at the base of the ship from which the firing had come. Most of the troop were up the ladder now; two men hustled the struggling Groaci up. Beside Retief, Arrol launched three bolts in rapid-fire order. Two of the oncoming men fell. The blue flashes of power guns winked; here and there, the surface of the tarmac boiled as wild shots struck.

“Come on . . .” The two men ran for the ladder; Arrol sprang for it, swarmed up. Retief followed; molten metal spattered as a power-gun bolt vaporized the handrail. Then hands were hauling him inside.

“Hit the deck,” Arrol yelled. “We’re lifting . . . ?”

“We took one burst from an infinite repeater,” an officer reported, “but no serious damage was done. They held their fire just a little too long.”

“We were lucky,” Prince Tavilan said. “One man killed, one wounded. It’s fortunate we didn’t select the next ship in line; we’d have had a hornet’s nest on our hands.”

“Too bad we broke up the battalion crap game,” Retief commented. “But by now they’ll be lifting off after us—a few of them, anyway.”

“All right—we’ll give them a warm welcome before they nail us—”

“If I may venture to suggest—”

Tavilan waved a hand, grinning. “Every time you get too damned polite, you’ve got some diabolical scheme up your sleeve. What is it this time, Retief?”

“We won’t wait around to be nailed. We’ll drive for Deep Space at flank speed—”

“And run into Dangredi’s blockage? I’d rather use my firepower on Prouch’s scavengers.”

“That’s where our friend the General comes in.” Retief nodded toward the trussed Groaci. “He and Dangredi are old business associates. We’ll put him on the screen and see if he can’t negotiate a brief truce. With the approval of Your Highness, I think we can make an offer that will interest him . . .”

The flagship of the pirate fleet was a four-hundred-year-old, five-hundred-thousand-ton dreadnought, a relic of pre-Concordiat times. In the red-lit gloom of its cavernous Command Control deck, Retief and Prince Tavilan relaxed in deep couches designed for the massive frames of the Hondu corsairs. Opposite them, Dangredi, the Hondu chieftain, lounged at ease, his shaggy, leather-strapped, jewel-spangled 350-pound bulk almost overflowing his throne-like chair. At Retief’s side, General Hish perched nervously. Half a dozen of Tavilan’s Invincibles stood around the room, chatting with an equal number of Dangredi’s hulking officers, whose greenish fur looked black in the light from the crimson lamps.

“What I failing to grasp,” Dangredi rumbled, “is reason for why suddenly now changing of plan previously okayed.”

“I hardly think that matters,” Tavilan said smoothly. “I’ve offered to add one hundred thousand Galactic Credits to the sum already agreed on.”

“But the whole idea was compensate me, Grand Hereditary War Chief of Hondu people, for not fight; now is offering more pay for stand and give battle . . .”

“I thought you Hondu loved war,” an Eloran officer said.

Dangredi nodded his heavy green-furred head, featureless but for two wide green-pupiled eyes. “Crazy mad for warring, and also plenty fond of cash. But is smelling rodent somewhere in woodpile . . .”

“It’s very simple, Commodore,” Retief said. “General Hish here had arranged with you to flee when the People’s Volunteer forces attacked; now changing conditions on Elora make it necessary that you fight—and in place of the loot you would otherwise so rightly expect, you’ll collect a handsome honorarium—”

Suddenly the Groaci leaped to his feet, pointed at Retief. “Commodore Dangredi,” he hissed. “This renegade diplomat beside me holds a gun pointed at my vitals; only thus did he coerce me to request this parley. Had I guessed his intention, I would have dared him to do his worst. Seize the traitor, Excellency!”

Dangredi stared at the Groaci.

“He—and these strutting popinjays—plot against the security of the People’s State of Elora!” Hish whispered urgently. “The plan remains unchanged! You are to flee engagement with the forces of Minister Prouch!”

The great green head bobbed suddenly; hooting laughter sounded. A vast hand slapped a thigh like a shaggy beer keg.

“Aha! At last is getting grasp of situation,” Dangredi bellowed. “Now is little honest treachery, kind of dealing Hondu understanding!” He waved a hand at a servitor standing by. “Bringing wassail bowl, plenty meat!” He brought his hands together with a dull boom, rubbed them briskly. “Double-cross, plenty fighting, more gold at end of trail! Is kind of operation I, Dangredi, Hereditary War chief, dreaming of in long nights of tooth-shedding time!”

“But these—these criminal kidnappers have no authority to deal—”

“Groaci-napping is harmless pastime—like stealing wine-melons when cub. Unless, maybe . . .” he cocked a large emerald eye at Hish “ . . . you maybe raising ante?”

“I . . . I will match the offer of the saboteurs of interplanetary amity! One hundred thousand in Groaci gold!”

Dangredi considered briefly. “No good. What about fighting? You give Hondu gunners targets in sights? Or maybe chance for rough-and-tumble, hand-to-hand, cold steel against enemy blades?”

General Hish shuddered. “In the name of civilization, I appeal—”

“Shove civilization in ventral orifice! Hondu taking good, crooked, blood-thirsty barbarians every time. Now disappearing quietly, Groaci, while I and new buddies planning strategy. Maybe later I sending for you and bending arms and legs until you tell all about enemy battle plan . . .”

“The Groaci is our hostage,” Tavilan said as the general was led away. “He’s not to be bent without my prior approval.”

“Sure; just having little joke.” Dangredi leaned back, accepted a vast drumstick and a tank of wine, waited while his guests accepted proffered delicacies.

“Now, Retief, you say attack coming when . . . ?”

“I must confess,” Counselor Magnan said, “I don’t quite understand how it happened that after trouncing the Eloran Volunteers, the pirate Dangredi voluntarily gave himself up and offered the services of his entire fleet as a reserve force to replace the very units he destroyed.”

“Never mind that, Magnan,” Ambassador Hidebinder said. “As seasoned campaigners must, we shall accept the fait accompli. Our resettlement plans are set back a year, at least. It’s doubly unfortunate that Prime Minister Prouch suffered a fall just at this time. Magnan, you’ll attend the funeral.”

“With pleasure, Mr. Ambassador,” Magnan said. “That is, I’ll be honored—”

“Retief . . .” Hidebinder glared across the table. “I’m not going to press civil charges, since the Eloran government, at the behest of Prince Tavilan, has dropped the case. However, I may as well tell you at once—your future with the Corps is non-existent. A trifling embezzlement of official funds, I could wink at. Embellished reports, slack performance of duty, cowardice in the face of the enemy—these I could shrug off as youthful peccadilloes. But foot-dragging in the carrying out of Corps policy—” his fist thumped the desk. “Intolerable!”

A messenger entered the conference room, handed a note to Magnan, who passed it to Hidebinder; he opened it impatiently, glanced at it. His jaw dropped. He read it through again. His mouth closed; his jowls paled, quivering.

“Mr. Ambassador—what is it?” Magnan gasped.

Hidebinder rose and tottered from the room. Magnan snatched up the paper, read it through, then stared at Retief.

“He’s been—declared persona non grata—The Imperial government gives him twelve hours to leave Elora . . . !”

Retief glanced at the wall clock. “If he hurries, he can catch the mail boat.”

“And you, Retief . . . !”

Retief raised his eyebrows. Magnan glanced around the table. “If you gentlemen will excuse us for a few moments . . . ?” Half a dozen frowning diplomats filed from the room. Magnan cleared his throat. “This is most irregular, Retief! The imperial government requests that you present credentials as Minister Plenipotentiary and Ambassador Extraordinary at once . . . they will accept no other appointee . . .”

Retief tsked. “I told Prince Tavilan I wouldn’t have time for a ceremonial job. I have a suggestion, Mr. Magnan: suppose I nominate you for the post?”

“Over the heads of a hundred senior officers?” Magnan gasped. “Retief, dear boy . . .”

“That is, if your distaste for monarchies isn’t overwhelming . . . ?”

“Eh? Oh, well, as to that,” Magnan sat erect, tugged his lapels into place. “I’ve always had a sneaking admiration for absolute royalty.”

“Fine. Dangredi will be along in a few minutes to arrange for supplies; it seems there are a few shiploads of CDT-sponsored undesirables already landing on the northern continent who’ll have to be warned off. It’s probably just a slip. I’m sure our former Ambassador wouldn’t have jumped the gun in violation of solemn treaties.”

“Ah,” Magnan said.

“And, of course, the Royal Navy will require provisioning—just to be sure the new Reservists don’t get any large ideas . . .”

“Uh . . .”

“And, of course, a new treaty plainly guaranteeing the territorial integrity of Elora will have to be worked up at once . . .”

“Oh . . .”

Retief rose. “All of which I’m sure you’ll handle brilliantly, Mr. Ambassador. And by the way—I think I could best serve the mission in some other capacity than as Admin Officer . . .”

Magnan pulled at his collar, waiting . . .

“I think I’d better work closely with Prince Tavilan, the heir apparent,” Retief said blandly. “He does a lot of hunting, so perhaps you’d better designate me as Field and Stream Attaché . . .” He picked up his cross-bow from the corner.

“I leave the details to you, Mr. Ambassador. I’m going hunting.”

COURIER

“Ever mindful of its lofty mission as guardian of the territorial integrity of Terrestrial-settled worlds against forays by non-social-minded alien groups, the Corps, in time of need, dispatched inobtrusive representatives to threatened areas, thus dynamically reaffirming hallowed Corps principles of Terrestrial solidarity. The unflinching support tendered by Deputy Ass’t Under-Secretary Magnan to Jorgensen’s Worlds in their hour of crisis added a proud page to Corps history . . .”

—Vol. X, Reel 9, 493 AE (AD 2954)

“It is rather unusual, Retief,” Deputy Assistant Under-Secretary Magnan said, “to assign an officer of your rank to courier duty; but this is an unusual mission.”

Retief drew on his cigar and said nothing. Just before the silence grew awkward, Magnan went on.

“There are four planets in the group,” he said. “Two double planets, all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 814369. They’re called Jorgensen’s Worlds, and in themselves are of no importance whatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soetti have been penetrating.

“Now,” Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice, “we have learned that the Soetti plan a bold step forward. They’ve been quietly occupying non-settled worlds. Since they’ve met no opposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, they intend to seize Jorgensen’s Worlds by force.”

Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief’s reaction. Retief drew carefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.

