Retief and the PanGalactic Pageant of Pulchritude (19 page)

"Who
were you taking me to, Gloot?"

"Some
bum over on Groo-groo Island. Why?"

"I'd
like to meet him."

"No
dice. I got a previous engagement. I'm part of a harbor hijack crew now and
we've got a big heist scheduled." "Suppose I go with you?"

"Sorry,
I got no time to show tourists the sights." Gloot rose and started over
the ridgepole; as he did, three figures in the red cloak of the City Guard
appeared, clambering over the parapet opposite.

"There
they are!" a muffled voice barked. "Get 'em!" Without
hesitation, Gloot charged downslope, dealt one of the three a terrific buffet
on the side of the head, sending him sprawling; but before he could regain his
balance, the other two cops had grappled him and wrestled him toward the edge.
Thus occupied, they failed to notice Retief until he had secured a firm grip on
both capes and, with a vigorous pull, tumbled their owners backwards.
Recovering quickly, Gloot upended the nearer guardsman over the parapet. The
last of the three dived for Retief, met a knee under the jaw, and collapsed in
a limp heap.

"Say,"
Gloot said, breathing hard, "that was real friendly of you, Retief."

"Or
unfriendly, depending on the viewpoint," Retief pointed out.

"Right.
And from my viewpoint right now you came through like a champ. Well, so long,
Retief. See you across the barricades." Gloot swung over the side of the
roof; Retief followed him to the ground, clambering down the rough-laid masonry
to the dark street below.

"Maybe
you'll reconsider that invitation to come along and meet your friends," he
suggested.

"Nope.
We've got a full crew already."

"Just
as a diplomatic observer," Retief reassured the local. "Naturally, I
couldn't participate in anything violent."

Gloot shook
his head. "Those boys upstairs are going to be kind of irritated when they
come to. Us hijackers have got enough troubles without taking on a foreigner,
with or without a police record. If I was you, I'd kind of drop out of sight
for a few hours."

"Good
idea. Aboard your boat would be a good place to be inconspicuous."

Gloot lifted
his gun from its holster and thumbed back the hammer, "I ain't going to
have to get rough, I hope?" he said, rather sadly.

"Not
with that," Retief said. "Single-shot, remember?"

"Oh,
barfberries," Gloot exclaimed, eyeing the bulky weapon in irritation.
"I should of known you didn't gull me into shooting it off for
nothing." He studied Retief appraisingly. "I don't feel like tangling
with you, not after the way you handled those bums on the roof. And besides,
I'm short an arm right now, on account of a chum asked me to lend him a hand
and forgot to return it. Why not just go your way and I'll go mine?"

"I want
to know who's been trying to kidnap me, Gloot. You can still take me along to
this big shot, and demand a nice ransom for me."

"Hey—the
idea ain't without merit. . . ."Gloot said with cautious enthusiasm.
"But don't look for any favors. The boys play rough, and this is their
night to chew stones and spit gravel."

"I'll
try to stay out of harm's way."

"A
sixty-foot pirate sloop's kind of a funny place for that," Gloot said.
"But—that's your problem, not mine—just so you stay alive long enough for
me to collect."

An odor of
ripe seafood and rotting wood rose from the lateen-rigged junk wallowing as if
half sunk at the sagging wharf. A bulky Lumbagan with the usual random
placement of facial features stepped out of the shadows to bar Gloot's way as he
approached.

"Hi,
Snult," the latter called in guarded tones. "This here is Retief. He
came along to get an alien's-eye view of the operation."

"Yeah?"
Snult replied without detectable enthusiasm. He barked a command over his
shoulder; two large locals with exceptional tricep development stepped forward.

