Retief and the PanGalactic Pageant of Pulchritude (11 page)

"Maybe
we'd better start back," Retief said, "unless we want to get a closer
view of the Saturday riot than usual."

"Ridiculous,
Retief," the first secretary said a trifle uneasily. "Merely a
display of high spirits. My analysis of the trends, local unrestwise, indicates
today will be utterly peaceful."

Retief
glanced across the cobbles toward the low, irregular buildings at the far side
of the plaza, between which greenish sunlight glinted on a stretch of open sea
dotted with sails, and gleamed chartreuse and orange on the adjacent island of
the equatorial archipelago which constituted the sole land masses of the world.

"You
may be right," he said, "but there seem to be a remarkable number of
spears, spikes, pitchforks, swords, and carving knives in evidence."

"Purely
decorative, Retief. In spite of splendid progress toward civilization, the
locals seem to feel more comfy with a symbolic weapon in hand."

"No
doubt—but there's a note in the crowd noises that reminds me of a beehive just
after it's been poked with a stick."

"They're
merely taking a childlike pleasure in their bargaining, Retief. Heavens, I've
heard shriller haggling in Macy's." Magnan glanced up severely at his
junior. "It's hardly like you to display such timidity, Retief. I suggest
you buck up now; I don't intend to return until I've secured the beaded tea
cozy I promised Aunt Ninny—"

"Duck!"
Retief snapped, and swept Magnan aside as a broad-headed assegai clanged
against the rough-hewn stone wall behind them. He caught it on the rebound,
grabbed Magnan's arm and thrust him into a doorway as, with a mass screech, the
mob surging through the narrow way erupted into violence. Robed locals of
wildly varied skin coloration and wart distribution brandished suddenly
produced weapons in hands numbering from one to six, and charged each other
with bloodcurdling yells. Glass shattered nearby; smoke boiled from an overturned
toasted-nidnut cart. A tall, blue-faced Lumbagan with four staring eyes, three
pendulous ears, and a mouth capable of encompassing a tripleburger in one gulp
rushed toward the Terrans, swinging up a five-foot steelwood cutlass edged with
broken glass. Retief dropped the spearpoint to chest level and grounded the
butt against the plank door behind him. The alien braked, too late; the
spearhead took him square in the midriff. Magnan made a squeaking noise as the
victim dropped his sword and grasped the shaft of the spear with three or four
hands, and with a powerful surge, withdrew it.

"Hey,
you loused up a perfectly good duodenum that time or I miss my guess,
Terry," the warty local said in a rather barbaric dialect of the local
tongue, fingering the bloodless point of entry. "What's the idea? The word
was, you Terries don't fight back."

"Sorry,
fellow," Retief said. "Sometimes the word gets distorted in
transmission. How about passing the new version along to your compatriots; it
may save wear and tear all around."

"Yeah,
I'll do that." The alien turned and was swept away by the crowd.

"I
can't think what went wrong with my analysis," Magnan wailed as a
brass-tipped arrow chipped the lintel above him. "I must have misjudged
the intensity of the xenophobic coefficient—or possibly read the seasonal
hostility index from the wrong column!"

"Get
the door open!" Warbutton yelled behind Retief as he parried a thrust by a
passerby pausing to take a slash at the target of opportunity.

"But
that would be illegal entry!"

"Getting
killed in public without a death permit is a felony punishable by decapitation
plus a year in the local Bastille, according to the local penal code,"
Retief pointed out. "Take your choice."

There were
rattling sounds behind Retief, followed by the creak of rusty hinges. At that
moment, a large Lumbagan burst from the crowd, whipped a rusty but
effective-looking power gun from under his doublet, took aim at Retief's head—

A small
local sprang at the gunner, entangling the latter's legs in several of his own,
and with a hearty shove sent him sprawling while the shot burned harmlessly
across the pavement. With a yell of fury, the fallen assassin leaped up. Retief
felt the draft on his back from the open door behind him.

