Retief and the PanGalactic Pageant of Pulchritude (4 page)

            "You're
not thinking of arresting her?" Magnan quavered. "She's only a naive
young thing, and under diplomatic immunity at that."

            "Naw,
nothing like that," Yong disclaimed. "I got nothing on the kid—just
high-spirited is all, you know."

            "Most
high-minded of you, Constable," Magnan congratulated the cop. "As to
her whereabouts, she seems to have, um, strolled off to contemplate nature or
like that. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to seek her out and escort her back
here."

            "Well,
I dunno, it's not what you'd call line-of-duty," Yong objected feebly.
"But I guess I could have a look around. I know these here badlands pretty
good after twenty years on the beat."

            "Now,
Retief," Magnan addressed his colleague, drawing him aside from the most
boisterous of the still-clamoring newshawks. "How are we to manage the
substitution of Gertrude for Peaches? His Ex has a beady eye on the girl, we
may be sure. It will be no simple matter to whisk her out of sight."

            "Suppose
we just let it ride for the present and see what develops," Retief
suggested.

            "You're
right; it
is
close to tea-time," Magnan agreed. "After our
little adventure, I'm famished."

            Seated
at the long table in the Senior Officers' Mess, Magnan cupped an ear
attentively as Ambassador Grossblunder, at the head of the board, drew down the
corners of his traplike mouth, glared along the line of faces miming Eager
Interest Above and Beyond the Call of Duty (71-z).

            "Don't
strain a gusset, Ben," he advised Magnan, "I haven't said anything
yet. And your seventy-one (about a weak C, I'd say) is lacking in zeal. Either
that or your crumpet has disagreed with you."

            "Not
at all, Mr. Ambassador," Magnan reassured his chief. "The crumpets
are superb. It was just that I didn't want to miss anything."

            "Are
you implying that I mumble?" Grossblunder demanded testily.

            "Heavens,
no, Your Excellency,
not you!"
Magnan improvised.

            "Oh,
you're suggesting I'm accustomed to yell," the Chief of Mission replied in
the tones of one who has just solved a mystery.

            "Who,
me, sir?" Magnan whimpered.

            "No,
me,
you idiot!" Grossblunder barked. "Better leave it at that,
Ben; you're getting in deeper with every word. Now—" he dismissed the
subject. "We're faced here, gentlemen—and lady," he added, with a
smirk at Miss Flump, the junior assistant in the Cultural Attache's office.
"Local regulations, it seems, are in direct conflict with Terran mores—to
say nothing of common decency!"

            "But,
sir," Lacklustre of the Program Committee put in, "it's a basic of
Corps policy, going all the way back to pre-space times, that native customs
are to be regarded as sacrosanct to the point of the ridiculous, while one's
own most treasured principles are to be abandoned at once in the face of a hint
of alien disapproval."

            "Certainly,
Marvin," the great man acknowledged. "That's fine when it comes to
eating aged Furthuronian Garg and like that, but these Glorbian barbarians are
demanding that a shy, retiring, modest little
shicksa
parade around in
front of a bunch of talking crabs and all, without a stitch to her back! Now,
there's some things that ought to be reserved for a lady's husband or fatherly
sponsor only. I'm putting my foot down: Peaches don't compete in the raw!"

            "Still,"
Hy Felix of the Information Service put in, "it wouldn't look too good in
the old record if Terra no-shows (no pun, boys) at this pernt."

            "Say,
sir," Magnan piped up. "I have a notion." He glanced around almost
coyly at Retief before proceeding. "Why don't we substitute another
candidate, one perhaps less inhibited than Miss Ripetree?"

            "You
saying Peaches got no team spirit, Ben? Nonsense, she's a good sport, just
sheltered, is all. Anyway, where do you propose to scare up a replacement on
about eight hours' notice? The big semifinal is at five pee em today, you
know."

            "Right,
sir!" Magnan responded brightly. "And I imagine the farsighted and
resourceful diplomat who produced a solution to the dilemma would rate an
'outstanding' in his effectiveness column next ER, eh, sir?"

