Retief Unbound (21 page)

"Ridiculous,
Retief," the first secretary said a trifle uneasily. "Merely a
display of high spirits. My analysis of the trends, local unrestwise, indicates
today will be utterly peaceful."

Retief glanced across
the cobbles toward the low, irregular buildings at the far side of the plaza,
between which greenish sunlight glinted on a stretch of open sea dotted with
sails, and gleamed chartreuse and orange on the adjacent island of the
equatorial archipelago which constituted the sole land masses of the world.

"You may be
right," he said, "but there seem to be a remarkable number of spears,
spikes, pitchforks, swords, and carving knives in evidence."

"Purely
decorative, Retief. In spite of splendid progress toward civilization, the
locals seem to feel more comfy with a symbolic weapon in hand."

"No doubt—but
there's a note in the crowd noises that reminds me of a beehive just after it's
been poked with a stick."

"They're merely
taking a childlike pleasure in their bargaining, Retief. Heavens, I've heard
shriller haggling in Macy's." Magnan glanced up severely at his junior.
"It's hardly like you to display such timidity, Retief. I suggest you buck
up now; I don't intend to return until I've secured the beaded tea cozy I
promised Aunt Ninny—"

"Duck!"
Retief snapped, and swept Magnan aside as a broad-headed assegai clanged
against the rough-hewn stone wall behind them. He caught it on the rebound,
grabbed Magnan's arm and thrust him into a doorway as, with a mass screech, the
mob surging through the narrow way erupted into violence. Robed locals of
wildly varied skin coloration and wart distribution brandished suddenly
produced weapons in hands numbering from one to six, and charged each other
with bloodcurdling yells. Glass shattered nearby; smoke boiled from an
overturned toasted-nidnut cart. A tall, blue-faced Lumbagan with four staring
eyes, three pendulous ears, and a mouth capable of encompassing a tripleburger
in one gulp rushed toward the Terrans, swinging up a five-foot steelwood
cutlass edged with broken glass. Retief dropped the spearpoint to chest level
and grounded the butt against the plank door behind him. The alien braked, too
late; the spearhead took him square in the midriff. Magnan made a squeaking
noise as the victim dropped his sword and grasped the shaft of the spear with
three or four hands, and with a powerful surge, withdrew it.

"Hey, you loused
up a perfectly good duodenum that time or I miss my guess, Terry," the
warty local said in a rather barbaric dialect of the local tongue, fingering
the bloodless point of entry. "What's the idea? The word was, you Terries
don't fight back."

"Sorry,
fellow," Retief said. "Sometimes the word gets distorted in
transmission. How about passing the new version along to your compatriots; it
may save wear and tear all around."

"Yeah, I'll do
that." The alien turned and was swept away by the crowd.

"I can't think
what went wrong with my analysis," Magnan wailed as a brass-tipped arrow
chipped the lintel above him. "I must have misjudged the intensity of the
xenophobic coefficient—or possibly read the seasonal hostility index from the
wrong column!"

"Get the door
open!" Warbutton yelled behind Retief as he parried a thrust by a passerby
pausing to take a slash at the target of opportunity.

"But that would be
illegal entry!"

"Getting killed in
public without a death permit is a felony punishable by decapitation plus a
year in the local Bastille, according to the local penal code," Retief
pointed out. "Take your choice."

There were rattling
sounds behind Retief, followed by the creak of rusty hinges. At that moment, a
large Lumbagan burst from the crowd, whipped a rusty but effective-looking
power gun from under his doublet, took aim at Retief's head—

A small local sprang at
the gunner, entangling the latter's legs in several of his own, and with a
hearty shove sent him sprawling while the shot burned harmlessly across the
pavement. With a yell of fury, the fallen assassin leaped up. Retief felt the
draft on his back from the open door behind him.

"This way,"
he called in the local patois; the diminutive Lumbagan dived past him through
the opening; Retief jumped through behind him, slammed the heavy panel.
Missiles clattered against it as he shot the massive bolt. Angry fists
hammered, angry voices screeched threats. Magnan uttered a yelp as he noted the
presence of the alien.

