Retief and the PanGalactic Pageant of Pulchritude (7 page)

            "Here,"
General Mub interrupted busily. "It is hardly your responsibility,
Constable, to intrude in state affairs. Kindly limit your officiousness to
seeking out and neutralizing these pesky Terries, if any more should venture
into the area."

            "What's
cooking, General?" Yong countered, pointedly ignoring the military
big-wig's demand. "Sounds like the Glorb army's getting ready to do
something foolish."

            "It
is the army not of the Glorb alone," the officer came back. "I'll
remind you that it is the defense force of the entire planet and thus Glorbian,
not just Glorbish, and is recognized as such by a major Galactic power!"

            "You
mean your pals the Groaci," Yong commented indifferently. "Sure, I
know they set you boys up as head tribe here, but don't let 'em sucker you into
some dumb adventure you can only lose. No space fleet, remember? You piss off
Terra, for example, and you'll be looking up at a solid layer of dreadnaughts
englobing the planet. Against that, noisy speeches won't make much of a
dent."

            "Aha,
but let them attempt to land!" Mub came back, unchastened. "They'll
encounter not only the advanced technology of Glorb, but the ferocity of the
world's lesser life-forms! If I but unloose a thousand tud against their
infantry, they'll rue the day—"

            "Sure,"
Yong agreed readily. "I guess I forgot how big an appetite the old tuds
have got, at that. I just hope the Terries don't give 'em a bellyache."
The big cat winked again at Retief, then retired to a corner to snooze. Mub
rustled pages on his desk and gave Retief a quizzical look.

            "Now,
as to general outlines," he stated hurriedly, "I am of course fully
briefed. Up to the point where we seize the hostages, my duty is clear. But so
far, my advisor hasn't divulged the details of our demands."

            "Oh,
the usual trade concessions," Retief suggested casually, "including
exclusive rights to various remunerative markets, of course, plus various
protective embargoes, letters of marque to protect your trade lanes, adequate
developmental grants, options on a few dozen virgin worlds—that should do for
openers," he concluded. "Always remember Groac's status as Most Favored
Nation, eh? Would you care to add anything?"

            "That
sounds adequate," Mub agreed blandly, "for openers only, of course,
as Your Excellency suggests. But how about one of those snazzy Thousand-Tonne
VIP boats as my personal transport, 'Glorb Number One', OK? And I'll need a
Bugatti
Royale
replica for ground travel, armored in an inconspicuous
way, and mounting a brace of infinite repeaters for crowd control."

            "The
General is modest," Retief answered. "And just where do you intend to
impound the Galactic beauties after you've taken them hostage? I'll need to
review your security arrangements, of course."

            "To
be sure," Mub agreed expressionlessly. "There's a cave I know of,
back in the desert. Nothing fancy, but good enough for a couple of weeks. We
could put in some cots, or hot mud boxes, or whatever, and a port-o-let, and
cater the whole thing. Just need a couple near-sighted limited-duty troopers to
stand guard over 'em, so they don't wander off in the desert and get
lost."

            As
Mub was concluding his remarks, there was a stir at the entrance, and a small,
spindle-legged stranger, closely wrapped in a puce cloak thrust past the
protesting sentry to confront the Glorb general.

            "To
see here, General," he whispered. "To have heard report of atrocities
directed at one of my staff, a general officer, Shinth by name—"

            "Hey!"
Mub cut off the recrimination, "it's one o' them Terries! Grab him, boys,
and don't worry about bending him a little!"

            At
once, a brace of the nearest Glorb sprang into action, seizing the slightly
built newcomer by both arms, tearing away his cloak in the process, while the
object of their attention hissed indignantly.

            "See?"
General Mub cried. "I tole you! Them five wiggly eyes is a dead giveaway.
Don't let him pull nothing, now. Say, fellow, just who are you, anyways?"

            The
Groaci, having been spun about, was now face to face with Retief. His eyes went
rigid, then wilted, indicating Total Incredulity
(41
-b). "Retief!" he yelled.