"This
way," he called in the local patois; the diminutive Lumbagan dived past
him through the opening; Retief jumped through behind him, slammed the heavy
panel. Missiles clattered against it as he shot the massive bolt. Angry fists
hammered, angry voices screeched threats. Magnan uttered a yelp as he noted the
presence of the alien.

"Help!
One of them got in!"

"He's
with us," Retief said. "Thanks for the assist, Mr....?"

"Ignarp's
the handle. Glad to oblige, Terry. Some of the boys got no use for Terries, but
what do those slobs know? A bunch of Blue-spots and Four-eyes and Shaggy-feet
and Wart-heads—"

"Corps
policy frowns on the use of racial epithets, Mr. Ignarp," Magnan
remonstrated. "Besides which," he added surveying the Lumbagan,
"unless I'm very much mistaken you seem to have a number of warts of your
own."

"Oh,
yeah; I forgot. I just picked those up on sale last week."

"It
must be confusing," Magnan said sympathetically. "With so many
minorities to choose from, I suppose one hardly knows whom to discriminate
against."

"Yeah—you
Terries have got the best system; just check a couple minor details like how
many eyes or what color spots a guy's got, and you know who your friends are. A
lot easier than trying to pick 'em one at a time."

"What
made you pick us?" Retief asked.

"I got
a soft spot in my head for foreigners," the local said. "Come on,
I'll show you the way out of here." He waved them toward the dark,
stone-floored passage leading back into the gloomy recesses of the monolithic
structure.

"Well,
how lucky you happened along, Mr. Ignarp," Colonel Warbutton said, falling
in behind their guide. "By the way, where are we going?"

"You
Terries are housed right in the Castle complex, along with the other
foreigners, right? You're practically there now."

"Heavens,
I hope we're not late for the Joint Staff meeting," Magnan said, glancing
at his thumb watch. "Who'd have thought when we set out for a short
constitutional we'd end threading a maze with a pack of rabid racists at our
figurative heels?"

"Think
of the impact on the ambassador when you give your eye-witness report,"
Retief encouraged his superior.

"That's
a thought," Magnan agreed. "Ah—just what was it I
eye-witnessed?"

"The
initiation of the Spring Hostility Rites," the local called over his
shoulder. "The boys certainly started things off with a bang."

"The
spring rites?" Warbutton queried. "I was under the impression the
Winter Mayhem Festival was still on."

"So it
is; along with the Ritual of Revolution, the Symbolic Sacrament of Savagery,
and o' course the Perennial Violence Cycle. With a crowded schedule, we get a
certain amount of overlap."

"Why—the
situation is deteriorating into total anarchy!" Magnan gasped.

"Not
so, Terry," their guide demurred. "We got rules. Like we always give
warning before we change sides."

"What
sort of warning?" Magnan queried.

"Well,
a kick in the right spot usually gets the message across," the Lumbagan
confided. "But we're not particular. A sharp blow on the head will do in a
pinch."

"Or a
spear between the ankles?" Retief suggested.

"I hope
Gumrong sees it that way. He's not a bad fellow; in fact he was my sidekick and
loyal comrade-in-arms. But he holds a slot as my mortal hereditary enemy for
the rites—so naturally when he jumped you Terries, I stepped in. Lucky you got
that door open, or my component parts would be strewn all over the jungle by
now, rooting for acorns."

"Which
side are they on?" Warbutton inquired dazedly.

"Luckily,
Lumbagan vegetable life is neutral," Retief said. "Otherwise the
prospects for planetary pacification would be even dimmer than they are."

"They
couldn't be," Magnan groaned. "How in the world are we going to bring
racial tolerance to a world whose only recreation is mutual mass murder?"

"If you
come up with the answer to that one, Mr. Magnan, I predict a sharp upward turn
in your career prospects."

"Watch
your step, gents," the Lumbagan said, indicating a narrow stone stair
leading down into pitch darkness. "Just a little farther and there we
are."

As Magnan
hesitated, Retief stepped past him.

"You
must be a little confused, Ignarp," he said. "Mr. Magnan doesn't have
time right now to explore any abandoned mine shafts."