            "Ben,"
the Ambassador said sadly, "to dream of outstanding ER's at this point is
visionary in the extreme, I should say." He jotted a note on his
traditional yellow legal pad with one of the needle-sharp 2H pencils provided
according to immemorial custom, snapping the point off short.

            "Damn!"
he snapped, tossing the offending instrument to the floor whence it was rescued
and reverently replaced by young Marvin Lacklustre.

            "Don't
know why the Corps can't provide a decent electro-stylus instead of these
damned charred sticks," he muttered, glaring along the table for signs of
disapproval.

            "Oh,
I agree, sir," Magnan warbled as the icy glance seemed to hesitate for a
moment on him.

            "
'Critical of Corps policy'," Grossblunder scribbled, snapping off a second
needle-point. "But enough of these trifles," he decreed heavily.
"Boys, we got to field a winner, pronto, and without giving Peaches
chilblains, nor providing Thif with ammo for another smear."

            "Why,
Mr. Ambassador," Marvin offered eagerly, "why don't we just admit
it's impossible, get off a dispatch to Sector so they won't find out from the
morning pictonews, and get the heck out of this crummy place?"

            "That
will be enough out of you, Lacklustre," his Chief commanded almost
quietly. "You're junior, remember, Marv,
very
junior, and your best
strategy is to keep quiet and listen while your betters wrestle with the
profound problems that beset the Galaxy."

            "I
don't see how Peaches showing her rump is so Galaxy-shaking," Marvin
muttered under his breath, only partially drowned out by the simultaneous
throat-clearing of three adjacent senior bureaucrats instinctively closing
ranks to protect the young. Grossblunder looked startled, then shook his head
dismissingly.

            "Couldn't
have done," he mumbled, then turned his 429-2 (Benign Paternalism, Sorely
Tried) on Marvin.

            "Any
indiscretion uttered at this time under the stress of the moment will be
overlooked, gentlemen," he intoned, adding, "you're lucky, Marvin,
this time. See that you don't misinterpret charity as weakness."

            "I've
got an idea," Nat Sitzfleisch of the Econ Section spoke up briskly.
"Suppose we wrap Peachy in bandages and claim she's got a skin condition
that's highly contagious. That'll give 'em something to think about."

            "Right,
for about a zillioneth of a second," his Excellency replied sardonically,
"then Thif will come up with his leader: 'Terries Impose Typhoid Mary on
Galactic Beauties'."

            "Heck,
half of 'em don't even have skin," Nat muttered to himself. "With
that oversized molluscoid babe from Yirg 19 and all them chitinous critters
from you-name-it, and all the other ones with feathers and scales and
all."

            "It
is precisely the
other
half which will raise the cry of contagion,
Nat," Grossblunder pointed out, almost kindly.

            "Don't
be concerned, Mr Ambassador," Magnan counselled dramatically. "I can
assure Your Excellency that the matter will be resolved to the complete
satisfaction of all."

            Retief
leaned closer to his supervisor to comment. "Too bad we don't know where
Gertie is, eh, Mr. Magnan? Maybe I'd better go look for her."

            "Not
now," Magnan hissed. "Later, after Staff Meeting!"

            "Ben,"
the Ambassador cut in, eyeing Magnan with a look as reassuring as an impending
ice avalanche. "When you've concluded your chat, perhaps you'd return your
attention to the problem you so lightly dismissed a moment ago."

            "I
didn't exactly dismiss it, sir," Magnan cried. "I only said I'm sure
you'll resolve the matter satisfactorily, as usual."

            "No,
Ben," the Recording Secretary contradicted. "You said
you'd
clear
everything up."

            "Hardly,
Fester," Magnan rebuked the clerk. "I but predicted a happy
resolution of the affair, reposing full confidence in our chief, His Excellency
the Terran AE and MP."

            "Sure,
that's OK for you, Ben," Grossblunder said grumpily, "but I'm the
one's got to contend with Peaches, which I promised her she'd be the toast of
the Eastern Arm. She's a demanding broad," he added, "and right now
she's demanding my hide."