"Help! One of them
got in!"

"He's with
us," Retief said. "Thanks for the assist, Mr....?"

"Ignarp's the
handle. Glad to oblige, Terry. Some of the boys got no use for Terries, but
what do those slobs know? A bunch of Blue-spots and Four-eyes and Shaggy-feet
and Wart-heads—"

"Corps policy
frowns on the use of racial epithets, Mr. Ignarp," Magnan remonstrated.
"Besides which," he added surveying the Lumbagan, "unless I'm
very much mistaken you seem to have a number of warts of your own."

"Oh, yeah; I
forgot. I just picked those up on sale last week."

"It must be
confusing," Magnan said sympathetically. "With so many minorities to
choose from, I suppose one hardly knows whom to discriminate against."

"Yeah—you Terries
have got the best system; just check a couple minor details like how many eyes
or what color spots a guy's got, and you know who your friends are. A lot
easier than trying to pick 'em one at a time."

"What made you
pick us?" Retief asked.

"I got a soft spot
in my head for foreigners," the local said. "Come on, I'll show you
the way out of here." He waved them toward the dark, stone-floored passage
leading back into the gloomy recesses of the monolithic structure.

"Well, how lucky
you happened along, Mr. Ignarp," Colonel Warbutton said, falling in behind
their guide. "By the way, where are we going?"

"You Terries are
housed right in the Castle complex, along with the other foreigners, right?
You're practically there now."

"Heavens, I hope
we're not late for the Joint Staff meeting," Magnan said, glancing at his
thumb watch. "Who'd have thought when we set out for a short
constitutional we'd end threading a maze with a pack of rabid racists at our
figurative heels?"

"Think of the
impact on the ambassador when you give your eye-witness report," Retief
encouraged his superior.

"That's a
thought," Magnan agreed. "Ah—just what was it I eye-witnessed?"

"The initiation of
the Spring Hostility Rites," the local called over his shoulder. "The
boys certainly started things off with a bang."

"The spring
rites?" Warbutton queried. "I was under the impression the Winter
Mayhem Festival was still on."

"So it is; along
with the Ritual of Revolution, the Symbolic Sacrament of Savagery, and o'
course the Perennial Violence Cycle. With a crowded schedule, we get a certain
amount of overlap."

"Why—the situation
is deteriorating into total anarchy!" Magnan gasped.

"Not so,
Terry," their guide demurred. "We got rules. Like we always give
warning before we change sides."

"What sort of
warning?" Magnan queried.

"Well, a kick in
the right spot usually gets the message across," the Lumbagan confided.
"But we're not particular. A sharp blow on the head will do in a
pinch."

"Or a spear
between the ankles?" Retief suggested.

"I hope Gumrong
sees it that way. He's not a bad fellow; in fact he was my sidekick and loyal
comrade-in-arms. But he holds a slot as my mortal hereditary enemy for the
rites—so naturally when he jumped you Terries, I stepped in. Lucky you got that
door open, or my component parts would be strewn all over the jungle by now,
rooting for acorns."

"Which side are
they on?" Warbutton inquired dazedly.

"Luckily, Lumbagan
vegetable life is neutral," Retief said. "Otherwise the prospects for
planetary pacification would be even dimmer than they are."

"They couldn't
be," Magnan groaned. "How in the world are we going to bring racial
tolerance to a world whose only recreation is mutual mass murder?"

"If you come up
with the answer to that one, Mr. Magnan, I predict a sharp upward turn in your
career prospects."

"Watch your step,
gents," the Lumbagan said, indicating a narrow stone stair leading down
into pitch darkness. "Just a little farther and there we are."

As Magnan hesitated,
Retief stepped past him.

"You must be a
little confused, Ignarp," he said. "Mr. Magnan doesn't have time
right now to explore any abandoned mine shafts."

