Retief-Ambassador to Space (16 page)

 "Look
there; another party of Groaci Peacekeepers, in full armor. You'd think they
were expecting full scale rioting to break out at any moment."

 A
block away, a squad of constabulary, in grotesque flaring helmets and black
hip-cloaks, side-arms at knobby hips, minced briskly along the empty avenue.

 "Shith
was quite insistent that the Groaci be assigned responsibility for the security
arrangements for the Conference," Magnan muttered. "They have the
only guns on the planet."

 "For
alleged police, those fellows have a suspicious look of regular infantry about
them," Retief said.

 "Good
lord, you don't imagine they're planning anything foolish?" Magnan gasped.
"Everybody knows the Groaci secretly covet Sulinore. They've even tried to
have it officially declared a deserted world, open to colonization."

 "It's
a little hard to see how they could swing it, with a full squadron of CDT Peace
Enforcers standing by off-planet," Retief said.

 "You're
right. We're imagining things." Magnan shook his head briskly. "A few
dozen blasters can't take over a world. Still, I'd as soon avoid these bravos.
In their arrogance they might attempt some sort of harassment." He angled
across toward the entrance to a side street.

 "That's
the route to the Forbidden City, off-limits to foreigners," Retief said.
"How badly do you want to miss the fuzz?"

 "Not
that badly." Magnan shuddered, veered in the opposite direction. "If
even half the stories are true, not even our gnawed bones would ever be
found."

 Fifteen
minutes later they were in a narrow, crooked street where age-weathered carved
griffins, satyrs and nymphs adorned the steep facades of the deserted buildings
lining the way.

 "This
isn't the most cheerful route for a stroll," Magnan commented uneasily.
"At least not after sundown." He cocked his head. "One almost
imagines one can hear stealthy footsteps behind one."

 "Not
so stealthy at that," Retief said. "They've been getting pretty
careless the last five minutes, as if they didn't care whether we heard them or
not."

 "You
mean someone's really following us?" Magnan turned to stare back along the
shadowy late-evening street.

 "Two
someones," Retief corrected. "Non-humans, I'd say, weighing in at
under a hundred pounds, and wearing padded shoes."

 "That
could mean anything! There are forty-six non-human species on-world this week
for the conference, and I can think of at least ten of them that wouldn't be
above assaulting a pair of peaceful Terran diplomats for their own nefarious
ends."

 "Or
for the iridium in their teeth," Retief amplified.

 "I
think I recognize the street ahead," Magnan muttered. "Coriale's
Comestible Counter is just around the corner. I was there last week—in
daylight—making some arrangements for the Reception. We can nip inside and
'phone the Embassy for transportation back ..."He broke off as they came
in view of a high, narrow shop-front displaying the cranium and crossed
thighbones, the Sulinorian symbols of a caterer's establishment. Beneath the
deeply incised device, the windows were dark, the massive stonewood door shut
tight.

 "It's
closed!" Magnan put his nose against the glass. "But there's someone
inside. I heard a sound."

 Retief
tried the heavily patinaed bronze door latch, cast in the form of fanged jaws
clenched on a leg.

 "Perhaps—great
heavens, Retief! What are you doing?" Magnan blurted as Retief gripped the
knob in both hands and twisted hard. There was a sharp tinkle of breaking
metal.

 "Retief,
stop!" Magnan gasped. "You can't—"

 "I
think it might be a good idea to get in off the street—now!" Retief thrust
his protesting senior through into the gloomy interior, whirled to ease the
door silently shut.

 "We
found the door unlocked," he said briskly, looking around the room.
"And stepped inside to see if everything was okay."

 Magnan
peered from the window, made a choking sound. "Two Sulinorians in
artisan's headdress just came around the corner! They'll find us here!"

 "Let's
check the back room." Retief led the way past tables heaped with displays
of Sulinorian pastries, stuffed fowls and candied nutmeats, thrust aside a
curtain. The dim shapes of stacked cartons bulked in the darkness. He sniffed
the air, took a tiny handlight from his pocket, played the pencil-thin beam
across the floor.