"Dump
this spy in the drink," Snult grunted, pointing to Retief. "And then
hang Gloot from the yardarm for half an hour for reporting in late." He
turned his back and sauntered off. The two bullyboys advanced, reaching for
Retief in a businesslike way. He leaned aside, caught the proffered arm of the
nearer and gave it a half twist, causing its owner to spin around and bow from
the waist, at which point an accurately placed foot propelled the unfortunate chap
off the pier. The second enforcer lunged, met a chop to the neck, followed by a
set of stiffened fingers to the midriff. As he doubled over, Retief turned him
gently by the elbow and assisted him over the side, where his splash mingled
with that of his partner. Ten feet away, Snult paused.

"Quick
work," he said over his shoulder. "But . . .
two
splashes. . .
?"

Gloot
stepped to his departing chief, seized him by the back of the neck and
unceremoniously pitched him into the water.

"Three,"
he corrected, and thrust out a large, six-fingered hand to Retief. "The
cruise is off to a good start. We've been needing a change of administration
around here. Come on, let's hoist anchor before a platoon of cops come pelting
down the dock looking for you." He swaggered down the gangplank bawling
orders.

There were a
few questions from the crew who, however, quickly adjusted to the change in
management, assisted by a number of sharp blows from a belaying pin wielded by
the new captain. In a matter of minutes the ancient vessel had cast off and was
threading her way out across the garbage-strewn waters of the bay.

"The
target for tonight is a shipment of
foof
bark," Gloot advised his
guest as they relaxed on the high poop deck at the stern an hour later,
quaffing large mugs of native ale and admiring the view of the moonlit jungle
isle past which they were sailing. "It comes from Delerion, another few
islands to the west. Potent stuff, too. A pinch of
foof
in your hookah
and you're cruising at fifty thousand feet without oxygen."

"Dope
traffic, eh? Is that legal?"

"No law
on the high seas," Gloot said. "And damn little on land. I guess
you'd call the
foof
trade semilegit. They pay taxes—if the free-lance
customs boys are sharp enough to collect 'em. And they place a few bribes here
and there. However, they overlooked the good ship
Peccadillo
and her
merry crew, which makes 'em fair game." He peered across the oily ripples.
"She ought to be rounding the point of that next island and weathering
right into our trap any minute now."

"You
seem to know a lot about the opposition's movements," Retief commented.

"I
ought to—I heard all about it last week when I was a
foof
-gatherer."

"I
didn't know you Lumbagans changed islands as well as affiliations."

"I was
a prisoner of war down there. I managed an escape during the changing of the
guard. By the way, keep a few sharp eyes out for a low-slung boat with a big
carbon arc light on deck. Interisland Police. They're supposed to be up at the
other end of the line now, but you never can tell."

"I can
see you've done your homework, Gloot."

"Sure;
I got the schedules down pat last time I was on the force."

"Don't
these rapid changes of allegiance get confusing?" Retief inquired.
"I'd think you'd run the risk of accidentally shooting yourself under the
impression you were on the opposite side."

"I
guess you can get used to anything," Gloot said philosophically.

"There's
Groo-groo coming up on the starboard bow," Retief said. "Isn't it
about time to start tacking in?"

Gloot
yawned. "Later, maybe," he said. "I decided maybe it's too much
trouble trying to ransom you. I prefer life on the briny deep to floundering
around in the creepers—" He was interrupted by a shout from the masthead;
jumping up, he aimed a spyglass toward a dimly seen shape gliding closer across
the dark water.

"Oh-oh—get
set. That looks like . . . yep—it's them! Hey,

Blump!"
Gloot sprang to the companionway. "Hard aport! And keep it quiet!"

As the
unwieldy craft came sluggishly about, a dazzling yard-wide shaft of smoky blue
light lanced across the water, etching the privateer's crew in chalky white
against the velvet black of shadows.

"Heave
to, you bilge scum," an amplified voice bellowed from the direction of the
light, "before I put a solid shot into your waterline!"

"We're
in trouble," Gloot rapped. "That's old Funge on the bullhorn; I'd know
his voice anywhere. One of the best pirate captains around, when he's working
the other side of the street."

"Do we
strike, Cap'n?" a crewman cried from amidships.