            "No,
you can't fool me on that one," Mub dismissed the shout. "I got this
Retief locked up in my number three dungeon. You'll hafta do beter'n that.
Anyways, I know this Retief to be a 'miscreant o' the worst stripe', I think
Hish said. Now, who are you?"

            "To
be none other than that same Broodmaster Hish whose name you invoked so lightly
but now," the Groaci whispered.

            "You,
Hish?" Mub scoffed. "You're a Terry, I know the type. Got a nerve at
that, walking in here. Got some scheme to release this Retief, I guess."

            "To
perdition with Retief!" Hish shrilled, pointing at the tall Terran.
"There stands Retief, as bold as a brass Hoogan idol! Arrest him
forthwith! Clap him in irons this instant! I insist!"

            "You're
in no position to do no insisting, bub," Mub pointed out. "Now spill
it: what did you plan to do? What's the idea busting in here while I and my
distinguished guest, the Groacian Advisor-in-Chief are tryna have a little
chin-chin? Hah?" The General gestured peremptorily to a guard.

            "Number
four," he ordered. "And better double-padlock it. This one's the
tricky type."

            "To
rue the day!" Hish keened. "To kneel before a Tribunal of summary
expediency and beg forgiveness for this moment!"

            "Oh,
don't tear yourself up, fella," Mub replied in a tone which implied
Expansive Magnanimity (244-b). "You hadda job to do; you gave it a try—
but you run up against Major General Mub, DAC, FBY, and flunked out. I'll even
put in a good word for your brass at the trial."

            "To
be not I, but you, dolt," Hish yelled, "who is to stand at the bar of
practicality!" Then he was dragged away, still struggling, until the
hollow
bonk!
of a spear-butt against his cranial plates silenced him.

            "General,"
Retief said quietly in the hush following the pseudo-Terran's departure.
"You forgot to mention just when you plan to utter the signal."

            "Oh,
sorry about that, your Lordship," Mub replied briskly. "Just coming
to that, actually. Let's see ... how about daybreak? Catch 'em with their
sentries just doing the changing of the guard routine. Hit 'em fast and off
again in a couple o' them trices I hear the Constable here talking about."

            "That
sounds just a trifle impulsive, General," Retief told the officer.
"Not to me, of course, knowing your deliberative nature, but to the Board
of Inquiry."

            "Me?
I don't need to worry about no Board," Mub dismissed the thought. "I
got half them suckers on the payoff roll, and the other half are in on the
scheme up to their vibrational nodules."

            "Not
the planetary board," Retief corrected. "The Galactic Board. You'll
get a free trip to Alpha Centauri to attend—quite an experience, if you don't
let a set of VIP irons bother you too much."

            "I
done nothing wrong," Mub declared only a trifle uncertainly. "All I
done was follow orders and cooperate with you Groaci. Don't forget it was you
fellows that sold the Grand Glorb on the idea we could hold up what he called
the Galactic community for whatever we want, to give us our, uh, 'rightful
status as a Galactic power', or something, was what Hish said."

            "Just
wait until the Galactic community reads the headlines," Retief proposed.
" 'Glorb General Grabs Galactic Glamor Girls'. What about your status
then? They'll be coming after you, personally, with ropes, clubs, knives,
baseball bats, spears, pellet guns, blasters, flint knives and reformers. Where
can you hide?"

            "I
don't get it," Mub declared, his lumpy gray face looking chalky-pale.
"You, the big Groaci advisor tryna throw a scare into me right on the eve
o' yer own scheme. It don't figger."

            "Merely
testing your mettle, General," Retief explained deftly. "I think now I'd
best have a word with the spy in Number Three."

            "Sure,"
Mub agreed, seeming relieved at the change of subject. "Hey sergeant—you
with the dumb look," he clarified, gesturing to a heavier-than-average
Glorb. "Escort this here noble-being over Number Three, leave him
interview the Terry."

            Number
Three was a natural cave hollowed ages ago in the soft limestone of a
cliff-face by long-vanished waters. Its entrance was barred with stout two-inch
rods, against which Shinth slumped disconsolately, all five eyes drooping
listlessly. One snapped to the alert as Retief came up.