 "What's
that?" Magnan hissed, pointing. From behind a wall locker, a pair of
narrow high-arched, long-toed feet protruded. Retief went across, flashed the
light on a small, crumpled body. The bright robes were bedraggled and torn. A
wound in the narrow chest oozed ochre blood.

 "A
Sulinorian," Magnan breathed. "He's been shot!" His lips moved
in a faint whisper. Retief knelt beside him.

 "Who
did it?" he asked urgently. "Why?"

 "He
was not ... what he seemed." Retief caught the whispered words. Then the
luminous eyes closed; the last tinge of vital color drained from the small
face, leaving it an unattractive shade of waxy green.

 "It
looks like Coriale, the caterer," Magnan groaned. "How
terrible!"

 "Listen!"
Retief raised a hand. From the far comer of the storeroom a faint rustle
sounded. He motioned Magnan to the left, started around the right side of the
stacked boxes. There was a hurried scuttling sound.

 "Why—
there
you are, Coriale," Magnan's voice squeaked. "We, er, just stepped
in to increase our order. We'll have twelve gross of the bean and kidney pies
and six dozen jellied bramble-hens—under glass, of course ..." Magnan
backed into view, keeping himself between the small local and the body in the
corner. The Sulinorian pulled free of Magnan's grip on his elbow. His bright
eyes flicked around the room.

 "But
if you're busy," Magnan went on hastily, "we'll just toddle along now
..."

 "Ummm.
You are Terrestrials, isn't it?" the alien piped in a piercingly high
voice.

 "I'm,
er, why, ah ..." Magnan swallowed audibly. "I was here just the other
day, Mr. Coriale. Don't you remember me?"

 "Yes.
Quite so, I recalled now." The Sulinorian moved toward the door. "Six
dozen jellied kidney-beans and glass hens under mud, I'll make notes of it. And
now, you wish to leave, are you? To be sure. Goodby quickly, please."

 Magnan
reached the door ahead of the local, fumbled it open. "Well, it was jolly
seeing you, Coriale. By, now ..."He tugged at Retief's sleeve. "Come
along!" he hissed. "We're in a frightful rush, remember?"

 "I'm
not sure Mr. Coriale got the order just right." Retief eased Magnan aside,
glanced out the door. The dark street was empty. Pale flames burning in blue
glass globes high on the walls cast wavering shadows along the ancient cobbles.

 "It
doesn't matter! I'm sure he can cope." Magnan's voice faltered as his eye
fell on the Sulinorian, from whose nostrils brown smoke was filtering.

 "Say,
isn't that brown smoke filtering from your nostrils?" he blinked. "I
didn't know you Sulinorians smoked."

 Coriale
edged sideways, eyeing the door. "A new vice, acquiring this week only.
And now, reluctance, farewell."

 Magnan
frowned. "Curious," he said. "A few days ago you spoke perfect
Galactic."

 "Duck!"
Retief snapped and dived past Magnan as the undersized alien made a
lightning-fast motion.

 Something
flashed in his hand; a plate of hors d'oeuvres beside Magnan exploded in a
shower of antipasto. With a yelp, Magnan leaped sideways, collided with the
alien as the latter bounded aside from Retief's charge.

 For
a moment, there was a wild tangle of threshing limbs. Then Magnan staggered
back, sat down hard. His head wobbled. He fell sideways and lay still.

 The
Sulinorian had whirled, bringing the gun up—

 Retief
swept a pie from a table, slammed it full into the pinched faced. The alien
shrieked; the gun barked sharply, twice. One slug ripped the gilt epaulet from
the shoulder of Retief's wine-red mid-evening semiofficial blazer. The second
thunk!
ed
into a pewter tureen; thick purple soup spurted from paired holes. Then
Retief was on the gunner. He twisted the alien's gun-hand behind him, reached
to seize his quarry's other arm ... and felt the room expand suddenly to three
times its former size.

 He
snorted hard, held his breath, threw the alien across the room. His legs felt
like piano wire. He grabbed at a table for support, sent it crashing over on
its side.