“This is open aggression, Retief, in case I haven’t made myself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alien species. Obviously, we can’t allow it.” He drew a large folder from his desk.

“A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately, Jorgensen’s Worlds are backward, technologically undeveloped areas. They’re farmers, traders; their industry is limited to a minor role in their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war potential, by conventional standards, is nil.”

Magnan tapped the folder before him.

“I have here,” he said solemnly, “information which will change that picture completely.” He leaned back, blinked at Retief.

“All right, Mr. Secretary,” Retief said. “I’ll play along; what’s in the folder?”

Magnan spread his fingers, folded one digit down.

“First,” he said, “the Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade Terrestrials who’ve been advising the Soetti.” He folded another finger. “Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen’s people, worked out by the Theory Group.” He wrestled a third finger down. “Lastly, an Utter Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration field into a potent weapon—a development our Systems people have been holding in reserve for just such a situation.”

“Is that all? You’ve still got two fingers sticking up.”

Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away. “This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this information could be catastrophic. You’ll memorize it before you leave this building—”

“I’ll carry it, sealed,” Retief said. “That way nobody can sweat it out of me.”

“As you wish. Now, let me caution you against personal emotional involvement here. Overall policy calls for a defense of these backwater worlds; otherwise, the Corps would prefer simply to allow History to follow its natural course, as always.”

“When does this attack happen?”

“In less than four weeks.”

“That doesn’t leave me much time.”

“I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as Aldo Cerise. You’ll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest of the way.”

“And what do I rely on to get me back?”

Magnan looked casually at his fingernails. “Of course you could refuse the assignment . . .”

Retief smiled, directed a smoke ring past Magnan’s ear.

“This antiac conversion; how long does it take?”

“A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every second man is a mechanic of some sort.”

Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets inside.

“Less than four hours to departure time,” he said. “I’d better not start any long books.”

“You’d better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination,” Magnan said.

Retief stood up. “If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.”

“The allusion escapes me,” Magnan said coldly. “And one last word: the Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen’s Worlds. Don’t get yourself interned.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Retief said soberly; “in a pinch, I’ll mention your name.”

“You’ll be traveling with Class X credentials,” Magnan snapped. “There must be nothing to connect you with the Corps.”

“I’ll pose as a gentleman. They’ll never guess.”

“You’d better be getting started.” Magnan shuffled papers.

“You’re right. If I work at it, I might manage a snootful by take-off.” He went to the door, looked back.

“No objection to my checking out a needler, is there?”

Magnan looked up. “I suppose not. What do you want with it?”

“Just a feeling I’ve got.”

“Please yourself.”

“Some day,” Retief said, “I may take you up on that.”

Retief put down the heavy, travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend “ALDO CERISE INTERPLANETARY.” A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails and watched Retief from the corner of his eye; he nipped off a ragged corner with rabbit-like front teeth, spat it on the floor. “Was there something?” he said.

“Two-twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group. Is it on schedule?”

The clerk nibbled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief.

“Filled up. Try again in a couple of weeks.”

“What time does it leave?”

The clerk smiled pityingly. “It’s my lunch hour. I’ll be open in an hour.” He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.

“If I have to come around this counter,” Retief said, “I’ll feed that thumb to you the hard way.”

The clerk looked up, opened his mouth, caught Retief’s eye. He closed his mouth and swallowed.

“Just as it says there,” he said, jerking the thumb at the board. “Lifts in an hour. But you won’t be on it,” he added.

Retief looked at him.

“Some . . . ah . . . VIPs required accommodation,” the clerk said. He hooked a finger inside the sequined collar. “All tourist reservations were canceled,” he went on. “You’ll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship next—”

“Which gate?” Retief said.

“For . . . ah . . . ?”

“Two-twenty-eight for Jorgensen’s Worlds.”

“Well,” said the clerk. “Gate 19,” he added quickly. “But—”

Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign reading “To gates 16-30.”

“Smart-alec,” the clerk said behind him.

Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man with a scarred jawline and small eyes, wearing a rumpled grey uniform, put out a hand as Retief started past him.

“Lessee your boarding pass,” he growled.

Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.

The guard blinked at it. “Whassat?”

“A ’gram confirming my space. Your boy on the counter says he’s out to lunch.”

The guard crumbled the ’gram, dropped it on the floor, lounged back against the handrail.

“On your way, bum,” he said.

Retief put his suitcase down carefully, took a step and drove a right into the guard’s midriff, stepped aside as the man doubled and went to his knees.

“You were wide open, ugly. I couldn’t resist.” Retief picked up his bag. “Tell your boss I sneaked past while you were resting your eyes.” He stepped over the man and went up the gangway into the ship. A pimply youth in stained white came along the corridor.

“Which way to cabin fifty-seven?” Retief asked.

“Up there.” The boy jerked his head, hurried on. Retief made his way along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven. The door was open. Inside, unfamiliar baggage was piled in the center of the floor. A tall florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in the open door. He looked at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.

“Somebody in the cabin. Get ’em out.” He rolled a cold eye at Retief, backed out of the room. A short thick-necked man appeared.

“What are you doing in Mr. Tony’s room?” he barked. “Never mind; clear out of here, fellow. You’re keeping Mr. Tony waiting.”

“Too bad,” Retief said. “Finders keepers.”

“You nuts or something?” The thick-necked man stared at Retief. “I said it’s Mr. Tony’s room.”

“I don’t know Mr. Tony. He’ll have to bull his way into other quarters.”

“We’ll see about you, mister.” The man turned and went out. Retief sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it with a crash, glanced at Retief, and went out. The thick-necked man appeared again.

“All right, you; out,” he growled. “Or have I got to have you thrown out?”

Retief rose, clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the door.

“Catch,” he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the far wall of the corridor and burst. Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.

“Mister, you must be—”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Retief said. “It’s time for my nap.” He flipped the door shut, pulled off his shoes, and stretched out on the bed.

Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open. Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a blue turtleneck sweater, and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye stared at Retief.

“Is this the joker?” he grated.

The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief, snorted. “That’s him, sure.”

“I’m captain of this vessel,” the gaunt man said. “You’ve got two minutes to haul your freight out of here. Get moving, Buster.”

“When you can spare the time,” Retief said, “take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code. That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in interplanetary commerce.”

“A space lawyer.” The captain turned. “Throw him out, boys,” he called.

Two big men edged into the cabin, stood looking at Retief. “Go on, pitch him out,” the captain snapped.

Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, swung his feet off the bunk. One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and stepped forward, then hesitated.

“Hey,” he said. “This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?”

“That’s him,” the thick-necked man called. “Spilled Mr. Tony’s possessions right on the deck.”

“Deal me out,” the bouncer said. “He can stay put as long as he wants to. I signed on to move cargo. Let’s go, Moe.”

“You’d better be getting back to the bridge, Captain,” Retief said. “We’re due to lift in twenty minutes.”

The thick-necked man and the captain both shouted at once. The captain’s voice prevailed. “—twenty minutes . . . Uniform Code . . . gonna do?”

“Close the door as you leave,” Retief said.

The thick-necked man paused at the door. “We’ll see you when you come out.”

Four waiters passed Retief’s table without stopping. A fifth leaned against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm. At a table across the room, the captain, now wearing a dress uniform and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional glances Retief’s way.

A panel opened in the wall behind Retief’s chair. Bright blue eyes peered out from under a white chef’s cap.

“Givin’ you the cold shoulder, heh, mister?”

“Looks like it, old timer. Maybe I’d better go join the skipper; his party seems to be having all the fun.”

“Fella has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there.”

“I see your point.”

“You set right where you’re at, mister. I’ll rustle you up a plate.”

Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two-ounce Delmonico nicely garnished with mushrooms and garlic butter.

“I’m Chip,” the chef said. “I don’t like the cap’n. You can tell him I said so. Don’t like his friends, either. Don’t like them dern Sweaties; look at a man like he was a worm.”

“You know how to fry a steak, Chip,” Retief said. He poured red wine into a glass. “Here’s to you.”

“Dern right,” Chip said. “Dunno who ever thought up broiling ’em. I got a Baked Alaska comin up in here for dessert. You like brandy in yer coffee?”

“Chip, you’re a genius.”

“Like to see a fella eat. I gotta go now; if you need anything, holler.”

Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to Jorgensen’s Worlds. Then, if Magnan’s information was correct, there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase; it would be good to know what Jorgensen’s Worlds would be up against.

Retief finished the steak, and the chef handed out the Baked Alaska and coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony and his retainers still sat at the captain’s table.

As Retief watched, four men arose from the table, sauntered across the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table, dipped the lighted end in Retief’s coffee, looked at it, dropped it on the tablecloth.

The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.

“You must want to get to Jorgensen’s pretty bad,” the thug said in a grating voice. “What’s your game, hick?”

Retief looked at the coffee up, picked it up.

“I don’t think I want my coffee,” he said. He looked at the thug. “You drink it.”

The thug squinted at Retief. “A wise hick,” he began.

With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug’s face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug went down.

Retief looked at Mr. Tony, who stood open-mouthed.

“You can take your playmates away now, Tony,” he said. “And don’t bother to come around yourself. You’re not funny enough.”

Mr. Tony found his voice. “Take him, Marbles,” he growled.

The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic, brought out a long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.

Retief heard the panel open beside him. “Here you go, mister,” Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed French knife lay on the sill.

“Thanks, Chip. I won’t need it for these punks.”

Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbled a power pistol from his shoulder holster.

“Aim that at me, and I’ll kill you,” Retief said.

“Go on, burn him, Hoany!” Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him the captain appeared, white-faced.

“Put that away, you!” he yelled. “What kind of—”

“Shut up,” Mr. Tony said. “Put it away, Hoany. We’ll fix this bum later.”

“Not on this vessel, you won’t,” the captain said shakily. “I got my charter to—”

“Ram your charter,” Hoany said harshly. “You won’t be needing it long—”

“Button your floppy mouth, damn you,” Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at the two men on the floor. “Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the slobs . . .” He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came up. Retief watched as they carted the casualties from the dining room.

The panel opened. “I usta be about your size, when I was your age,” Chip said. “You handled them pansies right. I wouldn’t give ’em the time o’ day.”

“How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?”

“Sure, mister. Anything else?”

“I’ll think of something,” Retief said. “This is shaping up into one of those long days.”

“They don’t like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin,” Chip said. “But the cap’n knows I’m the best cook in the Merchant Service; they won’t mess with me.”