"Remind
me to keelhaul you when this is over!" Gloot roared. "Strike nothing!
Swing our stern chaser around and run it out over the port rail!" He
charged across the deck, which was sharply canted by the abrupt maneuver in
which the elderly tub was engaged, as the sailors dragged the small wheeled
cannon into position.

"Load
with cannister; double-charge!" he yelled. "Get a firepot up here!
Hold her steady on a course of one-eight—oh, and stand by to come about
fast!" He turned to Retief who was standing nearby, observing the
preparations for action.

"Better
get below, mister," he snapped. "This is no place for
noncombatants!"

"If you
don't mind, I'll stick around on deck. And if I may make a suggestion, it might
be a good idea to steer for shore."

"For
shore? You must be hysterical with panic! Everybody knows Groo-groo is swarming
with carnivores that are all stomach and teeth, with just enough legs to let
'em leap on their prey from forty feet away."

"In
that case, I hope you're a strong swimmer."

"Don't
worry, Retief, those revenue agents are lousy shots—" Gloot's reassurances
were interrupted by a flash and a Boom! and the whistling passage of a
projectile that sailed high overhead to raise a column of water a hundred yards
to starboard.

"I see
what you mean," Retief said. "Nevertheless, I think you're about to
lose your command." He pointed with his cigar at the water sluicing across
the buckled planks of the deck. "We're sinking."

As he spoke,
cries rose from the crew, who suddenly found themselves ankle-deep in sea
water. Gloot groaned.

"I
guess I took that last corner too fast; she's opened her seams!"

A breaker
rolled across the deck. A crewman, swept off his feet, went under with a
despairing cry. As the vessel wallowed, the waters surged, rushed back across
the half-submerged planking, swirling around Retief's shins. The crewman was no
longer in evidence; instead, a swarm of disassociated parts splashed in the
brine, as the Lumbagan's formerly independent components resumed their
free-swimming status, making instinctively for shore.

"Well,
so long, Retief," Gloot cried. "Maybe our various limbs and organs
will meet up again in some future arrangement—" he broke off.
"Ah—sorry, I forgot your hookup is a one-time deal. Tough lines, Retief.
Take a last look around, here we go. . . ."

"Let's
swim for it, it's not far."

"Well,
I guess you could do that if you want to prolong the process. As for me, I'd as
soon get it over with—"

"And
miss finding out if the superstitions are true? Come on, Gloot, last one
ashore's an amputated leg." Retief dived over the side. He stroked hard
against the suction created by the sinking hulk, surfaced in time to see the
tip of the mast descend slowly from sight amid a vigorous boiling of water
strewn with flotsam from the ill-fated Peccadillo. Multitudes of Singletons
which had formerly constituted the privateer's complement churned the waves,
heading instinctively toward land. A ragged cheer went up from the revenue
cutter.

Gloot bobbed
up a few yards away. "She was my first command," he said sadly.
"I guess maybe she was put together a little too much like us Lumbagans."

"A
melancholy moment," Retief acknowledged. He shrugged out of his jacket,
pulled off his shoes and thrust them into his side pockets, and set off at an
easy crawl, Gloot dog-paddling beside him. It was a cool evening, but the water
was pleasantly warm, mildly saline. Groo-groo congealed from the darkness
ahead, resolving itself into a cluster of rhubarb-shaped trees above a pale
streak which widened into a curving beach. They rode the breakers in, grounding
on coarse coral sand, and waded in through tidal pools to shore. Ahead dark
jungle loomed, impenetrable in the dim light of the moons, now obscured by
ragged clouds.

The Lumbagan
tested the wind, all ears angled to attitudes of total alertness.

"Hear
something?" Retief asked.

"Yeah,"
the Lumbagan breathed. "Kind of a stealthy slosh."

"That's
just the water running out of your boots," Retief pointed out. "Huh?
Oh, yeah."

The lesser
moon emerged from behind the clouds. Retief scanned the beach, noted a small
keg half-buried in the pink sand, the word RUM stenciled on the end.