 Magnan
sat up, spluttering, as a cascade of icy green punch sluiced over him.

 "Yes,
yes, I'm coming, Mother," he gasped.

 To
Retief, Magnan's voice seemed to be filtered through an echo chamber. As in a
dream, he saw the other totter to his feet.

 "Wha
..." Magnan gobbled. "What happened?"

 His
eyes focused on the room, took in the smashed crockery, the overturned
furnishings the spilled viands—and the crumpled figure against the wall.
"Retief—he isn't ...?"

 Retief
shook his head to clear it. He went across to the fallen alien. The creature
lay on his back, eyes wide open, glassy. A great shard of broken punch-bowl
protruded from his chest. His dead face was a livid purple.

 "Coriale!"
Magnan choked. "Dead again!"

 "We'd
better get out fast," Retief said. "And sort out the Coriales in the
morning."

 "By
all means!" Magnan whirled to the door, pulled it wide—and backed into the
room, prodded by the gleaming barrel of a crater gun in the hands of a
spindle-legged Groaci in the uniform of a Peacekeeper.

 "To
make no move, vile miscreants," the helmeted and greaved Shore Patroller
hissed in his native tongue as his five stalked eyes scanned the shambles.
"To have you red-handed this time, Soft Ones."

 "You're
making a frightful mistake," Magnan choked as half a dozen more Groaci
pushed into the shop, all with levelled weapons. "We didn't—that is, I
didn't—I mean, Retief only—"

 "Ah,
Mr. Magnan, is it not?" the Patrol captain whispered in his faint voice.
"The acceptance of your complete innocence, of course, dear sir. Provided
only the testimony against the true criminal!"

 "True
criminal?" Magnan stuttered. "You mean Retief? But—"

 "What
other?" the Groaci inquired in a reasonable tone.

 "But
... but ..."

 "To
have no need to make a statement now," the captain soothed. "To come
along quietly and to leave us to deal with the killer." He motioned
sharply and his subordinates closed in, hustled the protesting Magnan away.
Then the Groaci turned to Retief.

 "To
remember me, perhaps, Retief? Shluh by name, formerly of the Groacian Planetary
Police, once deeply wronged by you. Tonight, in the cells of a Groaci prison,
to even at last the bitter score."

 
The
jeweled eye-shields of Captain Shluh gave back brilliant glints from the
dazzling white Interrogation lights rigged at the center of the dusty room.

 "Once
more, my dear Retief," he whispered in accent-free Terran. "What was
your motive for your atrocious crimes against the peace and order of Groac? Or
Sulinore, if you prefer. Was it perhaps your plan to introduce subtle
impurities into the provender to be supplied to the delegates? Or did your
schemes run deeper? Was it your full intent to secrete illegal monitoring
devices in the serving vessels—devices of the kind which I will testify were
found on your person when you were searched?"

 "A
couple of years pounding a beat have done wonders for you, Schluh," Retief
said conversationally. "You've lost that fat-behind-the-ears look.
Unfortunately, you still sound about the same."

 "And
you, unlucky Terry, still indulge your penchant for flippancy! It will be
amusing to watch the evolution of your japes into pleas for mercy, as our
acquaintance ripens."

 "You
Groaci must be planning something a little more elaborate than usual,"
Retief mused aloud. "Conning Ambassador Shindlesweet into lending CDT
backing to these phony peace talks took a lot of time and groundwork—and you
lads don't waste credits on empty gestures."

 "You
imply that our motives are less than selfless?" Shluh inquired in a
careless tone. "Ah, well, what matter your thoughts, Soft One? You may
share them freely with your executioner."

 "Let's
look at it analytically," Retief went on. "What have you accomplished
with all this effort, other than getting representatives of every important
world in a CDT dominated sector of the Arm together in one room? But maybe
that's enough, eh, Shluh? If some unfortunate incident occurred and wiped out the
lot of them, whoever was responsible would find himself in a most unenviable
position, public-relations-wise. And I have a feeling it wouldn't be you Groaci
who'd be left holding the satchel. Which leaves the CDT, the other sponsor of
the gathering."