“What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?” Retief asked.

“They’re in some kind o’ crooked business together. You want some more of that smoked turkey?”

“Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen’s Worlds?”

“Dunno; hasn’t been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I sure like a fella that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was yer age.”

“I’ll bet you can still handle it, old-timer. What are Jorgensen’s Worlds like?”

“One of ’em’s cold as hell and three of ’em’s colder. Most o’ the Jorgies live on Svea; that’s the least froze up. Man don’t enjoy eatin’ his own cookin’ like he does somebody else’s.”

“That’s where I’m lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo’s the captain got aboard for Jorgensen’s?”

“Derned if I know. In and out o’ there like a grasshopper, ever few weeks. Don’t never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says. Don’t know what we even run in there for.”

“Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?”

“To Alabaster; that’s nine days’ run in-sector from Jorgensen’s. You ain’t got another of them cigars, have you?”

“Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship.”

“Plenty of space, mister. We got a dozen empty cabins.” Chip puffed the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and brandy.

“Them Sweaties is what I don’t like,” he said.

Retief looked at him questioningly.

“You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly-lookin’ devils. Skinny legs, like a lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery-lookin’ head; you can see the pulse beatin’ when they get riled.”

“I’ve never had the pleasure.”

“You’ll prob’ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip out; act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin’.”

There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.

“I ain’t superstitious ner nothin’,” said Chip, “but I’ll be triple-danged if that ain’t them boardin’ us now.”

Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door, accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy knock sounded.

“They got to look you over,” Chip whispered. “Nosey damn Sweaties.”

“Unlock it, Chip.” The chef threw the latch, opened the door.

“Come in, damn you,” he said.

A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like feet tapping on the floor. A metal helmet shaded the deep-set compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees. Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.

“Yo’ papiss,” the alien rasped.

“Who’s your friend, captain?” Retief said.

“Never mind; just do like he tells you.”

“Yo’ papiss,” the alien said again.

“Okay,” Retief said. “I’ve seen it. You can take it away now.”

“Don’t horse around,” the captain said. “This fellow can get mean.”

The alien brought up two tiny arms from the concealment of the mantle, clicked toothed pincers under Retief’s nose. “Quick, soft one.”

“Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, and I’m tempted to test it.”

“Don’t start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with those snappers.”

“Last chance,” said Retief. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inch from Retief’s eyes.

“Show him your papers, you damned fool,” the captain said hoarsely. “I got no control over Skaw.”

The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the same instant Retief half turned to the left, leaned away from the alien, and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous knee-joint. Skaw screeched, floundered, greenish fluid spattering from the burst joint.

“I told you he was brittle,” Retief said. “Next time you invite pirates aboard, don’t bother to call.”

“Jesus, what did you do! They’ll kill us!” the captain gasped, staring at the figure flopping on the floor.

“Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat,” Retief said. “Tell him to pass the word; no more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in Terrestrial space.”

“Hey,” Chip said. “He’s quit kickin’.”

The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned close, sniffed.

“He’s dead.” The captain stared at Retief. “We’re all dead men. These Soetti got no mercy.”

“They won’t need it. Tell ’em to sheer off; their fun is over.”

“They got no more emotions than a blue crab—”

“You bluff easily, captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back. We know their secret now.”

“What secret? I—”

“Don’t be dumber than you gotta, Cap’n,” Chip said. “Sweaties dies easy; that’s the secret.”

“Maybe you got a point,” the captain said, looking at Retief. “All they got’s a three-man scout. It could work.”

He went out, came back with two crewmen. They circled the dead alien, hauled him gingerly into the hall.

“Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti,” the captain said, looking back from the door. “But I’ll be back to see you later.”

“You don’t scare us, Cap’n,” Chip called as the door closed. He grinned at Retief. “Him and Mr. Tony and all his goons. You hit ’em where they live, that time. They’re pals o’ these Sweaties. Runnin’ some kind o’ crooked racket.”

“You’d better take the captain’s advice, Chip. There’s no point in your getting involved in my problems.”

“They’d of killed you before now, mister, if they had any guts. That’s where we got it over these monkeys; they got no guts.”

“They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.”

“They don’t scare me none.” Chip picked up the tray. “I’ll scout around a little and see what’s goin’ on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything about that Skaw fella they’ll have to move fast; they won’t try nothin’ close to port.”

“Don’t worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won’t do anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.”

Chip looked at Retief. “You ain’t no tourist, mister. I know that much. You didn’t come out here for fun, did you?”

“That,” said Retief, “would be a hard one to answer.”

Retief awoke at a tap on his door.

“It’s me, mister: Chip.”

“Come on in.”

The chef entered the room, locked the door. “You shoulda had that door locked.” He stood by the door, listening, then turned to Retief.

“You want to get to Jorgensen’s pretty bad, don’t you, mister?”

“That’s right, Chip.”

“Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. The Sweaties didn’t say nothin’; didn’t even act surprised, just took the remains and pushed off. Mr. Tony and that other crook they call Marbles—they was fit to be tied. Took the cap’n in his cabin and talked loud at him fer half an hour. Then the cap’n come out and give some orders to the mate.”

Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.

“Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?”

“He hated Skaw’s guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got a gun?”

“A 2mm needler. Why?”

“The orders Cap’n give was to change course fer Alabaster; we’re by-passin’ Jorgensen’s Worlds. We’ll feel the course change any minute.”

Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out a short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.

“Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the captain’s cabin?”

“This is it,” Chip said softly. “You want me to keep a eye on who comes down the passage?”

Retief nodded, opened the door, and stepped into the cabin. The captain looked up from his desk, then jumped up. “What do you think you’re doing, busting in here—”

“I hear you’re planning a course change, Captain.”

“You’ve got damn big ears.”

“I think we’d better call in at Jorgensen’s.”

“You do, huh?” The captain sat down. “I’m in command of this vessel. I’m changing course for Alabaster.”

“I wouldn’t find it convenient to go to Alabaster. So just hold your course for Jorgensen’s.”

“Not bloody likely.” The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key. “Power Section, this is the captain,” he said. Retief reached across the desk, gripped the captain’s wrist.

“Tell the mate to hold his present course,” he said softly.

“Let go my hand, Buster,” the captain snarled. With his eyes on Retief’s, he eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed the drawer. The captain yelped, dropped the mike.

“You busted my wrist, you—”

“And one to go,” Retief said. “Tell him.”

“I’m an officer of the Merchant Service—”

“You’re a cheapjack who’s sold his bridge to a pack of back-alley hoods.”

“You can’t put it over, hick. The landing—”

“Tell him.”

The captain groaned, keyed the mike.

“Captain to Power Section. Hold your present course until you hear from me.” He dropped the mike, looked up at Retief. “It’s eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen control; you going to sit here and bend my arm the whole time?”

Retief released the captain’s wrist, turned to Chip. “Chip, I’m locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what’s going on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I’m sitting up with a sick friend.”

“Right, mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he’s slippery.”

“What are you going to do?” the captain demanded.

Retief settled himself in a chair.

“Instead of strangling you, as you deserve, I’m going to stay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen’s Worlds.”

The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark. “Then I’ll stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel like dozing off some time during the next eighteen hours, don’t mind me.”

Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.

“If anything happens that I don’t like,” he said, “I’ll wake you up with this.”

“Why don’t you let me spell you, mister,” Chip said. “Four hours to go yet; you’re gonna hafta be on yer toes to handle the landing.”

“I’ll be all right, Chip. You get some sleep.”

“Nope. Many’s the time I stood four, five watches runnin’, back when I was yer age. I’ll make another round.”

Retief stood up, stretched his legs, paced the floor, stared at the repeater instruments on the wall. Things had gone quietly so far, but the landing would be another matter. The captain’s absence from the bridge during the highly complex maneuvering would be difficult to explain . . .

The desk speaker crackled.

“Captain, Officer of the Watch here. Ain’t it about time you was getting up here with the orbit figures?”

Retief nudged the captain. He awoke with a start, sat up. “Whazzat?” He looked wild-eyed at Retief.

“Watch Officer wants orbit figures,” Retief said, nodding toward the speaker.

The captain rubbed his eyes, shook his head, picked up the mike. Retief released the safety on the needler with an audible click.

“Watch Officer, I’ll . . . ah . . . get some figures for you right away. I’m . . . ah . . . busy right now.”

“What the hell you talking about, busy?” the speaker blared. “You ain’t got the figures ready, you’ll have a hell of a hot time getting ’em up in the next three minutes. You fergot your approach pattern or something?”

“I guess I overlooked it,” the captain said, looking sideways at Retief. He smiled crookedly. “I’ve been busy.”

“One for your side,” Retief said. He reached for the captain.

“I’ll make a deal,” the captain squalled. “Your life for—”

Retief took aim, slammed a hard right to the captain’s jaw. He slumped to the floor.

Retief glanced around the room, yanked wires loose from a motile lamp, trussed the man’s hands and feet, stuffed his mouth with paper and taped it.

Chip tapped at the door. Retief opened it and the chef stepped inside, looked at the man on the floor.

“The jasper tried somethin’, huh? Figured he would. What we goin’ to do now?”

“The captain forgot to set up an approach, Chip. He out-foxed me.”

“If we overrun our approach patterns,” Chip said, “we can’t make orbit at Jorgensen’s on automatic, and a manual approach—”

“That’s out. But there’s another possibility.”

Chip blinked. “Only one thing you could mean, mister. But cuttin’ out in a lifeboat in deep space is no picnic.”

“They’re on the port side, aft, right?”

Chip nodded. “Hot damn!” he said. “Who’s got the ’tater salad?”

“We’d better tuck the skipper away out of sight.”

“In the locker.”

The two men carried the limp body to a deep storage chest, dumped it in, closed the lid.

“He won’t suffercate; lid’s a lousy fit.”

Retief opened the door, went into the corridor, Chip behind him.

“Shouldn’t oughta be nobody around now,” the chef said. “Everybody’s mannin’ approach stations.”

At the D deck companionway Retief stopped suddenly.

“Listen.”

Chip cocked his head. “I don’t hear nothin’,” he whispered.

“Sounds like a sentry posted on the lifeboat deck,” Retief said softly.

“Let’s take him, mister.”

“I’ll go down. Stand by, Chip.”