"Who's
leading this parade, you or me, Terry?" the Lumbagan said truculently.
"I'm the guy that just saved your necks, remember?"

"Just between
us," Retief said, "why did you decoy us here?"

Magnan
gasped.

"Wh—where'd
you get an idea like that?" The Lumbagan edged sideways, but was
restrained by Retief's quick grab. "Hey—leggo my neck," he yelped.
"I already told you—" "Uh-huh. But I happen to know spring rites
don't start for another two days. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to set up
the whole charade, including the conveniently unlocked door. Why, Ignarp?"

"No
fair, Retief," the local grunted. "I heard you Terries didn't know a
mob killing from a quiet little domestic knifing—"

"Some
of these impressions die hard." Retief gave the local's collar another
half-twist. "Come on, give, Ignarp."

"Retief,"
Magnan demurred, "are you sure? After all, if anyone had wanted to do us
an injury they could have done it as well in the street. ..."

"Wrong,"
the Lumbagan contradicted. "This was a hush-hush deal. And besides, the
orders were to bring you in whole."

"You
admit your duplicity?" Warbutton barked. "With your chum's knuckles
digging into my medulla oblongata, I got no choice," Ignarp said
aggrievedly. "Whose orders?"

"The
ones that hired me," Ignarp muttered. "They wanted a Terry in good
condition, that's all I can tell you. I'm just a legman—"

"Hold
it," Retief said. From the dark stairwell came faint sounds as of stealthy
feet approaching.

"We'll
have to defer our talk until later, Ignarp," Retief said. "Lead the
way out of here—and this time get it right."

"I
might as well; if the boys see me with your thumb under my ear, my rep as a slick
conniver is shot anyway. Come on . . . ." He led the Terrans back along
the passage, took a branching corridor—hardly more than a damp-walled tunnel
cut through the massive masonry pile—and in five minutes halted at the foot of
a narrow stone stair leading upward.

"It
comes out in the embassy commissary," he said glumly.

"Just
don't let on I told you about the gap in your security. There's a couple dozen
families living high on imported caviar and pate who'd hate to go back to
pulverized nidnuts and dehydrated frinkfruit."

"Stealing
from embassy stores?" Magnan gasped.

"Relax,"
the local advised. "It's costing you a lot less than if we applied for
disaster-area status and welfare handouts. As we see it, a self-respecting
life-form ought to make its own way."

"What
shall we do with the beggar?" Warbutton said. "No good turning him
over to the local constabulary. Pity we can't do him in out of hand, but that
sort of tiling doesn't look at all good when the yellow press gets hold of
it."

"Lemme
go now, pal," Ignarp said. "I admit it was a lousy idea. And to
clinch the deal, I'll throw in a tip for free: Look out when Summer Slaughter
time comes rolling around. I'm assigned to a Terry-Go-Home team, and those
babies play rough."

"Come
along, Retief," Magnan said, starting up the stairs. "There's no
point in escaping death at the hands of a mob only to face an irate chief of
mission."

Retief
released his grip on the Lumbagan. "We'll call it even for now, Ignarp. Go
back and tell your employers that we Terries like a chance to RSVP our
invitations."

"You
foreigners are full of surprises," the local muttered, and darted away.

"Here,
Retief," Warbutton remonstrated, "we should have held the blighter up
by the heels until he'd divulged all the details of the conspiracy."

"I have
a feeling he'll talk more freely on his home ground," Retief said, and
glanced at the finger-marked card he had lifted from the Lumbagan's coat
pocket. "The Stake and Kidney Tavern, number twelve Dacoit Street,"
he read.

"I know
the spot," Warbutton said. "An unsavory dive across from the scalp
fields where the hair is short."

"It's a
date," Retief said.

Magnan and
Retief were among the last to take seats at the long table in the conference
room, netting a baleful glance from the protuberant eye of Ambassador
Pouncetrifle, seated at the head of the table beside Jith, his diminutive
Groacian opposite number and Joint Chairman of the Lumbagan Peace Commission.