Retief Unbound (29 page)

"Sorry, I got no
time to show tourists the sights." Gloot rose and started over the
ridgepole; as he did, three figures in the red cloak of the City Guard
appeared, clambering over the parapet opposite.

"There they
are!" a muffled voice barked. "Get 'em!" Without hesitation,
Gloot charged downslope, dealt one of the three a terrific buffet on the side
of the head, sending him sprawling; but before he could regain his balance, the
other two cops had grappled him and wrestled him toward the edge. Thus
occupied, they failed to notice Retief until he had secured a firm grip on both
capes and, with a vigorous pull, tumbled their owners backwards. Recovering
quickly, Gloot upended the nearer guardsman over the parapet. The last of the
three dived for Retief, met a knee under the jaw, and collapsed in a limp heap.

"Say," Gloot
said, breathing hard, "that was real friendly of you, Retief."

"Or unfriendly,
depending on the viewpoint," Retief pointed out.

"Right. And from
my viewpoint right now you came through like a champ. Well, so long, Retief.
See you across the barricades." Gloot swung over the side of the roof;
Retief followed him to the ground, clambering down the rough-laid masonry to the
dark street below.

"Maybe you'll
reconsider that invitation to come along and meet your friends," he
suggested.

"Nope. We've got a
full crew already."

"Just as a
diplomatic observer," Retief reassured the local. "Naturally, I
couldn't participate in anything violent."

Gloot shook his head.
"Those boys upstairs are going to be kind of irritated when they come to.
Us hijackers have got enough troubles without taking on a foreigner, with or
without a police record. If I was you, I'd kind of drop out of sight for a few
hours."

"Good idea. Aboard
your boat would be a good place to be inconspicuous."

Gloot lifted his gun
from its holster and thumbed back the hammer, "I ain't going to have to
get rough, I hope?" he said, rather sadly.

"Not with
that," Retief said. "Single-shot, remember?"

"Oh,
barfberries," Gloot exclaimed, eyeing the bulky weapon in irritation.
"I should of known you didn't gull me into shooting it off for
nothing." He studied Retief appraisingly. "I don't feel like tangling
with you, not after the way you handled those bums on the roof. And besides,
I'm short an arm right now, on account of a chum asked me to lend him a hand
and forgot to return it. Why not just go your way and I'll go mine?"

"I want to know
who's been trying to kidnap me, Gloot. You can still take me along to this big
shot, and demand a nice ransom for me."

"Hey—the idea
ain't without merit. . . ."Gloot said with cautious enthusiasm. "But
don't look for any favors. The boys play rough, and this is their night to chew
stones and spit gravel."

"I'll try to stay
out of harm's way."

"A sixty-foot
pirate sloop's kind of a funny place for that," Gloot said.
"But—that's your problem, not mine—just so you stay alive long enough for
me to collect."

An odor of ripe seafood
and rotting wood rose from the lateen-rigged junk wallowing as if half sunk at
the sagging wharf. A bulky Lumbagan with the usual random placement of facial
features stepped out of the shadows to bar Gloot's way as he approached.

"Hi, Snult,"
the latter called in guarded tones. "This here is Retief. He came along to
get an alien's-eye view of the operation."

"Yeah?" Snult
replied without detectable enthusiasm. He barked a command over his shoulder;
two large locals with exceptional tricep development stepped forward.

"Dump this spy in
the drink," Snult grunted, pointing to Retief. "And then hang Gloot
from the yardarm for half an hour for reporting in late." He turned his
back and sauntered off. The two bullyboys advanced, reaching for Retief in a
businesslike way. He leaned aside, caught the proffered arm of the nearer and
gave it a half twist, causing its owner to spin around and bow from the waist,
at which point an accurately placed foot propelled the unfortunate chap off the
pier. The second enforcer lunged, met a chop to the neck, followed by a set of
stiffened fingers to the midriff. As he doubled over, Retief turned him gently
by the elbow and assisted him over the side, where his splash mingled with that
of his partner. Ten feet away, Snult paused.

