Retief at Large (48 page)

            "Saved,"
Magnan breathed in relief. "Can you direct us, Herby?"

            "Certainly.
Just press on meenie, bearing a little to the miney after you cross the stream,
then hard moe at the lake. You can't miss him."

            Magnan
looked startled. "How did you know?" He frowned at Retief in
puzzlement. "I thought we named the local directions."

            "Oh,
indeed," Herby spoke up. "I merely employed your own
nomenclature."

            "You
must have a fantastic ear," Magnan said wonderingly. "That discussion
was held miles from here."

            "I
don't miss much," Herby said complacently.

            "He's
remarkably sophisticated for such a modest bloom," Magnan commented as
they started off.

            "I
suspect most of Herby is underground, Mr. Magnan," Retief pointed out.
"There's no room for a speech center in the part we saw."

            "Gad—a
subterranean cerebrum—like a giant potato?" Magnan said uneasily, treading
lightly. "A spooky thought, Retief."

            Twenty
minutes' brisk hike brought the two Terrans to the shore of a small, gurgling
brook overhung with majestically arching foliage. They followed the bank to the
right for a quarter of a mile, at which point the waters spilled down in a
foaming amber cataract into a placid pond a half-mile across.

            "So
far so good," Magnan said uncertainly. "But I see no signs of habitation,
not even a hut, to say nothing of a ship."

            Retief
moved past Magnan toward a dense thicket that obtruded somewhat from the smooth
line of trees edging the lakeshore. He parted the broad, copper-colored leaves,
revealing a surface of rust-pitted metal curving away into the dimness.

            "Lousy
Ann Two," he read the corroded letters welded to the crumbling hull
plates. "Looks like we've found Renfrew's ship." He pulled a
low-growing branch aside. "And here's Renfrew."

            "Splendid!"
Magnan hurried up halted abruptly to stare in horror at the heap of mouldering
bones topped by a grinning skull still wearing a jaunty yachting cap.

            "That's
Renfrew?" he quavered.

            "Quite
so," said a deep voice from somewhere overhead. "And take my word for
it, Mister—it's been a long, lonely time since he sat down there."

            "Two
hundred years, give or take a decade or two," Retief said as he climbed
out through the derelict's sagging port, brushing the dust and rust scale from
his hands. "She was a Concordiat-registered racing sloop, converted for
long-range cruising. What's left of the crew quarters suggests she was fitted
out for one-man operation."

            "That's
right," agreed the resonant baritone—-which, the Terrans had determined,
emanated from a large, orchid-like blossom sprouting amid the foliage twenty
feet above their heads. "Just Renfrew. It was a small world he inhabited
but he seemed content with it. Not that he was stand-offish, of course. He was
as friendly as could be—right up until the difficulty about his leaving."

            "What
sort of difficulty?" Magnan inquired.

            "He
seemed quite upset that his vessel was unable to function. I did my best to
console him—regaled him with stories and poems, sang merry songs—"

            "Where
did you learn them?" Magnan cut in sharply. "I understood Renfrew was
the first Terran to visit here."

            "Why,
from him, of course."

            "Good
lord—imagine having your own chestnuts endlessly repeated back at you,"
Magnan whispered behind his hand.

            "Did
you ever tell a joke to an ambassador?" Retief inquired.

            "A
telling point," Magnan conceded. "But at least they usually add a
little variety by garbling the punchline."

            "How
did Renfrew happen to crash-land here?" Retief inquired.

            "Oh,
he didn't. He came to rest very gently."

            "Then
why couldn't he take off again?" Magnan demanded.

            "I
believe he described it as foreign matter in the warpilator field
windings," the voice replied vaguely. "But let's not talk about the
past. The present is so much more exciting. Heavens, there hasn't been such
activity here since the last glacial age."

            "Retief—there's
something slightly piscine about this situation," Magnan murmured.
"I'm not sure I trust these garrulous gardenias. Herby said he was the
only one of his kind on the planet—yet here's another equally verbose
vegetable."

            "Oh,
that was quite true," the voice above spoke up promptly. "Why in the
world would I lie to you?"

            "Kindly
refrain from eavesdropping," Magnan said coldly. "This is a personal
conversation."

            "Not
as personal as calling me a potato brain," the orchid said a trifle
coolly.

            "Goodness—I
hope you don't listen to irresponsible gossip," Magnan replied with
dignity. "Do I appear the type to employ such an epithet?" He put his
mouth to Retief's ear. "The grapevine here surpasses anything I've
encountered even at a diplomatic reception."

            "Now,
let me see," the voice from on high mused. "You mentioned something
called a parking lot. I'd like to know more about that and—"

            "I
suppose Herby told you that, too," Magnan snapped. "If I'd known he
was such a blabbermouth I'd never have confided in him! Come, Retief—we'll
withdraw to where we can have a modicum of privacy."

            "As
to that, Mr. Magnan—" Retief started.