Retief started down the narrow steps, half stair, half ladder. Halfway, he paused to listen. There was a sound of slow footsteps, then silence. Retief palmed the needler, went down the last steps quickly, emerged in the dim light of a low-ceilinged room. The stern of a five-man lifeboat bulked before him.

“Freeze, you!” a cold voice snapped.

Retief dropped, rolled behind the shelter of the lifeboat as the whine of a power pistol echoed off metal walls. A lunge, and he was under the boat, on his feet. He jumped, caught the quick-access handle, hauled it down. The lifeboat’s outer port cycled open.

Feet scrambled at the bow of the boat, and Retief whirled, fired. The guard rounded into sight and fell headlong. Above, an alarm bell jangled. Retief stepped on a stanchion, hauled himself into the open port. A yell rang, then the clatter of feet on the stair.

“Don’t shoot, mister!” Chip shouted.

“All clear, Chip,” Retief called.

“Hang on; I’m comin’ with ya!”

Retief reached down, lifted the chef bodily through the port, slammed the lever home. The outer door whooshed, clanged shut.

“Take number two, tie in! I’ll blast her off,” Chip said. “Been through a hundred ’bandon ship drills . . .”

Retief watched as the chef flipped levers, pressed a fat red button. The deck trembled under the lifeboat.

“Blew the bay doors,” Chip said, smiling happily. “That’ll cool them jaspers down.” He punched a green button.

“Look out, Jorgensen’s . . .” With an ear-splitting blast, the stern rockets fired, a sustained agony of pressure . . .

Abruptly, there was silence, weightlessness. Contracting metal pinged loudly. Chip’s breathing rasped in the stillness.

“Pulled nine Gs there for ten seconds,” he gasped. “I gave her full emergency kick-off.”

“Any armament aboard our late host?”

“A pop-gun; time they get their wind, we’ll be clear. Now all we got to do is set tight till we pick up a R and D from Svea Tower: maybe four, five hours.”

“Chip, you’re a wonder,” Retief said. “This looks like a good time to catch that nap.”

“Me too. Mighty peaceful here, ain’t it?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Durn!” Chip said softly.

Retief opened one eye. “Sorry you came, Chip?”

“Left my best carvin’ knife jammed up ’tween Marbles’ ribs,” the chef said. “Comes o’ doin’ things in a hurry.”

* * *

The blond girl brushed her hair from her eyes and smiled at Retief.

“I’m the only one on duty,” she said. “I’m Freya Dahl.”

“It’s important that I talk to someone in your government, miss,” Retief said.

The girl looked at Retief. “The men you want to see are Thor Stahl and Bo Bergman. They will be at the lodge by nightfall.”

“Then it looks like we go to the lodge,” Retief said. “Lead on, ma’am.”

“What about the boat?” Chip asked.

“I’ll send someone to see to it tomorrow,” the girl said.

“You’re some gal,” Chip said admiringly. “Dern near six feet, ain’t you? And built too, what I mean.”

They stepped out of the building into a whipping wind.

“Let’s go across to the equipment shed, and get parkas for you,” Freya said. “It will be cold on the slopes.”

“Yeah,” Chip said, shivering. “I’ve heard you folks don’t believe in ridin’ ever time you want to go a few miles uphill in a blizzard.”

“It will make us hungry,” Freya said.

Across the wind-scoured ramp abrupt peaks rose, snow-blanketed. A faint trail led across white slopes, disappeared into low clouds.

“The lodge is above the cloud layer,” Freya said. “Up there the sky is always clear.”

It was three hours later, and the sun was burning the peaks red, when Freya stopped, pulled off her woolen cap, and waved at the vista below.

“There you see it. Our valley.”

“It’s a mighty perty sight,” Chip gasped. “Anything this tough to get a look at ought to be.”

Freya pointed to where gaily painted houses nestled together, a puddle of color in the bowl of the valley. “There,” she said. “The little red house by itself; do you see it? It is my father’s home-acre.”

“I’d appreciate it a dern sight better if my feet were up to that big fire you was talking about, Honey,” Chip said.

The climbed on, crossed a shoulder, a slope of broken rock, reached the final slope. Above, the lodge sprawled, a long low structure of heavy logs, outlined against the deep-blue twilight sky. Smoke billowed from stone chimneys at either end, and yellow light gleamed from the narrow windows, reflected on the snow. Men and women stood in groups of three or four, skis over their shoulders. Their voices and laughter rang in the icy air.

Freya whistled shrilly. Someone waved.

“Come,” she said. “Meet all my friends.”

A man separated himself from the group, walked down the slope to meet them. Freya introduced the guests.

“Welcome,” the man said heartily. “Come inside and be warm.”

They crossed the trampled snow to the lodge, pushed through a heavy door into a vast low-beamed hall, crowded with people talking, singing, some sitting at long plank tables, others ringed around an eight-foot fireplace at the far side of the room. Freya led the way to a bench near the fire, made introductions, found a stool to prop Chip’s feet on near the blaze. He looked around.

“I never seen so many perty gals before,” he said delightedly.

A brunette with blue eyes raked a chestnut from the fire, cracked it, and offered it to Retief. A tall man with arms like oak roots passed heavy beer tankards to the two guests.

“Tell us about the places you’ve seen,” someone called. Chip emerged from a long pull at the mug, heaved a sigh.

“Well,” he said. “I tell you I been in some places . . .”

Music started up, ringing above the clamor of talk. Freya rose. “Come,” she said to Retief. “Dance with me.”

When the music stopped, Retief rejoined Chip, who put down his mug and sighed. “Derned if I ever felt right at home so quick before.” He lowered his voice. “They’s some kind o’ trouble in the air, though. Some o’ the remarks they passed sounds like they’re lookin’ to have some trouble with the Sweaties. Don’t seem to worry ’em none, though.”

“Chip,” Retief said, “how much do these people know about the Soetti?”

“Dunno. We useta touch down here regler, but I always jist set in my galley and worked on ship models or somethin’. I hear the Sweaties been nosin’ around here some, though.”

Two girls came up to Chip. “I gotta go now, mister,” he said. “These gals got a idea I oughta take a hand in the kitchen.”

“Smart girls,” Retief said. He turned as Freya came up.

“Bo Bergman and Thor aren’t back yet,” she said. “They stayed to ski after moonrise.”

“That moon is something. Almost like daylight.”

“They will come soon, now. Shall we go to see the moonlight on the snow?”

Outside, long black shadows fell like ink in silver. The top of the cloud layer below glared white under the immense moon.

“Our sister world, Göta,” Freya said. “Nearly as big as Svea. I would like to visit it someday, although they say it’s all stone and ice.”

“Freya,” Retief said, “how many people live on Jorgensen’s Worlds?”

“About fifteen million, most of us here on Svea. There are mining camps and ice-fisheries on Göta. No one lives on Vasa or Skone, but there are always a few ice-wolf hunters there.”

“Have you ever fought a war?”

Freya turned to look at Retief. “Don’t be afraid for us, Retief. The Soetti will attack our worlds, and we will fight them. We have fought before. These planets were not friendly ones . . .”

“I thought the Soetti attack would be a surprise to you,” Retief said. “Have you made any preparation for it?”

“We have ten thousand merchant ships. When the enemy comes, we will meet them.”

Retief frowned. “Are there any guns on this planet? Any missiles?”

Freya shook her head. “We have a plan of deployment—”

“Deployment hell! Against a modern assault force you need modern armament.”

“Look!” Freya touched Retief’s arm. “They’re coming now.”

Two tall grizzled men came up the slope, skis over their shoulders. Freya went forward to meet them, Retief at her side.

The two came up, embraced the girl, shook hands with Retief.

“He has come to help us,” Freya said.

“Welcome to Svea,” Thor said. “Let’s find a warm corner where we can talk.”

Retief shook his head, smiling as a tall girl with coppery hair offered a vast slab of venison. “I’ve caught up,” he said, “for every hungry day I ever lived.”

Bo Bergman poured Retief’s beer mug full. “Our captains are the best in space,” he said. “Our population is concentrated in half a hundred small cities all across the planet. We know where the Soetti must strike us. We will ram their major vessels with unmanned ships; on the ground, we will hunt them down with small-arms.”

“An assembly line turning out penetration missiles would have been more to the point.”

“Yes,” Bo Bergman said. “If we had known sooner.”

“We’ve seen very few of the Soetti,” Thor said. “Their ships have landed and taken on stores. They say little to us, but we’ve felt their contempt. They envy us our worlds. They come from a cold land.”

“Freya says you have a plan of defense,” Retief said. “A sort of suicide squadron idea, followed by guerilla warfare.”

“It’s the best we can devise, Retief. If there aren’t too many of them, it might work.”

Retief shook his head. “It might delay matters—but not much.”

“Perhaps; but our remote control equipment is excellent; we have plenty of ships, albeit unarmed. And our people know how to live on the slopes—and how to shoot.”

“There are too many of them,” Retief said. “They breed like flies and, according to some sources, they mature in a matter of months. They’ve been feeling their way into the sector for years now; set up outposts on a thousand or so minor planets—cold ones, the kind they like. They want your worlds because they need living space.”

“Retief must not be trapped here,” said Freya to her compatriots. “His small boat is useless now; he must have a ship.”

“Of course,” Thor said. “And—”

“Retief,” a voice called. “A message for you; the operator has phoned it up. A ’gram . . .”

Retief took the slip of paper, unfolded it. It was short, in verbal code, and signed by Magnan.

“You are recalled herewith,” he read. “Assignment canceled. Agreement concluded with Soetti relinquishing all claims so-called Jorgensen system. Utmost importance that under no repeat no circumstances classified intelligence regarding Soetti be divulged to locals. Advise you depart instanter; Soetti occupation imminent.”

Retief looked thoughtfully at the scrap of paper, then crumpled it, dropped it on the floor.

“Any answer?” the messenger asked.

“No,” Retief said. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t even get the message.” He turned to Bo Bergman, took a tiny reel of tape from his pocket.

“This contains information,” he said. “The Soetti attack plan, a defensive plan worked out at Corps HQ, and instructions for the conversion of a standard anti-acceleration unit into a potent weapon. If you have a screen handy, we’d better get started; we have about seventy-two hours.”

In the Briefing Room at Svea Tower, Thor snapped off the projector.

“Our plan would have been worthless against that,” he said. “We assumed they’d make their strike from a standard in-line formation. This scheme of hitting all our settlements simultaneously, in a random order from all points—we’d have been helpless.”