"Quick work,"
he said over his shoulder. "But . . .
two
splashes. . . ?"

Gloot stepped to his
departing chief, seized him by the back of the neck and unceremoniously pitched
him into the water.

"Three," he
corrected, and thrust out a large, six-fingered hand to Retief. "The
cruise is off to a good start. We've been needing a change of administration
around here. Come on, let's hoist anchor before a platoon of cops come pelting
down the dock looking for you." He swaggered down the gangplank bawling
orders.

There were a few
questions from the crew who, however, quickly adjusted to the change in
management, assisted by a number of sharp blows from a belaying pin wielded by
the new captain. In a matter of minutes the ancient vessel had cast off and was
threading her way out across the garbage-strewn waters of the bay.

"The target for
tonight is a shipment of
foof
bark," Gloot advised his guest as
they relaxed on the high poop deck at the stern an hour later, quaffing large
mugs of native ale and admiring the view of the moonlit jungle isle past which
they were sailing. "It comes from Delerion, another few islands to the
west. Potent stuff, too. A pinch of
foof
in your hookah and you're
cruising at fifty thousand feet without oxygen."

"Dope traffic, eh?
Is that legal?"

"No law on the
high seas," Gloot said. "And damn little on land. I guess you'd call
the
foof
trade semilegit. They pay taxes—if the free-lance customs boys
are sharp enough to collect 'em. And they place a few bribes here and there.
However, they overlooked the good ship
Peccadillo
and her merry crew,
which makes 'em fair game." He peered across the oily ripples. "She
ought to be rounding the point of that next island and weathering right into
our trap any minute now."

"You seem to know
a lot about the opposition's movements," Retief commented.

"I ought to—I
heard all about it last week when I was a
foof
-gatherer."

"I didn't know you
Lumbagans changed islands as well as affiliations."

"I was a prisoner
of war down there. I managed an escape during the changing of the guard. By the
way, keep a few sharp eyes out for a low-slung boat with a big carbon arc light
on deck. Interisland Police. They're supposed to be up at the other end of the
line now, but you never can tell."

"I can see you've
done your homework, Gloot."

"Sure; I got the
schedules down pat last time I was on the force."

"Don't these rapid
changes of allegiance get confusing?" Retief inquired. "I'd think
you'd run the risk of accidentally shooting yourself under the impression you
were on the opposite side."

"I guess you can
get used to anything," Gloot said philosophically.

"There's Groo-groo
coming up on the starboard bow," Retief said. "Isn't it about time to
start tacking in?"

Gloot yawned.
"Later, maybe," he said. "I decided maybe it's too much trouble
trying to ransom you. I prefer life on the briny deep to floundering around in
the creepers—" He was interrupted by a shout from the masthead; jumping
up, he aimed a spyglass toward a dimly seen shape gliding closer across the
dark water.

"Oh-oh—get set.
That looks like . . . yep—it's them! Hey,

Blump!" Gloot
sprang to the companionway. "Hard aport! And keep it quiet!"

As the unwieldy craft
came sluggishly about, a dazzling yard-wide shaft of smoky blue light lanced
across the water, etching the privateer's crew in chalky white against the
velvet black of shadows.

"Heave to, you
bilge scum," an amplified voice bellowed from the direction of the light,
"before I put a solid shot into your waterline!"

"We're in
trouble," Gloot rapped. "That's old Funge on the bullhorn; I'd know
his voice anywhere. One of the best pirate captains around, when he's working
the other side of the street."

"Do we strike,
Cap'n?" a crewman cried from amidships.

"Remind me to
keelhaul you when this is over!" Gloot roared. "Strike nothing! Swing
our stern chaser around and run it out over the port rail!" He charged
across the deck, which was sharply canted by the abrupt maneuver in which the
elderly tub was engaged, as the sailors dragged the small wheeled cannon into
position.

"Load with
cannister; double-charge!" he yelled. "Get a firepot up here! Hold
her steady on a course of one-eight—oh, and stand by to come about fast!"
He turned to Retief who was standing nearby, observing the preparations for
action.