"Who's leading
this parade, you or me, Terry?" the Lumbagan said truculently. "I'm
the guy that just saved your necks, remember?"

"Just between
us," Retief said, "why did you decoy us here?"

Magnan gasped.

"Wh—where'd you
get an idea like that?" The Lumbagan edged sideways, but was restrained by
Retief's quick grab. "Hey—leggo my neck," he yelped. "I already
told you—" "Uh-huh. But I happen to know spring rites don't start for
another two days. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to set up the whole
charade, including the conveniently unlocked door. Why, Ignarp?"

"No fair,
Retief," the local grunted. "I heard you Terries didn't know a mob
killing from a quiet little domestic knifing—"

"Some of these
impressions die hard." Retief gave the local's collar another half-twist.
"Come on, give, Ignarp."

"Retief,"
Magnan demurred, "are you sure? After all, if anyone had wanted to do us
an injury they could have done it as well in the street. ..."

"Wrong," the
Lumbagan contradicted. "This was a hush-hush deal. And besides, the orders
were to bring you in whole."

"You admit your
duplicity?" Warbutton barked. "With your chum's knuckles digging into
my medulla oblongata, I got no choice," Ignarp said aggrievedly.
"Whose orders?"

"The ones that
hired me," Ignarp muttered. "They wanted a Terry in good condition,
that's all I can tell you. I'm just a legman—"

"Hold it,"
Retief said. From the dark stairwell came faint sounds as of stealthy feet
approaching.

"We'll have to
defer our talk until later, Ignarp," Retief said. "Lead the way out
of here—and this time get it right."

"I might as well;
if the boys see me with your thumb under my ear, my rep as a slick conniver is
shot anyway. Come on . . . ." He led the Terrans back along the passage,
took a branching corridor—hardly more than a damp-walled tunnel cut through the
massive masonry pile—and in five minutes halted at the foot of a narrow stone
stair leading upward.

"It comes out in
the embassy commissary," he said glumly.

"Just don't let on
I told you about the gap in your security. There's a couple dozen families
living high on imported caviar and pate who'd hate to go back to pulverized
nidnuts and dehydrated frinkfruit."

"Stealing from
embassy stores?" Magnan gasped.

"Relax," the
local advised. "It's costing you a lot less than if we applied for
disaster-area status and welfare handouts. As we see it, a self-respecting
life-form ought to make its own way."

"What shall we do
with the beggar?" Warbutton said. "No good turning him over to the
local constabulary. Pity we can't do him in out of hand, but that sort of
tiling doesn't look at all good when the yellow press gets hold of it."

"Lemme go now,
pal," Ignarp said. "I admit it was a lousy idea. And to clinch the
deal, I'll throw in a tip for free: Look out when Summer Slaughter time comes
rolling around. I'm assigned to a Terry-Go-Home team, and those babies play
rough."

"Come along,
Retief," Magnan said, starting up the stairs. "There's no point in
escaping death at the hands of a mob only to face an irate chief of
mission."

Retief released his
grip on the Lumbagan. "We'll call it even for now, Ignarp. Go back and
tell your employers that we Terries like a chance to RSVP our
invitations."

"You foreigners
are full of surprises," the local muttered, and darted away.

"Here,
Retief," Warbutton remonstrated, "we should have held the blighter up
by the heels until he'd divulged all the details of the conspiracy."

"I have a feeling
he'll talk more freely on his home ground," Retief said, and glanced at
the finger-marked card he had lifted from the Lumbagan's coat pocket. "The
Stake and Kidney Tavern, number twelve Dacoit Street," he read.

"I know the
spot," Warbutton said. "An unsavory dive across from the scalp fields
where the hair is short."

"It's a
date," Retief said.

Magnan and Retief were
among the last to take seats at the long table in the conference room, netting
a baleful glance from the protuberant eye of Ambassador Pouncetrifle, seated at
the head of the table beside Jith, his diminutive Groacian opposite number and
Joint Chairman of the Lumbagan Peace Commission.