Retief at Large (17 page)

            "How
many rounds in this rifle?"

            "Five
in the magazine, and a spare on your left shoulder."

            "How
do we know there aren't other hunters around? I' d hate to spear a friend of
yours by mistake."

            "You'll
get a recognition tone in your phones if anybody gets within fifteen
yards—maybe. That's part of the game. I got a nice barb cut out of my left leg
last year. Some joker wanted a Big Mouth for cut bait." Yum waved and
flicked away. Retief picked an open avenue between towering corals and started
off. Walking was not too difficult after the first few steps; rather like
tramping the dusty surface of an asteroid, he reflected—except that the diving
gear was considerably less bulky than a spacesuit.

            There
was a movement to Retief's right. A tall biped stalked into view ten yards
distant, barely visible in the glow of phosphorescence. Retief halted and
brought the gun around. The newcomer moved on in great floating leaps. Retief
turned to follow.

            "Never
mind the Strider," Yum said. "He didn't see you; he must have just
fed. We'll work off to the right here and let him have this territory."

            Retief
watched as the biped bounded off into the gloom, then moved on.

            Ahead,
the darkness seemed deeper. A cow-sized creature with warts and glowing rings
around wide eyes blundered past, rocking him with a surge of water. Tiny fish
flashed by. The gloom deepened.

            "Action!"
Yum's voice came, tense in the earphones. "Keep going; we've got a big one
coming up to take a look!"

            Retief
twisted to look toward the depths, like a black sky in which a dark cloud
moved. He went on.

            "That's
the stuff. Act like you don't notice him; otherwise he'll let fly with his
musk, and we'll be working in the dark ..."

            The
shadow moved, spreading. All around, the scene darkened. At last a sluggish
sea-creature humped past, raising a trail of mud-fog.

            "Hey,"
Yum's voice came. "He's by-passing us, moving on."

            "Maybe
he's just not hungry tonight."

            "It's
that Strider we saw; he's after him. Let's go!"

            Retief
turned, saw a swirl of phosphorescence, jetted after it. The surface of the
weed sloped, an inverted hill. Retief moved up beside Yum, following the
immense shadow that fled across the rolling surface. The Strider came into
view, leaning back toward the two hunters.

            "Take
him!" Yum barked. "I'll get under the big boy!" He swirled away.
Retief brought the rifle to his shoulder, aimed—

            A
brilliant light flashed from the Strider's chest. The creature reached,
grabbing at its back ...

            "Hold
it!" Yum's voice snapped. "That's no Strider!"

            The
long greenish beam of the searchlight swung, flashing from coral trees, glowing
through drifting mud-clouds.

            "The
damned fool! He'd better douse that light!"

            The
Death Angel closed, like a hundred-foot blanket of black jelly settling in; the
stranger backed, working frantically to fit a magazine to his rifle, bringing
it up—

            The
Angel struck. For a moment it hugged the surface of the weed, rippling its
edge—then it heaved, recoiling violently—

            "Good-oh!"
Yum yelled. "I planted one fair and square! Move in and hit the hot-spot,
Retief, and we'll be up half the night counting gold over a bottle of
hundred-year yiquil!"

            Retief
hurled himself forward, kicked clear of the weed-bed, centered his sights on a
foot-wide patch of luminous red at the center of the vast writhing shape, and
fired, fired again, then went tumbling as the turbulence caught him and bowled
him over.

            Retief
and Yum crouched by the prone body of the Angel's victim.

            "He's
a Terry, all right, Retief. I wonder what he was doing Underside—alone?"

            "Probably
a tourist, out to see the sights. Though I hadn't heard of any travellers
registered with the Consulate."

            "You
may be right. We're not far from the Tap Root; he was headed that way, and he
seemed to know where he was going."

            Retief
checked the man's equipment, noted his pulse and respiration.

            "He
seems to be all right."

            "Sure.
He just took a good jolt of current. We didn't give the Big Boy a chance to get
his shredding hook into him."

            "We'd
better take him up."

            "Sure.
Soon as we stone out our Angel, before the Big Mouths get him. There's a public
entry-well not far away; probably the one he used. We'll just tow him along
with us. He'll be okay."

            The
vast bulk of the Angel drifted fifty yards from the crowns of the coral trees.
They swam to it, shooed off an inquisitive scavenger, moved around to the red
spot on the expanse of black hide. A short spear stood, half its length buried
dead center in the target. A second spear protruded a foot away.

            Yum
whistled. "You work close Retief. Nice shooting." He undipped a
slim-bladed knife, made an incision, plunged an arm into the rubbery body and
brought out a lumpy organ the size of a grapefruit. He whistled again.