“It’s perfect for this defensive plan,” Bo Bergman said. “Assuming this antiac trick works.”

“It works,” said Retief. “I hope you’ve got plenty of heavy power cable available.”

“We export copper,” Thor said.

“We’ll assign about two hundred vessels to each settlement. Linked up, they should throw up quite a field.”

“It ought to be effective up to about fifteen miles, I’d estimate,” Retief said.

A red light flashed on the communications panel. Thor went to it, flipped a key.

“Tower, Thor here,” he said.

“I’ve got a ship on the scope, Thor,” a voice said. “There’s nothing scheduled; ACI 228 by-passed at 1600 . . .”

“Just one?”

“A lone ship; coming in on a bearing of 291/456/653; on manual, I’d say.”

“How does this track key in with the idea of ACI 228 making a manual correction for a missed automatic approach?” Retief asked.

Thor talked to the tower, got a reply.

“That’s it,” he said.

“How long before he touches down?”

Thor glanced at a lighted chart. “Perhaps eight minutes.”

“Any guns here?”

Thor shook his head.

“If that’s old 228, she ain’t got but the one 50mm rifle,” Chip said. “She cain’t figure on jumpin’ the whole planet.”

“Hard to say what she figures on,” Retief said. “Mr. Tony will be in a mood for drastic measures.”

“I wonder what kind o’ deal the skunk’s got with the Sweaties,” Chip said. “Prob’ly he gits to scavenge, after the Sweaties kill off the Jorgensens.”

“He’s upset about our leaving him without saying goodbye. And you left the door hanging open, too.”

Chip cackled. “Old Mr. Tony don’t look so good to the Sweaties now, hey, mister?”

Retief turned to Bo Bergman. “Chip’s right. A Soetti died on the ship, and a tourist got through the cordon. Tony’s out to redeem himself.”

“He’s on final now,” the tower operator said. “Still no contact.”

“We’ll know soon enough what he has in mind,” Thor said.

“Let’s take a look.”

Outside, the four men watched the point of fire grow, evolve into a ship ponderously settling to rest. The drive faded and cut; silence fell.

Inside the briefing room, the speaker called out. Bo Bergman went inside, talked to the tower, motioned the others in. “This is the tower talking to the ship,” he said.

“—over to you,” the speaker was saying. There was a crackling moment of silence; then another voice:

“—illegal entry. Send the two of them out, I’ll see to it they’re dealt with.”

Thor flipped a key. “Tower, switch me direct to the ship.”

“Right.”

“You on ACI 228,” he said. “Who are you?”

“What’s that to you?” the speaker crackled.

“You weren’t cleared to berth here. Do you have an emergency aboard?”

“Never mind that, you,” the speaker rumbled. “I tracked this bird in; I got the lifeboat on the screen now. They haven’t gone far in six hours. Let’s have ’em.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

There was a momentary silence.

“You think so, hah?” the speaker blared. “I’ll put it to you straight: I see two guys on their way out in one minute, or I open up.”

“He’s bluffin’,” Chip said. “The pop-gun won’t bear on us.”

“Take a look out the window,” said Retief.

In the white glare of the moonlight a loading cover swung open at the stern of the ship, dropped down, formed a sloping ramp. A squat and massive shape appeared in the opening, trundled down onto the snow-swept tarmac.

Chip whistled. “I told you the captain was slippery,” he muttered. “Where the devil’d he git that at?”

“What is it?” Thor asked.

“A tank,” Retief said. “A museum piece, by the look of it.”

“I’ll say,” Chip said. “That’s a Bolo Resartus, Model M. Built mebbe two hundred years ago in Concordiat times. Packs a wallop too, I’ll tell ye.”

The tank wheeled, brought a gun muzzle to bear in the base of the tower.

“Send ’em out,” the speaker growled. “Or I blast ’em out.”

“One round in here, and I’ve had a wasted trip,” Retief said. “I’d better go out.”

“Wait a minute, mister. I got the glimmerins of a idear.”

“I’ll stall them,” Thor said. He keyed the mike. “ACI 228, what’s your authority for this demand?”

“I know that machine,” Chip said. “My hobby, old-time fightin’ machines. Built a model of a Resartus once, inch to the foot; a beauty. Now lessee . . .”

The icy wind blew snow crystals stingingly against Retief’s face. Chip carried a short length of iron bar thrust into his belt. He looked across at the tank. “Useta think that was a perty thing, that Resartus,” he said. “Looks mean, now.”

“You’re getting the target’s eye view,” Retief said. “Sorry you had to get mixed up in this, old-timer.”

“Mixed myself in. Dern good thing too.” Chip sighed. “I like these folks. Them boys didn’t like lettin’ us come out here, but I’ll give ’em credit; they seen it had to be this way, and they didn’t set to moanin’ about it.”

“They’re tough people, Chip.”

“Funny how it sneaks up on you, ain’t it, mister? Few minutes ago we was eatin’ high on the hog; now we’re right close to bein’ dead men.”

“They want us alive.”

“It’ll be a hairy deal. But t’hell with it. If it works, it works.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“I hope I got them fields o’ fire right—”

“Don’t worry; I’ll bet a barrel of beer we make it.”

“We’ll find out in about ten seconds,” Chip said. “Here we go . . .”

As they reached the tank the two men broke stride and jumped. Retief leaped for the gun barrel, swung up astride it, ripped off the fur-lined leather cap he wore, and, leaning forward, jammed it into the bore of the cannon. The chef sprang for a perch above the fore scanner antenna. With an angry whuff! anti-personnel charges slammed from apertures low on the sides of the vehicle. Retief swung around, pulled himself up on the hull.

“Okay, mister,” Chip called. “I’m goin’ under.” He slipped down the front of the tank, disappeared between the treads. Retief clambered up, took a position behind the turret, lay flat as it whirled angrily, sonar eyes searching for the tank’s tormentors. The vehicle shuddered, backed, stopped, moved forward, pivoted.

Chip reappeared at the front of the tank.

“It’s stuck,” he called. He stopped to breathe hard, clung as the machine lurched forward, spun to the right, stopped, rocking slightly.

“Take over here,” Retief said. He crawled forward, watched as the chef pulled himself up, slipped down past him, feeling for the footholds between the treads. He reached the ground, dropped on his back, hitching himself under the dark belly of the tank. He groped, found the handholds, probed with a foot for the tread-jack lever.

The tank rumbled, backed quickly, turned left and right in a sine curve. Retief clung grimly, inches from the clashing treads. He found the lever, braced his back, pushed. The lever seemed to give minutely. He set himself again, put both feet against the frozen bar, and heaved. With a dry rasp it slid back. Immediately, two rods extended themselves, slid down to grate against the pavement, drove on irresistibly. The left track raced as the weight went off it. Retief grabbed for a hold as the right tread clashed, heaving the fifty-ton machine forward, jacks screeching as they scored the tarmac. The tank pivoted, chips of pavement flying. The jacks lifted the clattering left track clear of the surface and the tank spun like a hamstrung buffalo.

The tank stopped, sat silent, canted now on the extended jacks. Retief emerged from under the machine, jumped, pulled himself above the anti-personnel apertures as another charge rocked the tank. He clambered to the turret, crouched beside Chip. They waited, watching the entry hatch.

Five minutes passed.

“I’ll bet old Tony’s givin’ the chauffeur hell,” Chip said.

The hatch moved, cycled open. A head came cautiously into view in time to see the needler in Retief’s hand.

“Come on out,” Retief said.

The head dropped, and Chip snaked forward, rammed the iron rod under the hatch near the hinge. The hatch began to cycle shut, groaned, stopped. There was a sound of metal failing, and the hatch, popped, stood open. Retief half rose, aimed the needler. The walls of the tank rang as the metal splinters ricocheted inside.

“That’s one keg o’ beer I owe you, mister,” Chip said. “Now let’s git outa here before the ship lifts and fries us.”

“The biggest problem the Jorgensen’s people will have is decontaminating the wreckage,” Retief said.

Magnan leaned forward. “Amazing,” he said. “They just kept coming, did they? Had they no inter-ship communication?”

“They had their orders. And their attack plan. They followed it.”

“What a spectacle! Over a thousand ships, plunging out of control one by one as they entered the stress-field.”

“Not much of a spectacle. You couldn’t see them; too far away. They all crashed back in the mountains.”

“Oh.” Magnan’s face fell. “But it’s as well they did; the bacterial bombs—”

“Too cold for bacteria. They won’t spread.”

“Nor will the Soetti,” Magnan said smugly, “thanks to the promptness with which I acted in dispatching you with the requisite data.” He looked narrowly at Retief. “By the way, you’re sure no . . . ah . . . message reached you after your arrival?”

“I got something,” Retief said, looking Magnan in the eye. “It must have been a garbled transmission. It didn’t make sense.”

Magnan coughed, shuffled papers. “This information you’ve reported,” he said hurriedly. “This rather fantastic story that the Soetti originated in the Cloud, that they’re seeking a foothold in the main galaxy because they’ve literally eaten themselves out of subsistence; how did you get it? The one of two Soetti we attempted to question . . . ah,” Magnan coughed again. “There was an accident,” he finished. “We got nothing from them.”

“The Jorgensens took a Soetti from a wreck, still alive but unconscious. They managed to get the story from him.”

“It’s immaterial, actually,” Magnan said. “The Soetti violated their treaty with us the day after it was signed. Had no intention of fair play. Far from evacuating the agreed areas, they had actually occupied half a dozen additional minor bodies in the Whate system.”

Retief clucked sympathetically. “You don’t know who to trust, these days,” he said. Magnan looked at him coldly.

“Spare me your sarcasm, Retief.” He picked up a folder from his desk, opened it. “While you’re out that way, I have another little task for you. We haven’t had a comprehensive wildlife census report from Brimstone lately—”

“Sorry,” Retief said. “I’ll be tied up. I’m taking a month off. Maybe more.”

“What’s that?” Magnan’s head came up. “You seem to forget—”

“I’m trying, Mr. Secretary. Goodbye now.” Retief reached out and flipped the key. Magnan’s face faded from the screen. Retief stood up.

“Chip, we’ll crack that keg when I get back.” He turned to Freya.

“Freya,” he said, “do you think you could teach me to ski by moonlight?”