"Better get below,
mister," he snapped. "This is no place for noncombatants!"

"If you don't
mind, I'll stick around on deck. And if I may make a suggestion, it might be a
good idea to steer for shore."

"For shore? You
must be hysterical with panic! Everybody knows Groo-groo is swarming with
carnivores that are all stomach and teeth, with just enough legs to let 'em
leap on their prey from forty feet away."

"In that case, I
hope you're a strong swimmer."

"Don't worry,
Retief, those revenue agents are lousy shots—" Gloot's reassurances were
interrupted by a flash and a Boom! and the whistling passage of a projectile
that sailed high overhead to raise a column of water a hundred yards to
starboard.

"I see what you
mean," Retief said. "Nevertheless, I think you're about to lose your
command." He pointed with his cigar at the water sluicing across the
buckled planks of the deck. "We're sinking."

As he spoke, cries rose
from the crew, who suddenly found themselves ankle-deep in sea water. Gloot
groaned.

"I guess I took
that last corner too fast; she's opened her seams!"

A breaker rolled across
the deck. A crewman, swept off his feet, went under with a despairing cry. As
the vessel wallowed, the waters surged, rushed back across the half-submerged
planking, swirling around Retief's shins. The crewman was no longer in
evidence; instead, a swarm of disassociated parts splashed in the brine, as the
Lumbagan's formerly independent components resumed their free-swimming status,
making instinctively for shore.

"Well, so long,
Retief," Gloot cried. "Maybe our various limbs and organs will meet
up again in some future arrangement—" he broke off. "Ah—sorry, I
forgot your hookup is a one-time deal. Tough lines, Retief. Take a last look
around, here we go. . . ."

"Let's swim for
it, it's not far."

"Well, I guess you
could do that if you want to prolong the process. As for me, I'd as soon get it
over with—"

"And miss finding
out if the superstitions are true? Come on, Gloot, last one ashore's an
amputated leg." Retief dived over the side. He stroked hard against the
suction created by the sinking hulk, surfaced in time to see the tip of the
mast descend slowly from sight amid a vigorous boiling of water strewn with
flotsam from the ill-fated Peccadillo. Multitudes of Singletons which had
formerly constituted the privateer's complement churned the waves, heading
instinctively toward land. A ragged cheer went up from the revenue cutter.

Gloot bobbed up a few
yards away. "She was my first command," he said sadly. "I guess
maybe she was put together a little too much like us Lumbagans."

"A melancholy
moment," Retief acknowledged. He shrugged out of his jacket, pulled off
his shoes and thrust them into his side pockets, and set off at an easy crawl,
Gloot dog-paddling beside him. It was a cool evening, but the water was
pleasantly warm, mildly saline. Groo-groo congealed from the darkness ahead,
resolving itself into a cluster of rhubarb-shaped trees above a pale streak
which widened into a curving beach. They rode the breakers in, grounding on
coarse coral sand, and waded in through tidal pools to shore. Ahead dark jungle
loomed, impenetrable in the dim light of the moons, now obscured by ragged
clouds.

The Lumbagan tested the
wind, all ears angled to attitudes of total alertness.

"Hear
something?" Retief asked.

"Yeah," the
Lumbagan breathed. "Kind of a stealthy slosh."

"That's just the
water running out of your boots," Retief pointed out. "Huh? Oh,
yeah."

The lesser moon emerged
from behind the clouds. Retief scanned the beach, noted a small keg half-buried
in the pink sand, the word RUM stenciled on the end.

"At least we won't
want for basic supplies," he commented as he extricated the container.
"You're about to sample Terry booze, Gloot."

"Not bad,"
the local commented five minutes later, after the puncheon had been broached
with a lump of coral and the contents sampled. "It kind of burns, but my
stomach kind of likes it. In fact"—he paused to hiccup—"I like it all
over. Actually, I just suddenly realized life is just a bowl of bloopberries,
now that my vision has improved—"