            "This
must be the beachmaster of all Angels! Look at the size of that pouch!" He
slit the leathery body carefully, dipped in two fingers and extracted a black
sphere as big as a large grape.

            "Retief,
we make a great team. Look at those stones!"

            "What
do you use them for?"

            "We
grind them up and sprinkle them on our food. A great delicacy."

            "Yum,
what's this Tap Root you mentioned?"

            "Eh?
Why, it's—well, it's the root that supplies the mat."

            "Just
one for all this weed?"

            "Sure;
it's all one plant—the whole Mat."

            "I'd
like to take a look at it. I can't picture a Terry swimming around down here at
the height of a storm, just to rubberneck—not unless it's a pretty spectacular
sight."

            "It
doesn't look like much. Just a big tough cable, running down into the Big
Deep." Yum tucked the pearls into a pouch clipped to his leg and led the
way along the sloping weed surface. He indicated a black mass ahead.

            That's
it—back in that tangle of rootlets there. The tap's a hundred feet in diameter
and over a mile long. It anchors the Mat, and feeds it, too."

            "Let's
take a closer look."

            Retief
moved in among the waving rootlets.

            "Say—what's
that?" Yum's voice came over the earphones. Ahead, a large dark shape
nestled among the entwining roots. Retief swam up alongside.

            "It's
a scout boat—Terry designed." He swam to the entry port, found it locked.
"Let's reconnoiter a little, Yum."

            The
two moved over the waving mass of rootlets, cruising beside the moss-grown,
barnacled wall of the immense root. Retief caught a glimpse of a white object,
fluttering in the dark water. He headed for it.

            It
was a plastic tag, wired to a spike driven into the husk of the root. Below it
hung a small box, metal covered, with an insulated cable projecting from one
side.

            "What
is it? Who'd come here and tamper with the Root?" Yum asked, puzzled.

            "It's
a detonator," Retief said. "The cable is designed to plug into a
packaged explosive charge."

            "Explosive!
Here, by the Root?"

            "How
long would the weed last with the root cut?"

            "Last?
It wouldn't last a day! You cut a sprig of the weed, it crumbles in a matter of
minutes. Oh, the fruit, leaves, husks, are tough enough—but the main mass would
disintegrate like a sugar lump in a mug of hot
roca
."

           
"Somewhere there's a bomb to
go with the detonator, Yum," Retief said. "Probably aboard the boat.

            Our
swimmer was on the way to get it, I'd guess. Let's check him for keys.

            Yum
fumbled over the limp body. "He's clean, Retief. He must have lost them in
the fight."

            "All
right; let's get him to the surface and see what he has to say."

            In
the damp-smelling cavern of the public entry hall, Retief stood over the
unconscious man. Water dripped from him, puddled on the heavy-duty rattan ramp
that sloped up from the water. The attendant on duty came forward, clucked at
the sight of the inert body.

            "He
left here, not fifteen minutes ago. Wouldn't accept my offer of a guide. I warned
him ..."

            "Where
are his clothes?" Retief asked.

            "On
the shelf—there." The attendant pointed to a coat, trousers, boots, a
tangle of heavy leather belts and an empty holster in a neat pile.

            "A
cop?" Retief said. He examined the garments. "No identification,"
he said. "And no keys."

            "What
happened?" the attendant asked.

            "An
Angel hit him."

            "He'll
be out for hours, then," the attendant said. "A big Angel gives a
pretty good shock. Hah! These tourists are all alike."

            "Yum,
you don't have a police force here—or an army?"

            "No.
What would we need with those?"

            "Can
you get a few friends together—volunteers, to watch the patrol boat?"

            "Sure,
Retief. All you want."

            "Station
about a dozen in the underbrush around the boat. Tell them to keep out of
sight—we don't want to scare anybody off. But be careful. A spear-gun is no
match for a Mark IV blaster."

            "I'll
call the boys." Yum went into the attendant's office, emerged five minutes
later.

            "All
set," he declared. "What about him?" He indicated the sleeping
cop.

            "Have
the fellow on duty watch him until your friends get here. Meanwhile, he'd
better put him somewhere out of sight."

            "What
about the bomb?"

            "We'll
have to try to stampede somebody. Whoever sent our friend here doesn't know he
didn't make it."

            Retief
looked at Yum, frowning in thought. "Yum, peel out of that scare suit and
put the uniform on." He began stripping off the Strider Devil disguise.
"I'll borrow some local garb."

            "You've
got an idea?"