PROTEST NOTE

“For all its spirit of detachment from petty local issues, the Corps was never slow to interpose its majestic presence in the path of injustice. Under-Secretary Sternwheeler’s classic approach to the problem of Aga Kagan aggression at Flamme testified to the efficacy of tried diplomatic procedures backed by the profound prestige of the Corps . . .”

—Vol. XV, Reel 3, 494 AE (AD 2955)

“I’m not at all sure,” Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, “that I fully understand the necessity of your absenting yourself from your post of duty at this time, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealt with in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary.”

“I had a sharp attack of writer’s cramp, Mr. Secretary,” Retief said. “So I thought I’d better come along in person—just to be sure of making my point.”

“I seem to recall seeing a dispatch or two on the subject,” Deputy Under-Secretary Magnan put in. “Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time, we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports, reports—”

“Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan?” the Under-Secretary barked.

“Gracious, no. I love reports—”

“It seems nobody’s told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years,” Retief said. “They’re going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing on Flamme. So far, I’ve persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for the Corps, and not to take matters into their own hands.”

The Under-Secretary nodded. “Quite right. Carry on along the same lines. Now, if there’s nothing further—”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” Magnan said, rising. “We certainly appreciate your guidance—”

“There is a little something further,” said Retief, sitting solidly in his chair. “What’s the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans?”

The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. “As Minister to Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomatic representative is merely to . . . what shall I say . . . ?”

“String them along?” Magnan suggested.

“An unfortunate choice of phrase,” the Under-Secretary said.

“However, it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps must concern itself with matters of broad policy—”

“Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settle Flamme,” Retief said. “They were assured of Corps support.”

“I don’t believe you’ll find that in writing,” said the Under-Secretary blandly. “In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time a foothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Now the situation has changed.”

“The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme,” Retief said. “They’re cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set out forests. They’ve just about reached the point where they can begin to enjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in. They’ve landed thirty detachments of ‘fishermen’—complete with armored trawlers mounting 40mm infinite repeaters—and two dozen parties of ‘homesteaders’—all male and toting rocket launchers.”

“Surely there’s land enough on the world to afford space to both groups,” the Under-Secretary said. “A spirit of cooperation—”

“The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago. They tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in, help them beat back some of the saurian wildlife that liked to graze on people. The Aga Kagans didn’t want to play. The Corps didn’t like the idea either; they wanted to see an undisputed anti-Concordiatist enclave. But now that the world is tamed, the squatters are moving in.”

“The exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy—”

“I want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,” Retief said. “The Boyars are a little naïve; they don’t understand diplomatic triple-speak. They just want to hold onto the homes they’ve made out of a wasteland.”

“I’m warning you, Retief!” the Under-Secretary snapped, leaning forward, wattles quivering. “Corps policy with regard to Flamme includes no inflammatory actions based on out-moded concepts. The Boyars will have to accommodate themselves to the situation!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Retief said. “They’re not going to sit still and watch it happen. If I don’t take back concrete evidence of Corps backing, we’re going to have a nice hot little shooting war on our hands.”

The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips, drummed his fingers on the desk. “Confounded hot-heads,” he muttered. “Very well, Retief. I’ll go along to the extent of a Note; but no further.”

“A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of Corps Peace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme—”

“Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the best I can do. That’s final.”

Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. “When will you learn not to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you actively dislike the idea of a promotion. I was astonished at the Under-Secretary’s restraint. Frankly, I was stunned when he actually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will have to draft it.” Magnan pulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. “Now, I wonder, should I view with deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out an apparent violation of technicalities . . .”

“Don’t bother,” Retief said. “I have a draft all ready to go.”

“But how—?”

“I had a feeling I’d get paper instead of action. I thought I’d save a little time all around.”

“At times your cynicism borders on impudence.”

“At other times it borders on disgust. Now, if you’ll run the Note through for signature, I’ll try to catch the six o’clock shuttle.”

“Leaving so soon? There’s an important reception tonight. Some of our biggest names will be there. An excellent opportunity for you to join in the diplomatic give-and-take.”

“No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in something mild, like a dinosaur hunt.”

“When you get there, I hope you’ll make it clear that this matter is to be settled without violence.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep the peace, if I have to start a war to do it.”

On the broad veranda at Government House, Retief settled himself comfortably in a lounge chair, accepted a tall glass from a white-jacketed waiter, and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, a gorgeous blaze of vermilion and purple that reflected from a still lake, tinged the broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars among flower beds.

“You’ve done great things here in sixty years, Georges,” said Retief. “Not that natural geological processes couldn’t have produced the same results, given a couple of hundred million years.”

“Don’t belabor the point,” the Boyar Chef d’Regime said, “—since we seem to be on the verge of losing it.”

“You’re forgetting the Note.”

“A Note,” Georges said, waving his cigar. “What the purple polluted hell is a Note supposed to do? I’ve got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers camped in the middle of what used to be a fine stand of barley, cooking sheep’s brains over dung fires not ten miles from Government House—and up-wind at that.”

“Say, if that’s the same barley you distill your whiskey from, I’d call that a first-class atrocity.”

“Retief, on your say-so, I’ve kept my boys on a short leash. They’ve put up with plenty. Last week, while you were away, these barbarians sailed that flotilla of armor-plated junks right through the middle of one of our best oyster breeding beds. It was all I could do to keep a bunch of our men from going out in private helis and blasting ’em out of the water.”

“That wouldn’t have been good for the oysters, either.”

“That’s what I told ’em. I also said you’d be back here in a few days with something from Corps HQ. When I tell ’em all we’re got is a piece of paper, that’ll be the end. There’s a strong vigilante organization here that’s been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn’t held them back with assurances that the CDT would step in and take care of this invasion, they would have hit them before now.”

“That would have been a mistake. The Aga Kagans are tough customers. They’re active on half a dozen worlds at the moment. They’ve been building up for this push for the last five years. A show of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be an invitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it.”

“So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these goat-herders take over our farms and fisheries?”

“Those goat-herders aren’t all they seem. They’ve got a first-class modern navy.”

“I’ve seen ’em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around on animal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles—”

“The ‘goat-skin’ tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the same factory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes you mention. The animals are just for show; back home they use helis and ground cars of the most modern design.”

The Chef d’Regime chewed his cigar.

“Why the masquerade?”

“Something to do with internal policies, I suppose.”

“So we sit tight and watch ’em take our world away from us. That’s what I get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobbered these monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world.”

“Slow down, I haven’t finished yet. There’s still the Note.”

“I’ve got plenty of paper already; rolls and rolls of it.”

“Give diplomatic processes a chance,” said Retief. “The Note hasn’t even been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results.”

“If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you’re out of luck. From what I hear, he’s likely to come back with his ears stuffed in his hip pocket.”

“I’ll deliver the Note personally,” Retief said. “I could use a couple of escorts—preferably strong-arm lads.”

The Chef d’Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. “I wasn’t kidding about these Aga Kagans,” he said. “I hear they have some nasty habits. I don’t want to see you operated on with the same knives they use to skin out the goats.”

“I’d be against that myself. Still the mail must go through.”

“Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief?”

“A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom,” Retief said.

The Chef d’Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. “I used to be a pretty fair elbow-wrestler myself,” he said. “Suppose I go along . . . ?”

“That,” said Retief, “should lend just the right note of solidarity to our little delegation.” He hitched his chair closer. “Now, depending on what we run into, here’s how we’ll play it . . .”

Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, a black-painted official air car flying the twin flags of Chief of State and Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road. Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d’Regime waved his cigar glumly at the surrounding hills.

“Fifty years ago this was bare rock,” he said. “We’ve bred special strains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and we followed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We planned to put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like the goats will get it.”

“Will that scrub-land support a crop?” Retief said, eyeing the lichen-covered knolls.

“Sure. We start with legumes, follow up with cereals. Wait until you see this next section. It’s an old flood plain, came into production thirty years ago. One of our finest—”

The air car topped a rise and the Chef dropped his cigar, half rose, with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among a stand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar’s arm.

“Keep calm, Georges,” he said. “Remember, we’re on a diplomatic mission. It wouldn’t do to come to the conference table smelling of goats.”

“Let me at ’em!” Georges roared. “I’ll throttle ’em with my bare hands!”

A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working.

“Look at that long-nosed son of a—!” The goat gave a derisive bleat and took another mouthful of ripe grain.

“Did you see that?” Georges yelled. “They’ve trained the son of a—”

“Chin up, Georges,” Retief said. “We’ll take up the goat problem along with the rest.”

“I’ll murder ’em—!”

“Hold it, Georges. Look over there . . .”

A hundred yards away a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise, paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then galloped down the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaks billowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-golden grain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep from the ridge to the air car where Retief and the Chef d’Regime hovered, waiting.

Georges scrambled for the side of the car. “Just wait till I get my hands on the son of a—”

Retief pulled him back. “Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Never give the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you’re a goat lover—and hand me one of your cigars.”

The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter of pebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retief peeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed at it, thumbed it alight. He drew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke, and glanced casually at the trio of Aga Kagan cavaliers.

“Peace be with you,” he intoned in accent-free Kagan. “May your shadows never grow less.”

The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard, unlimbered his rifle, fingered it, frowning ferociously.

“Have no fear,” Retief said, smiling graciously. “He who comes as a guest enjoys perfect safety.”

A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath, leveled his rifle at Retief.

“Youth is the steed of folly,” Retief said. “Take care that the beardless one does not disgrace his house.”

The leader whirled on the youth, snarled an order; he lowered the rifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief.

“Begone, interlopers,” he said. “You disturb the goats.”

“Provision is not taken to the house of the generous,” Retief said. “May the creatures dine well ere they move on.”

“Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.” The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. “We welcome no intruders on our lands.”

“To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appear foolish,” Retief said. “These are the lands of the Boyars. But enough of these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler.”

“You may address me as ‘Exalted One,’” the leader said. “Now dismount from that steed of Shaitan—”

“It is written, ‘If you need anything from a dog, call him ‘sir,’ ” Retief said. “I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Now you may conduct me to your headquarters.”

“Enough of your insolence—!” The bearded man cocked his rifle. “I could blow your heads off—”

“The hen has feathers, but it does not fly,” Retief said. “We have asked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man, a hint is enough.”

“You mock me, pale one. I warn you—”

“Only love makes me weep,” Retief said. “I laugh at hatred.”

“Get out of the car!”

