Retief Unbound (12 page)

"Maybe just one eye,"
Whonk said. "That would leave him four. . . ."

"Be a sport," said
Retief.

"Well."

"It's a deal then,"
Retief said. "Yith, on your word as a diplomat, an alien, and a soft-back,
you'll set up the mission. Groaci surgical skill is an export that will net you
more than armaments. It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it
off. And in return, Whonk won't sit on you. In addition, I won't prefer
charges against you of interference in the internal affairs of a free
world."

Behind Whonk there was a movement.
Slock, wriggling free of the borrowed carapace, struggled to his
feet ... in
time for Whonk to seize him, lift him high, and
head for the entry to the
Moss Rock.

"Hey," Retief called.
"Where are you going?"

"I would not deny this one his
reward," Whonk called. "He hoped to cruise in luxury; so be it."

"Hold on," Retief said.
"That tub is loaded with titanite!"

"Stand not in my way, Retief.
For this one in truth owes me a vengeance."

Retief watched as the immense
Fustian bore his giant burden up the ramp and disappeared within the ship.

"I guess Whonk means
business," he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp, all five eyes goggling.
"And he's a little too big for me to stop, once he sets his mind on
something. But maybe he's just throwing a scare into him."

Whonk reappeared, alone, and
climbed down.

"What did you do with
him?" Retief said.

"We had best withdraw,"
Whonk said. "The killing radius of the drive is fifty yards."

"You mean—"

"The controls are set for
Groac. Long may he sleep."

"It was quite a bang,"
Retief said, "but I guess you saw it too."

"No, confound it," Magnan
said. "When I remonstrated with Hulk, or Whelk-"

"Whonk."

"—the ruffian thrust me into
an alley, bound in my own cloak. I'll most certainly mention the indignity in a
note to the Minister." He jotted on a pad.

"How about the surgical
mission?"

"A most generous offer,"
Magnan said. "Frankly, I was astonished. I think perhaps we've judged the
Groaci too harshly."

"I hear the Ministry of Youth
has had a rough morning of it," Retief said. "And a lot of rumors are
flying to the effect that Youth Groups are on the way out."

Magnan cleared his throat and
shuffled papers. "I—ah— have explained to the press that last night's ahh
. .

"Fiasco."

"—affair was necessary in
order to place the culprits in an untenable position. Of course, as to the
destruction of the VIP vessel and the presumed death of the fellow, Slop—"

"The Fustians
understand," Retief said. "Whonk wasn't kidding about ceremonial
vengeance. Yith was lucky: he hadn't actually drawn blood. Then no amount of
dickering would have saved him."

"The Groaci have been guilty
of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege," Magnan said. "I think that
a note—or perhaps an
aide memoir
is
less formal. . .
."

"The
Moss
Rock
was bound for Groac," Retief said. "She was
already in her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments should arrive
on schedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display. I
think that should be all the aid the Groaci's
memoires
will need to
keep their tentacles off Fust."

"But diplomatic usage—"

"Then, too, the less that's
put in writing, the less they can blame you for, if anything goes wrong."

"There's that, of
course," Magnan said, his lips pursed. "Now you're thinking
constructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet." He smiled
expansively.

"Maybe, But I refuse to let it
depress me." Retief stood up. "I'm taking a few weeks
off ...
if you have no objections, Mr.
Ambassador. My pal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the
fishing is good."

"But there are some extremely
important matters coming up," Magnan said. "We're planning to sponsor
Senior Citizen Groups."

"Count me out. Groups give me
an itch."

"Why, what an astonishing
remark, Retief. After all, we diplomats are ourselves a group."

"Uh, huh," Retief said.
"That's what I mean."

Magnan sat quietly, his mouth open,
and watched as Retief stepped into the hall and closed the door gently behind
him.

. . . No jackstraws to be swayed by
superficial appearances, dedicated career field personnel of the Corps
unflaggingly administered the enlightened concepts evolved at Corps HQ by
high-level deep-think teams toiling unceasingly in underground caverns to weld
the spirit of Inter-Being amity. Never has the efficacy of close cultural
rapport, coupled with Mission teamwork, been better displayed than in the loyal
performance of Administrative Assistant Yolanda Meuhl, Acting Consul at Groac,
in maintaining the Corps posture laid down by her predecessor, Consul Whaffle .
. .

Vol VII, reel 98. 488 A. E. (AD
2949)

"The
Consul
for the
Terrestrial States," Retief said, "presents his compliments, et
cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the Groacian Autonomy, and, with
reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend a recital of interpretive
grimacing, has the honor to express regret that he will be unable—"

"You can't turn down this
invitation," Administrative Assistant Meuhl said flatly. "I'll make
that 'accepts with pleasure'."

Retief exhaled a plume of cigar
smoke. "Miss Meuhl," he said, "in the past couple of weeks I've
sat through six light concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and God knows
how many assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-duty hour
since I got here."

"You can't offend the
Groaci," Miss Meuhl said sharply. "Consul Whaffle would never
have—"

"Whaffle left here three
months ago," Retief said, "leaving me in charge."

"Well," Miss Meuhl said,
snapping off the dictyper. "I'm sure I don't know what excuse I can give
the Minister."

"Never mind the excuses. Just
tell him I won't be there." He stood up.