            "Foul
evening, vile Soft One," he spat halfheartedly. "You'll rue the day
you impersonated a noble Groacian, your reactionary schemes to promote."

            "No
doubt, Broodmaster," Retief conceded gracefully. "But I plan to do
all my ruing later on, not right now. As for you," Retief switched to the
Groaci court dialect. "To give some thought to how you can get
yourself—and Groac—out of the trap you've built for yourselves. 'Groaci Grab
Galactic Glamor Gals'," he recited. "To fear Groaci prestige will
sink to an all-time low when word gets out."

            "Word
won't get out!" Shinth hissed. "Not even you, vile wrecker and
noxious persecutor of selfless Groacian bureaucrats, would sink so low as to
snitch, not that we actually know anything about Mub's mad scheme."

            "Tell
me all about Mub's mad scheme," Retief directed the excited Broodmaster.
"He gave me only the broad outlines. I'd like you to fill in the
details."

            "Would
you not!" Shinth spat. "To have never trusted that blabbermouth Mub!
The fool will be the first to know the wrath of outraged Groacihood, one I get
sprung from this lousy cell."

            "That
may be quite some time," Retief pointed out. "According to Sergeant Flup
here, the glab-worm comes out of the recesses of his den to feed every
seventy-two hours. It's been about seventy and a half, so if you've got your
handy escape kit with you, it's time to get it inflated."

            "Would
stand by and watch a fellow being-of-the-Galaxy die horribly?" Shinth
quavered. "Allow a fellow diplomat to disappear into the maw of the
fearsome glab-worm? To be a bit surprised, Retief. To have not believed even
you could sink to the level of these barbaric natives!"

            "Hey!"
Sergeant Flup interrupted. "Who you calling barbaric, Terry?"

            "And
who are
you
calling a vile Terry?" Shinth retorted.

            "You
was the one said that," Flup reminded his captive. "I heard you my
ownself say you were that Retief the advisors warned his Nibs about!"

            "No
I didn't," Shinth denied. "It's all one of those grotesque
misunderstandings."

            "What's
Grote got to do with it?" the sergeant challenged. "I hear that's a
nice, peaceful planet never done Glorb no harm. And are you saying you lied to
the General?"

            "By
no means, Sergeant." Shinth replied with wounded dignity. "If you but
knew what awesome forces you tempt when you impugn the veracity of a Groacian
Broodmaster...."

            "Wait
a minute," Retief put in. "A moment ago you were coming on like a
poor, humble functionary, following orders; now suddenly you're playing the
Interplanetary VIP angle. You'd better make up your mind before the Sergeant
decides to take you out of that nice safe cage and run you off into the jungle,
where the tud lurks, and the murap-boar roams in search of prey."

            "Good
idea, Mr. Advisor," Flup commented as he detached his keys from his wide
tump-leather belt. "Just what I had in mind. Uh, you don't think the
General will bite my ass, do you?" After a moment he added thoughtfully:
"Still, it's been chewed before, and there's still plenty of good sweet
ass left."

            "Time
grows short, fellow!" Shinth keened, shaking a knobby fist.

            "Too
right," Flup admitted as he removed the padlocked panel and stepped back
to allow his spindly prisoner to emerge.

            "Retief!"
Shinth whispered. "You wouldn't really abandon me to the mercies of the
fabled tud, would you? Pretty please with sugar on, let a fellow Second
Secretary remain safe inside."

            "There's
still the glab-worm, remember?" Retief replied. "About an hour and a
half, I'd say. But you be the judge. After you've written out a full
confession, I'll let you choose—or rather this alert non-com will. Right,
Flup?"

            "You
betcha, Mr. Advisor. Anything you say. Cause I know you'll file a good word for
me with old Mub."

            "Old
Mub has already filed some five thousand words on you, none of them good, I
fear, Sergeant," the General's voice spoke suddenly from directly behind
the NCO, who leaped as if prodded by a spear and alighted explaining, an effort
ignored by his superior.