Reward for Retief (21 page)

            "What about the Chateau
d'Yquem and blurb-flops?" Retief persisted.

           
a matter of a minor reorganization of available molecules,
the
pattern stated dismissingly.

            "That's quite a
trick," Retief commented. "Can you rearrange the molecules to produce
whatever you like?"

           
for whatever a yearning psyche provides a template.
The
pattern seemed to come into clear focus,
curiously,
in your own case, there appears to be no truly basic craving for the material,
other than passing thoughts of chateau briand with bearnaise sauce, and the
like, with the appropriate appurtences, of course.
At once Retief caught
a whiff of a delightful aroma. He turned at a
clinkling
sound and saw
Red, clad in a crisp tuxedoall, laying a place at a small, linen-covered table
which had been placed on the Isphahan covering a smooth patch of cave floor,
adjacent to a wrought-iron standing lamp which shed a mellow light on the
Haviland service, the Waterford crystal and the Jensen silver.

            "Better make that
two," Retief suggested. "I'm sure Mr. Magnan would like to join me; I
expect him soon."

            "To be sure, sir,"
Red said, and quickly laid a second place, just as the muted tones of a Chopin
Nocturne
started up from somewhere in the shadows. There was the scrape of a shoe at
the narrow entry and Magnan came in, peering doubtfully at the pool of light in
the enveloping gloom.

            "Retief?" his
reedy voice said doubtfully, "wherever
are
you? Are you all
right?" He advanced to the table, where Red ceremoniously drew out a chair
for him, which he accepted.

            "Good lord," he
muttered. "Good thinking, Jim. I'm famished! After that brisk trek, I've
quite recovered my appetite in spite of having overindulged in the
blurb-flops." He gazed at the meticulously set table.

            "However did you manage
this?" Magnan blurted. "Ah, sublime," he added as he took the
first succulent bite. "Hung to the hour and broiled to the second."

            "I didn't exactly
manage it," Retief told him. "I was chatting with Voice, here, and
the subject came up, and here it is."

            "This is a strange sort
of world," Magnan said thoughtfully, "but not entirely displeasing.
Thank you, Red," he added as the latter filled his paper-thin stemmed
glass with an aromatic red Burgundy.

            " 'Voice'?" Magnan
exclaimed in belated response to Retief s reference. "You mean Worm?
Where? I didn't see any horrid slimy worms, thank Heaven!"

            "That was him you were
talking to outside," Retief explained. "He's telepathic. Nice
fellow."

            "What's come over
Red?" Magnan demanded in a stage whisper. "He darted in here suddenly,
and a moment later he's serving table as graciously as a graduate of Snively's
on Europa. Quite astonishing!"

            "It just come to me,
sir," Red said diffidently. "I were wasting me time mucking about
there, and I seen I was needed here. So here I am. A bit of the crispy,
sir?" he offered, waiting, carving knife poised over the prime ribs
steaming gently on the salver. Magnan nodded vigorously.

            "One feels a bit of a
glutton," he confessed. "But when again shall I know the
opportunity?"

            "Whenever you like,
sir," Red supplied.

            "This is all very
well," Magnan said, in a return to his brisk manner. "But we can
hardly be said to be implementing Ambassador Shortfall's instructions to
clarify the situation, Terry-Sardon relations-wise. Unless, of course," he
went on, "the estimable Mr. Red can tell us a few things. Do take a chair,
Red," he urged the black-clad servitor. Red shook his head, a stiff
expression on his coarse features.

            "Twould hardly be
proper, sir," he rebuked Magnan. "One has, after all, one's
code."

            "Excuse me, excuse
me," Magnan gobbled. "No breach of etiquette was intended. You can
explain quite as well standing, I suppose."

            "Never, had much of a
childhood, sir," Red grunted. "Folks killed, I reckon. First I
remember is dodging about the loading quays at Marsport; used to pick up bits
and pieces that spilled, see. Then went on to opening a bale now and again,
helped it to spill, you see? Sold the swag for what I could get. Fences in
Marsport has hearts o' duralloy. Went to space at about ten. Doc looked at my
teeth, said I was nine or ten. I chose ten. Bigger, you know. Never got along
good with my mates; too soft, they said, too goody-goody, never would join in
to raid the captain's pantry and all. Went on fer years that way. Then one time
we set down here. Poor job of landing; broke her back. I taken to the woods;
found some likely lads and used to raid the native village over the other side.
Caught us right one time, and me and Eddie got clear and been hiding out ever
since. Then a little while ago, it come to me I wasn't having no fun; tired o'
being on the dodge, see? I figured what could a feller do? The Voice, you see,
started talking to me then; said come into the cave and all of a sudden them
fellers grab me, never hit me, jest give a shave and a wash and give me these
new duds; Voice tole me what to do. Old Voice was right there all the time,
saying about pulling out the chair and a serve from the left and all. Funny, I
kinda like it. Got a job to do and know how to do it. Feels good."

            "You consider that an
explanation?" Magnan demanded.

            "You ast me," Red
pointed out sullenly. "You said tell you a few things. So I done."

            "I had in mind some
disclosures regarding this entire foolish business. This so-called Worm, for
example."

            "Watcher speck me to
tell ya?" Red demanded aggrievedly. "Old Worm ain't 'so-called.' It's
right here, talking to me right now ..." his voice faded off and his face
assumed a far-away expression.