"Are you leaving the
office?" Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. "I have some important
letters here for your signature."

"I don't recall dictating any
letters today, Miss Meuhl," Retief said, pulling on a light cape.

"I wrote them for you. They're
just as Consul Whaffle would have wanted them."

"Did you write all Whaffle's
letters for him, Miss Meuhl?"

"Consul Whaffle was an
extremely busy man," Miss Meuhl said stiffly. "He had complete
confidence in me."

"Since I'm cutting out the
culture from now on, I won't be so busy."

"Well! May I ask where you'll
be if something comes up?"

"I'm going over to the Foreign
Office Archives."

Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick
lenses. "Whatever for?"

Retief looked at her thoughtfully.
"You've been here on Groac for four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the
coup d’état that put the present government in power?"

"I'm sure I haven't pried
into—"

"What about that Terrestrial
cruiser, the one that disappeared out this way about ten years back?"

"Mr. Retief, those are just
the sort of questions we avoid with the Groaci. I certainly hope you're not
thinking of openly intruding—"

"Why?"

"The Groaci are a very
sensitive race. They don't welcome outworlders raking up things. They've been
gracious enough to let us live down the fact that Terrestrials subjected them
to deep humiliation on one occasion."

"You mean when we came looking
for the cruiser?"

"I, for one, am ashamed of the
high-handed tactics that were employed, grilling these innocent people as
though they were criminals. We try never to reopen that wound, Mr.
Retief."

"They never found the cruiser,
did they?"

"Certainly not on Groac."

Retief nodded. "Thanks, Miss
Meuhl," he said. "I'll be back before you close the office."
Miss Meuhl's thin face was set in lines of grim disapproval as he closed the
door.

Peering through the small grilled
window, the pale- featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressed
bleat.

"Not to enter the
Archives," he said in his faint voice. "The denial of permission. The
deep regret of the Archivist."

"The importance of my task
here," Retief said, enunciating the glottal language with difficulty.
"My interest in local history."

"The impossibility of access
to outworlders. To depart quietly."

"The necessity that I
enter."

"The specific instructions of
the Archivist." The Groacian's voice rose to a whisper. "To insist no
longer. To give up this idea!"

"Okay, skinny, I know when I'm
licked," Retief said in Terran. To keep your nose clean."

Outside, Retief stood for a moment
looking across at the deeply carved windowless stucco facades lining the
street, then started off in the direction of the Terrestrial Consulate General.
The few Groacians on the street eyed him furtively, and veered to avoid him as
he passed. Flimsy high-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient
pavement. The air was clean and cool. At the office Miss Meuhl would be waiting
with another list of complaints. Retief studied the carving over the open
doorways along the street. An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed
to indicate the Groacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in.

A Groacian bartender dispensing
clay pots of alcoholic drink from the bar-pit at the center of the room looked
at Retief, then froze in mid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.

"A cooling drink," Retief
said in Groacian, squatting down at the edge of the pit. "To sample a true
Groacian beverage."

"Not to enjoy my poor
offerings," the Groacian mumbled. "A pain in the digestive sacs. To
express regret."

"Not to worry," Retief
replied. "To pour it out and let me decide whether I like it."

"To be grappled in by
peace-keepers for poisoning of . . . foreigners." The barkeep looked
around for support, but found none. The Groaci customers, eyes elsewhere, were
drifting out.

"To get the lead out,"
Retief said, placing a thick gold- piece in the dish provided. "To shake a
tentacle."

"To procure a cage," a
thin voice called from the sidelines. "To display the freak."

Retief turned. A tall Groacian
vibrated his mandibles in a gesture of contempt. From his bluish throat
coloration it was apparent the creature was drunk.

"To choke in your upper
sac," the bartender hissed, extending his eyes toward the drunk. "To
keep silent, litter- mate of drones."

"To swallow your own poison,
dispenser of vileness," the drunk whispered. "To find a proper cage
for this zoo-piece." He wavered toward Retief. "To show this one in
the streets, like all freaks."

"Seen a lot of freaks like me,
have you?" Retief asked interestedly.

"To speak intelligibly,
malodorous outworlder," the drunk said. The barkeep whispered something
and two customers came up to the drunk, took his arms, and helped him to the
door.

"To get a cage," the
drunk shrilled. "To keep the animals in their place . . ."

"I've changed my mind,"
Retief said to the bartender. "To be grateful as hell, but to have to
hurry off now." He followed the drunk out the door. The other Groaci,
releasing the heckler, hurried back inside. Retief looked at the weaving
creature.

"To begone, freak," the
Groacian whispered.

"To be pals," Retief
said. "To be kind to dumb animals."

"To have you hauled away to a
stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock."

"Not to be angry, fragrant
native," Retief said. "To permit me to chum with you."

"To flee before I take a cane
to you!"

"To have a drink
together."

"Not to endure such
insolence." The Groacian advanced toward Retief. Retief backed away.

"To hold hands," he said.
"To be buddies—"

The Groacian reached for him, but
missed. A passer-by stepped around him, head down, and scuttled away. Retief,
backing into the opening to a narrow cross-way, offered further verbal
familiarities to the drunken local, who followed, furious. Retief stepped
around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacian fell on his back. Retief
stood over him. The downed native half rose; Retief put a foot against his
chest and pushed.