Retief puffed at his cigar, eyed the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youth in the rear moved forward, teeth bared.

“Never give in to the fool, lest he say, ‘He fears me,’” Retief said.

“I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults,” the bearded Aga Kagan roared. “These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well!”

“When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings,” Retief said. “Distress in misfortune is another misfortune.”

The bearded man’s face grew purple.

Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car.

“Now, I think we’d better be getting on,” he said briskly. “I’ve enjoyed our chat, but we do have business to attend to.”

The bearded leader laughed shortly. “Does the condemned man beg for the axe?” he inquired rhetorically. “You shall be allowed audience with the Aga Kaga, then. Move on—and make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you a brief farewell.”

The horsemen glowered, then at a word from the leader, took positions around the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following the leading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh.

“That was close,” he said. “I was about out of proverbs.”

“You sound as though you’d brought off a coup,” Georges said. “From the expression on the whiskery one’s face, we’re in for trouble. What was he saying?”

“Just a routine exchange of bluffs,” Retief said. “Now when we get there, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and your insults sound like flattery, and you’ll be all right.”

“These birds are armed—and they don’t like strangers,” Georges said. “Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined this expedition.”

“Just stick to the plan. And remember: a handful of luck is better than a camel-load of learning.”

The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bed, across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand, to a green oasis, set with canopies.

The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent of glistening black, before which armed men lounged under a pennant bearing a lion couchant in crimson on a field vert.

“Get out,” Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, drawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from the car onto rich rugs spread on the grass, followed the ferocious gesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interior of luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and the strumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behind the decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end of the room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently clad man with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape into his mouth, wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offered by a hand-maiden, belched loudly, and looked the callers over.

Blackbeard cleared his throat. “Down on your faces in the presence of the Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of the East and West—”

“Sorry,” Retief said firmly. “My hay-fever, you know.”

The reclining giant waved a hand languidly.

“Never mind the formalities,” he said. “Approach.”

Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew toward them. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on another silken scarf, and held up a hand.

“Night and the horses and the desert know me,” he said in resonant tones. “Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen—” He paused, wrinkled his nose, and sneezed again.

“Turn off that damned air-conditioner,” he snapped. He settled himself, motioned the bearded man to him; the two exchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked his head, and withdrew to the rear.

“Excellency,” Retief said, “I have the honor to present M. Georges Duror, Chef d’Regime of the Planetary government—”

“Planetary government?” The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. “My men have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they’re in distress, I’ll see about a distribution of goat-meat.”

“It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at another’s plenty,” Retief said. “No goat-meat will be required.”

“Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah Katib Jelebi,” the Aga Kaga said. “I know a few old sayings myself. For example, ‘A Bedouin is only cheated once.’”

“We have no such intentions, Excellency,” Retief said. “Is it not written, ‘Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you’?”

“I’ve had some unhappy experiences with strangers,” the Aga Kaga said. “It is written in the sands, ‘All strangers are kin.’ Still, he who visits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated.”

Hand-maidens brought cushions, giggled, and fled. Retief and Georges settled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence.

“We have come to bear tiding from Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne,” Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offered grapes.

“Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge,” the Aga Kaga said. “What brings the CDT into the picture?”

“The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern,” Retief said. “Whereas the words of kings . . .”

“Very well, I concede the point.” The Aga Kaga waved a hand at the serving maids. “Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph. These are mere diplomats: men of words, not deeds.”

The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him.

“Now,” the Aga Kaga said. “Let’s drop the wisdom of the ages and get down to the issues. Not that I don’t admire your repertoire of platitudes. How do you remember them all?”

“Diplomats and other liars require good memories,” Retief said. “But, as you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I’m here to effect a settlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetary authorities. I have here a Note, which I’m conveying on behalf of the Sector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I’ll read it.”

“Go ahead.” The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor, eased a bottle from under the couch, and reached for glasses.

“The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to his Excellency the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, Hereditary Sheik, Emir of the—”

“Yes, yes; skip the titles.”

Retief flipped over two pages.

“ . . . and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under the jurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that the territories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area, designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms of the Agreement entered into by his Excellency’s predecessor, and as referenced in Sector Ministry’s Notes numbers G-175846573957-b and X-7584-736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated in the Revised Galactic Catalogue, tenth edition, as amended, Volume Nine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter as Flamme—”

“Come to the point,” the Aga Kaga cut in. “You’re here to lodge a complaint that I’m invading territories to which someone else lays claim, is that it?” He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks, and lit one. “Well, I’ve been expecting a call. After all, it’s what you gentlemen are paid for. Cheers.”

“Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things,” Retief said.

“Call me Stanley,” the Aga Kaga said. “The other routine is just to please some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative members of my government. They’re still gnawing their beards and kicking themselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemy and got themselves stranded in a cultural dead-end. This charade is supposed to prove they were right all along. However, I’ve no time to waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds to accomplish.”

“At first glance,” Retief said, “it looks as though the places are already occupied and the deeds are illegal.”

The Aga Kaga guffawed. “For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Have another drink.” He poured, eyeing Georges. “What of M. Duror? How does he feel about it?”

Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. “Not bad,” he said. “But not quite good enough to cover the odor of goats.”

The Aga Kaga snorted. “I thought the goats were overdoing it a bit myself,” he said. “Still, the greybeards insisted. And I need their support.”

“Also,” Georges said distinctly, “I think you’re soft. You lie around letting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honest day’s work.”

The Aga Kaga looked startled. “Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron bar as thick as your thumb.” He popped a grape into his mouth. “As for the rest, your pious views as to the virtues of hard labor are as childish as my advisors’ faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As for myself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the end one will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my years are numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well, hunt well, fight well, and take my share of pleasure. I leave to others the arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions.”

“You admit you’re here to grab our land then,” Georges said. “That’s the damndest piece of bare-faced aggression—”

“Ah, ah.” The Aga Kaga held up a hand: “watch your vocabulary, my dear sir. I’m sure that ‘justifiable yearnings for territorial self-realization’ would be more appropriate to the situation. Or possibly ‘legitimate aspirations for self-determination of formerly exploited peoples’ might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition, an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle of ‘Colonial Imperialism.’”

“Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notorious planet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you—”

“Call me Stanley.” The Aga Kaga munched a grape. “I merely face the realities of popular folk lore. Let’s be pragmatic; it’s a matter of historical association. Some people can grab land and pass it off lightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely for holding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that’s life, my friends. And I shall continue to take every advantage of it.”

“We’ll fight you!” Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskey and slammed the glass down. “You won’t take this world without a struggle—”

“Another?” the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered as his glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light. “Excellent color, don’t you agree?” He turned his eyes on Georges.

“It’s pointless to resist,” he said. “We have you outgunned and outmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we’re prepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we do not immediately require until such time as you’re able to make other arrangements.”

“And by the time we’ve got a crop growing out of what was bare rock, you’ll be ready to move in,” the Boyar Chef d’Regime snapped. “But you’ll find we aren’t alone!”

“Quite alone,” the Aga Kaga said. He nodded sagely. “Yes, one need but read the lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne will make expostulatory noises, but it will accept the fait accompli. You, my dear sir, are but a very small nibble. We won’t make the mistake of excessive greed; we shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shall be dubbed warmongers.”

“I see you’re quite a student of history, Stanley,” Retief said. “I wonder if you recall the eventual fate of most of the world-be empire nibblers of the past?”

“Ah, but they grew incautious; they went too far, too fast.”

“The confounded impudence,” Georges rasped. “Tells us to our face what he has in mind . . .”

“An ancient and honorable custom, from the time of Mein Kampf and the Communist Manifesto through the Porcelain Wall of Leung. Such declarations have a legendary quality; it’s traditional that they’re never taken at face value.”

“But always,” Retief said, “there was a critical point at which the man on horseback could have been pulled from the saddle—”

“COULD have been,” the Aga Kaga chuckled. He finished the grapes and began peeling an orange. “But they never were. Hitler could have been stopped by the Czech Air Force in 1938; Stalin was at the mercy of the primitive atomics of the West in 1946; Leung was grossly over-extended at Rangoon. But the onus of that historic role could not be overcome. It has been the fate of your spiritual forebears to carve civilizations from the wilderness, and then, amid tearing of garments and the heaping of ashes of self-accusation on your own confused heads, to withdraw, leaving the spoils for local political opportunists and mob leaders, clothed in the mystical virtue of native birth. Have a banana.”

“You’re stretching the analogy a little too far,” Retief said. “You’re banking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong.”

“I shall know when to stop,” the Aga Kaga said.

“Tell me, Stanley,” Retief said, rising. “Are we quite private here?”

“Yes, perfectly so. None would dare to intrude in my council.” He cocked an eyebrow at Retief. “You have a proposal to make in confidence? But what of our dear friend Georges? One would not like to see him disillusioned . . .”

“Don’t worry about Georges. He’s a realist, like you. He’s prepared to deal in facts. Hard facts, in this case.”

The Aga Kaga nodded thoughtfully. “What are you getting at?”

“You’re basing your plan of action on the certainty that the Corps will sit by, wringing its hands, while you embark on a career of interplanetary piracy—”

“Isn’t it the custom?” the Aga Kaga smiled complacently.

“I have news for you, Stanley. In this instance, neck-wringing seems more in order than hand-wringing . . .”

The Aga Kaga frowned. “Your manner—”

“Never mind our manners!” Georges blurted, standing. “We don’t need any lessons from goat-herding land-thieves!”

The Aga Kaga’s face darkened. “You dare to speak thus to me, pig of a muck-grubber—”

With a muffled curse Georges launched himself at the potentate. The giant rolled aside, grunted as the Boyar’s fist thumped in his short ribs, then chopped down on Georges’ neck. The Chef d’Regime slid off onto the floor as the Aga Kaga bounded to his feet, sending fruit and silken cushions flying.

“I see it now!” he hissed. “An assassination attempt!” He stretched his arms, thick as tree-roots—a grizzly in satin robes. “Your heads will ring together like gongs before I have done with you . . . !” He lunged for Retief. Retief came to his feet, feinted with his left, and planted a short right against the Aga Kaga’s jaw with a solid smack. The potentate stumbled, grabbed; Retief slipped aside. The Aga Kaga whirled to face Retief.