            "Do close your
mouth," Magnan advised sharply. Red's slack jaw closed. Magnan looked at
Retief in puzzlement. "What's this about the Worm talking?" he
demanded.

           
i shall tell you all about it in due course, ben,
the Voice
told him calmly.
red is under a bit of a
strain just now.

           
"It's
back!" Magnan yelped and nearly spilled his demitasse. "It went away
for a while, but now it's back! It says it's going to explain, I think,"
he concluded doubtfully. "But, Retief—" this with abrupt urgency.
"Why are we sitting here stuffing ourselves when that monster could return
at any moment, with consequences too horrid to contemplate!" He paused to
look about nervously, then remarked, "I seem to have developed a voracious
appetite quite suddenly. At this rate I'll soon outweigh Herb Lunchwell, but,
never mind, the dinner is delicious, so why not enjoy it, eh? It quite diverts
my mind from our eminent demise." He returned his attention to his
blurb-steak.

           
hardly, my dear fellow,
the Voice cut in urbanely.
why do you assume the worst? wouldn't it be
pleasanter to conceive of me as a benign being?

           
"You!"
Magnan blurted. "You mean
you're
the Worm?" he stared wildly
at Retief. "The Worm is telepathic! It says it's a benign being!"

            "And so it is,"
Retief replied, nodding. "I'd say this little lunch indicates that quite
convincingly."

            "The Mad Tea
Party," Magnan muttered. "It's traditional, after all, to give the
condemned a hearty last meal."

           
IT's Essential that we talk
, the pattern stated. Magnan
jumped, looking at Retief in interrogation. He nodded.

            "So I'm not just going
dotty," Magnan reassured himself, "if you can hear it, too. But what
in the Nine Worlds will we talk about? The stockade, those horrid bullies,
Eddie, the one they call Bimbo, and all their friends, I suppose ... the
temple? The fire? The blurb-flops, the Club ...? I'm at a loss as to where to
begin!"

           
shall we start with the immediate?
the silent Voice suggested,
at this moment, the organisms known as eddie
and bimbo are approaching from that direction.
Somehow the listeners
knew the direction the Voice meant.

            Magnan's head turned numbly
to stare into the depths of the cave. "Of course," he muttered.
"They're looking for loot, just as Red was. What are you going to
do?"

           
probe them for their fundamental needs, of course, as I explained
;
the Voice communicated a sharpness of tone,
aha
,
it went on,
our bimbo has a deep need
for security, perhaps an encounter, non-fatal, of course, with the lovable
eaters will serve to bring that need to the forefront of his awareness ...

           
A yell came
echoing from the darkness. A moment later, a seven-foot grizzly of a man
arrived at a lope, his path illuminated by the brilliant beam of a vacuum
helmet's light. He skidded to a stop when he saw Red.

            "Quick, Red!" he
blurted. "They're coming! I seen 'em. A zillion big worms with teeth. I
just barely got past 'em by taking a detour down a side passage—been lost in
there fer three days! C'mon, let's get outa here."

            "Hold it, Bim,"
Red objected. "Three days ago you was over the gate, tryna tell Eddie how
to take over the action! I seen you outside a half a hour ago my ownself!"

            "We got to get
away," Bimbo stated, ignoring Red's objections. "Bunch of pillars out
there, too, trydda grab me. Some big shot name of Smeer wanted to know was I
some guy you call Retief; I told him I never heard o' the bum!"

            "This here," Red
told his former boss, "is Mr. Retief, which he's havin lunch right now and
don't wanna be disturbed. Why not sit down, and I'll bring you a nice plate o'
eats. Must be hungry after them three days in the cave you was saying
about."

            "I don't like no cops
to hassle me on account of some other slob got 'em riled up," Bimbo
announced. "So after I work over this here Retief, I'll turn him over the
cops my ownself, after I soften him up a little first." He glared
ominously at the two diplomats still at the table, then advanced on Magnan.

            "OK, you," he
started, but Red blocked him off. "No, you don't wanna do that," he
told his boss. "Anyways, it's the big feller's Retief, like I tole
ya—" He stumbled back as Bimbo stiff-handed him in the ribs.

            "Don't much matter, I
guess," Bimbo announced. "I'm not gonna overlook any of 'em. You boys
better eat up," he concluded. "You got about a half a sec before I
start cracking heads."

            "Well, Retief,"
Magnan chirped nervously, "are you simply going to sit there and allow
your chief to be browbeaten in this fashion?"

            "It's been my
observation, Mr. Magnan," Retief replied, "that when a fellow means
business, he gets to it. He doesn't waste time beating his chest, or his brow,
either. You can relax. This Bimbo doesn't want any trouble."

            Listening, slack-jawed,
Bimbo started to say something, but instead advanced and hooked his fingers
under the edge of the table. At once, Retief put both hands flat on the damask
cloth. Bimbo lunged upward, failed to lift the table, looked astonished, bent
his knees and strained to no avail; his face grew pink and his breathing slowed
and deepened.

            "Mr. Magnan,"
Retief said easily. "If you'll check this poor dumbell's right hip, you'll
find a 2 mm. I don't think he should be allowed to play with dangerous
toys."

            Magnan bobbed his head,
emptied his wine glass at a gulp and rose, looking up at Bimbo's rapidly
purpling face, set in a ferocious scowl.