            "Say,
there's a Terry Mission over at Furthuron, only about six lights in-Arm,"
Colonel Underknuckle offered. "They prolly got a couple snazzy secretaries
over there could stand in for this Ripetree dame if she's too shy to show. No
pun intended, fellas."

            "I
think, Colonel, it might be difficult to explain that the Terran entrant had
suddenly become twins," Grossblunder objected. "Even if, as I must
assume, you have overnight developed a method of instanteous transfer of
personnel."

            "Now,
nothing like that," the Attache objected, "I just thought—"

            "
'Didn't think' might perhaps better describe your cerebral activity,
Harvey," His Ex countered. "Now, back to your duties, gentlemen: we
still have a few hours of daylight in which to come up with a solution which
will doubtless go down in Corps history." He rose and left the room,
attended by a cluster of his more image-conscious underlings, all talking at
once. Retief slipped out by a side door and hurried away.

            After
dropping by the mess hall for a sandwich made from a slice of succulent haunch
of frozen blurb-beast, Retief descended again to the rocky plateau, now nearly
deserted, only a few discarded gribble-grub bags blowing in the hot wind to
suggest that a crowd had dispersed only moments before. The featureless expanse
of pinkish rock stretched away in all directions to a dark line of distant
verdure. After ten minutes' brisk walk, Retief looked back: the visiting ships,
some squat, some slender needles, had shrunk to insignificance. Ahead lay only
more of the sun-baked terrain. He went on, scanning bare rock for a glimpse of
Gertrude's sinuous form. Then, far ahead, Yong strolled into view from the
shelter of a clump of tumbled rocks. Retief angled off to intercept the local
cop, who changed course to meet him.

            "You
got any idear where she would of went?" Yong called. Retief shook his
head. "Unless there's a patch of jungle not too far away," he
suggested. "Gertie's used to dense vegetation."

            Yong
waved a front paw. "Sure," he said. "Right past the ridge
yonder. This here's the only patch of desert this side o' the ocean. Government
big shots didn't want to waste any useful real estate on a bunch of foreigners.
Them Glorb are a bunch of small-timers, got no feel for public relations."

            "You're
critical of your government?" Retief commented idly.

            "Not
my
gubment," Yong objected. "I ain't no Glorb. What I am, I'm
a Vang," he declared with vehemence. "See, there's a number of
mentational species evolved on Boondock. We used to eat 'em, yunnerstan', then
the Groaci come along and set up the Glorbs in business as top dogs. Coulda
wiped us out with them borrowed power guns, I guess, but these here
Groaci—they're foreigners, like you. Well, not exactly like you, maybe worse.
But they come along and stuck their snoots in. We hadda go along. They had all
kinds o' zap-guns, yunnerstan'. But old King Zup the Sagacious, he sold 'em on
a deal where we'd handle the rough stuff—army and all—and do cop duty. So now
we coexist." Yong settled on his haunches and used a formidably taloned
hind leg to dislodge a small parasite from behind an ear.

            "Damn
yutz-bugs," he commented. "Desert's full of 'em. You're lucky they
can't use alien juices. That's one of our like grievances," he went on.
"Damn Glorbs—or their Groaci pals—could exterminate the yutz-bugs any
time—but they don't bother. Maybe old Zup didn't make such a neat deal after
all. Well, let's go see if we can pick up her trail. I lost it on the rock-flats—but
we oughta be able to find it on the sand if we quarter it pretty good."

            Retief
looked out across the sun-hazed expanse of wind-rippled dunes. "Let's try
the jungle first," he suggested.

            "No
offense, pal," Yong offered almost diffidently, "but you don't look
to me like you're designed for the desert work. Wanta ride? I wouldn't let no
Glorb set on me, but hell, we're in this together. We'd make better time,"
he added.

            Retief
accepted, and a moment later the constable was proceeding by twenty-foot bounds
toward the distant streak of green which marked the jungle's edge, the Terran
astride and gripping the shaggy mane.