            "Not
here," Magnan interrupted. He led the way a hundred feet down the shore,
halted under a spreading bough. "It's apparent I was indiscreet with Herby,"
he said from the comer of his mouth, without moving his lips. "I see now
he was a rumormonger of the worst stripe, in addition to being of questionable
veracity. Sole representative of his race, indeed! Why, I suspect every shrub
in sight has a wagging tongue."

            "Very
probably," Retief agreed.

            "There's
nothing to do now, quite obviously," Magnan said, "but select an
honest-looking plant and approach the problem afresh, impressing the vegetable
with our sincerity and benign intentions. When we've wormed our way into its
confidence we can determine how best to make use of it to our own best
advantage. How does it sound?"

            "Familiar,"
Retief said.

            "Excuse
me." Magnan jumped a foot as a voice squeaked the words almost in his ear.
"What does 'sincerity' mean in this context?"

            Retief
addressed a cluster of small, russet buds almost invisible among the roan
leaves overhead.

            "Very
little."

            "Is
there no privacy to be found anywhere in the confounded wilderness?"
Magnan inquired with asperity.

            "I'm
afraid not," the miniature voice piped. "As I was telling you a while
ago, there's not a great deal I miss."

            "A
while ago?" Magnan repeated with a rising inflection. "Why, we've
only just met—"

            "I
don't understand, Mister. I'm Herby. You know me.

            "Nonsense.
Herby is a little chap growing a mile from here."

            "Of
course. I grow everywhere, naturally. After all, it's my island, isn't it? Not
that I'm not willing to share it with a few friends."

            "Utter
nonsense," Magnan sputtered. "I might have known a potato was
incapable of coherent thought."

            "Herby's
telling the truth," Retief said. "It's all one plant—the trees, the
grass, everything. Like a banyan tree, only more so." He examined a flower
closely. "There's a tympanic membrane that serves as both microphone and
speaker. Very ingenious of mother nature."

            "In
that case—they—or it—"

            "He,"
Retief amended.

            "He's
overheard every word that's been spoken since we landed." Magnan addressed
the blossoms directly. "Look here, Herby—you're aware that we're
distressed diplomats, marooned here by an unfortunate accident—"

            "I
thought Slith and that other fellow— Okkyokk—were responsible," Herby
corrected. "They seem dreadfully argumentive chaps. I do wish they'd lower
their voices."

            "Quite—now,
you're aware of their hostile intentions toward Mr. Retief and myself—"

            "Oh,
my," Herby interrupted, "they do seem upset. Such language—"

            "Yes.
As I was saying—" Magnan paused. "What do you mean, 'such language'?"

            "I
was referring to Grand Commander Slith's rather graphic use of invective,"
Herby explained. "Not that General Okkyokk isn't holding his own, of
course. I must say my vocabulary is expanding rapidly."

            "You
speak as though you could hear them now."

            "I
can. On the ship-to-shore band."

            "But—you
don't have a radio—do you?"

            "A
what?"

            "If
he has organs for detecting sound," Retief said, "why not organs for
picking up short wave?"

            "Why—that's
remarkable," Magnan exclaimed. "But short wave? It would be rather
too much to hope that you can send as well as receive?"

            "Why,
I suppose I could transmit via my snarf-nodes—if there were any reason
to."

            "Retief—we're
saved! Herby—send the following message at once: Special Priority-Z Mayday, CDT
Sector HQ, Aldo Cerise. CDT eight-seven-nine-oh-three, subject unprovoked
attack—no, make that unwarranted attack—resulting in emergency planetfall
and—"

            "Oh,
I'm sorry, Mister," Herby cut in. "I couldn't send that."

            "Why
not?"

            "Why,
if I did, some nose parker might come and take you away."

            "I
sincerely hope so."

            "I've
waited two hundred standard years for someone to talk to," Herby said in a
hurt tone. "Now you're talking of rushing off. Well, I won't have
it."

            "The
SOS is our sole hope," Magnan cried. "Would you stand in the way of
our rescue?"

            "Please
clam yourself, Mister. Look at Retief. He's not making a scene. Just resign
yourself to the fact that you'll spend the rest of your life here and we'll get
on famously—just as Renfrew and I did right up until the last few days."

            "The
rest of our lives?" Magnan gasped. "But that's unthinkable. We may
linger on for another fifty years."

            "Not
if Slith has his way," Retief said. "Where are they now, Herby?"

            "I
was about to say," Herby began. "They'll be arriving any—"

            The
vegetable voice was drowned by a rising drone that swelled swiftly to a
bellowing roar. A sleek, shark-nosed shape swept overhead, followed by another,
two more, then an entire squadron. Sonic booms crashed across the jungle,
laying patterns of shock ripples across the still water of the lake. Treetops
whipped in the turbulent wakes as two battle fleets hurtled past at low
altitude, dwindled, were gone.