“A slippery diplomat, by all the houris in Paradise!” he grated, breathing hard. “But a fool. True to your medieval code of chivalry, you attacked singly, a blunder I would never have made. And you shall die for your idiocy!” He opened his mouth to bellow—

“You sure look foolish, with your fancy hair-do down in your eyes,” Retief said. “The servants will get a big laugh out of that—”

With a choked yell, the Aga Kaga dived for Retief, missed as he leaped aside. The two went to the mat together, rolled, sending a stool skittering. Grunts and curses were heard as the two big men strained, muscles popping. Retief groped for a scissors hold; the Aga Kaga seized his foot, bit hard. Retief bent nearly double, braced himself, and slammed the potentate against the rug. Dust flew. Then the two were on their feet, circling.

“Many times have I longed to broil a diplomat over a slow fire,” the Aga Kaga snarled. “Tonight will see it come to pass . . .”

“I’ve seen it done often at staff meetings,” said Retief. “It seems to have no permanent effect—”

The Aga Kaga reached for Retief, who feinted left, hammered a right to the chin. The Aga Kaga tottered. Retief measured him, brought up a haymaker. The potentate slammed to the rug—out cold.

Georges rolled over, sat up. “Let me at the son of a—” he muttered.

“Take over, Georges,” Retief said, panting. “Since he’s in a mood to negotiate now, we may as well get something accomplished.”

Georges eyed the fallen ruler, who stirred, groaned lugubriously. “I hope you know what you’re doing. But I’m with you in any case.” Georges straddled the prone body, plucked a curved knife from the low table, prodded the Aga Kaga’s Adam’s apple. He groaned again and opened his eyes.

“Make one little peep and your wind-bag will spring a leak,” Georges said. “Very few historical figures have accomplished anything important after their throats were cut.”

“Stanley won’t yell,” Retief said. “We’re not the only ones who’re guilty of cultural idiocy. He’d lose face something awful if he let his followers see him like this.” Retief settled himself on a tufted ottoman. “Right, Stanley?”

The Aga Kaga snarled.

Retief selected a grape, ate it thoughtfully. “These aren’t bad, Georges. You might consider taking on a few Aga Kagan vine-growers—purely on a yearly contract basis, of course.”

The Aga Kaga groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Well, I believe we’re ready to get down to diplomatic proceedings now,” Retief said. “Nothing like dealing in an atmosphere of realistic good-fellowship. First, of course, there’s the matter of the presence of aliens lacking visas.” He opened his briefcase, withdrew a heavy sheet of parchment. “I have the document here, drawn up and ready for signature. It provides for the prompt deportation of such persons, by Corps Transport, all expenses to be borne by the Aga Kagan government. That’s agreeable, I think?” Retief looked expectantly at the purple face of the prone potentate. The Aga Kaga grunted a strangled grunt.

“Speak up, Stanley,” Retief said. “Give him plenty of air, Georges.”

“Shall I let some in through the side?”

“Not yet. I’m sure Stanley wants to be agreeable.”

The Aga Kaga snarled.

“Maybe just a little then, Georges,” Retief said judiciously. Georges jabbed the knife in far enough to draw a bead of blood. The Aga Kaga grunted.

“Agreed!” he snorted. “By the beard of the Prophet, when I get my hands on you . . .”

“Second item: certain fields, fishing grounds, et cetera, have suffered damage due to the presence of the aforementioned illegal immigrants. Full compensation will be made by the Aga Kagan government. Agreed?”

The Aga Kaga drew a breath, tensed himself; Georges jabbed with the knife point. His prisoner relaxed with a groan. “Agreed!” he grated. “A vile tactic! You enter my tent under the guise of guests, protected by diplomatic immunity—”

“I had the impression we were herded in here at sword point,” said Retief. “Shall we go on? Now, there’s the little matter of restitution for violation of sovereignty, reparations for mental anguish, payment for damaged fences, roads, drainage canals, communications, et cetera, et cetera. Shall I read them all?”

“Wait until the news of this outrage is spread abroad—”

“They’d never believe it. History would prove it impossible. And on mature consideration, I’m sure you won’t want it noised about that you entertained visiting dignitaries flat on your back.”

“What about the pollution of the atmosphere by goats?” Georges put in. “And don’t overlook the muddying of streams, the destruction of valuable timber for camp fires, and—”

“I’ve covered all that sort of thing under a miscellaneous heading,” Retief said. “We can fill it in at leisure when we get back.”

“Bandits!” the Aga Kaga hissed. “Thieves! Dogs of unreliable imperialists!”

“It’s disillusioning, I know,” Retief said. “Still, of such little surprises is history made. Sign here.” He held the parchment out and offered a pen. “A nice clear signature, please. We wouldn’t want any quibbling about the legality of the treaty, after conducting the negotiation with such scrupulous regard for the niceties.”

“Niceties! Never in history has such an abomination been perpetrated!”

“Oh, treaties are always worked out this way, when it comes right down to it. We’ve just accelerated the process a little. Now, if you’ll just sign like a good fellow, we’ll be on our way. Georges will have his work cut out for him, planning how to use all this reparations money.”

The Aga Kaga gnashed his teeth; Georges prodded. The Aga Kaga seized the pen and scrawled his name. Retief signed with a flourish. He tucked the treaty away in his briefcase, took out another paper.

“This is just a safe-conduct, to get us out of the door and into the car,” he said. “Probably unnecessary, but it won’t hurt to have it, in case you figure out some way to avoid your obligations as a host.”

The Aga Kaga signed the document after another prod from Georges.

“One more paper, and I’ll be into the jugular,” he said.

“We’re all through now,” said Retief. “Stanley, we’re going to have to run now. I’m going to strap up your hands and feet a trifle; it shouldn’t take you more than ten minutes or so to get loose, stick a band-aid over that place on your neck, and get back in your grape-eating pose.”

“My men will cut you down for the rascals you are!”

“—By that time, we’ll be over the hill,” Retief continued. “At full throttle, we’ll be at Government House in an hour, and of course I won’t waste any time transmitting the treaty to Sector HQ. And the same concern for face that keeps you from yelling for help will ensure that the details of the negotiation remain our secret.”

“Treaty! That scrap of paper—”

“I confess the Corps is a little sluggish about taking action at times,” Retief said, whipping a turn of silken cord around the Aga Kaga’s ankles. “But once it’s got signatures on a legal treaty, it’s extremely stubborn about all parties’ adhering to the letter. It can’t afford to be otherwise, as I’m sure you’ll understand.” He cinched up the cord, went to work on the hands. The Aga Kaga glared at him balefully.

“To the Pit with the Corps! The ferocity of my revenge—”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Stanley. There are several squadrons of Peace Enforcers cruising in the Sector just now. I’m sure you’re not ready to make any historical errors by taking them on.” Retief finished and stood up.

“Georges, just stuff a scarf in Stanley’s mouth. I think he’d prefer to work quietly until he recovers his dignity.” Retief buckled his briefcase, selected a large grape, and looked down at the Aga Kaga.

“Actually, you’ll be glad you saw things our way, Stanley,” he said. “You’ll get all the credit for the generous settlement. Of course, it will be a striking precedent for any other negotiations that may become necessary if you get grabby on other worlds in this region. And if your advisors want to know why the sudden change of heart, just tell them you’ve decided to start from scratch on an unoccupied world. Mention the virtues of thrift and hard work. I’m confident you can find plenty of historical examples to support you.”

“Thanks for the drink,” said Georges. “Drop in on me at Government House some time and we’ll crack another bottle.”

“And don’t feel bad about your project’s going awry,” said Retief. “In the words of the Prophet, ‘Stolen goods are never sold at a loss.’ ”

“A remarkable about-face, Retief,” Magnan said. “Let this be a lesson to you. A stern Note of Protest can work wonders.”

“A lot depends on the method of delivery,” Retief said.

“Nonsense. I knew all along the Aga Kagans were a reasonable, peace-loving people. One of the advantages of senior rank, of course, is the opportunity to see the big picture. Why, I was saying only this morning—”

The desk screen broke into life. The mottled jowls of Under-Secretary Sternwheeler appeared.

“Magnan! I’ve just learned of the Flamme affair. Who’s responsible?”

“Why, ah . . . I suppose that I might be said—”

“This is your work, is it?”

“Well . . . Mr. Retief did play the role of messenger—”

“Don’t pass the buck, Magnan!” the Under-Secretary barked. “What the devil went on out there?”

“Why, just a routine Protest Note. Everything is quite in order—”

“Bah! Your over-zealousness has cost me dear. I was feeding Flamme to the Aga Kaga to consolidate our position of moral superiority for use as a lever in a number of important negotiations. Now they’ve backed out. The Aga Kaga emerges from the affair wreathed in virtue. You’ve destroyed a very pretty finesse in power politics, Mr. Magnan! A year’s work down the drain!”

“But I thought—”

“I doubt that, Mr. Magnan. I doubt that very much!” The Under-Secretary rang off.

“This is a fine turn of events,” Magnan groaned. “Retief, you know very well Protest Notes are merely intended for the historical record; no one ever takes them seriously.”

“You and the Aga Kaga ought to get together,” said Retief. “He’s a great one for citing historical parallels. He’s not a bad fellow, as a matter of fact. I have an invitation from him to visit Kaga and go mud-pig hunting. He was so impressed by Corps methods that he wants to be sure we’re on his side next time. Why don’t you come along?”

“Mmmm. Perhaps I should cultivate him. A few high-level contacts never do any harm. On the other hand, I understand he lives in a very loose way, feasting and merry-making. Frivolous in the extreme. No wife, I understand, but hordes of light-clad women about. And in that connection, the Aga Kagans have some very curious notions as to what constitutes proper hospitality to guests.”

Retief rose, pulled on the powder blue cloak and black velvet gauntlets of a Career Minister.

“Don’t let it worry you,” he said. “You’ll have a great time. And as the Aga Kaga would say, ‘Ugliness is the best safeguard of virginity.’”

End of Galactic Diplomat

[1] Cf. The original colorful language: “maintenance of a state of tension short of actual conflict.” See CDT File 178/b/491, col. VII, spool 12: 745mm (code 2g)

Table of Contents

ULTIMATUM

SALINE SOLUTION

THE BRASS GOD

THE CASTLE OF LIGHT

WICKER WONDERLAND

NATIVE INTELLIGENCE

THE PRINCE AND THE PIRATE

COURIER

PROTEST NOTE

End of Galactic Diplomat