THE FORBIDDEN CITY

 

 

I

 

            AN EVENING BREEZE bearing the fragrance of ten-thousand year old Heo trees in bloom moved across the Embassy dining terrace. In the distance pipes sounded softly, picking out a haunting melody, like fairy feet retracing a forgotten path through an enchanted forest. The setting sun, vast and smoky red, cast crimson shadows along the leaf-shaded streets below.

 

            "A pity all this is dying." First Secretary Magnan of the Terran Mission to Sulinore waved a hand toward the fragile, crumbling towers silhouetted against the dusk. "In spite of a million years of civilization and a reputation for immortality, the Sulinorians seems impotent to stem the population decline. I suppose in a century or less they'll all be gone."

 

            "With ninety-nine per cent of the planetary surface devoted to cemeteries, historical shrines and monuments to the past, there's not much room for the living," Second Secretary Retief commented. "And you can tie up a lot of minerals in a planet-wide graveyard."

 

            "I suppose you're referring to their belief that the world's supply of Divine Effluvium is exhausted," Magnan sniffed. "Mere folklore.of course. Still, one might almost be tempted to look into the matter of depletion of essential elements—except that Corps policy forbids poking into local religious doctrine. And in any event, they won't permit any deep-mining operations which might disturb the hallowed dead—or the sleeping heroes, as they prefer to put it."

 

            Magnan cocked an eye at the small humanoid waiter standing at a discreet distance, apparently lost in thought. "One can't help thinking that the modern Sulinorian is a far cry from his legendary ancestors," he said behind his hand. "Just compare these civilized little chaps with those ghastly statues you see everywhere."

 

            The local turned, approached the table, a polite expression on his elfin features.

 

            "You wished something, sir?"

 

            "Why, ah, tell me." Magnan cleared his throat. "How does the Sulinorian in the street feel about all this? Wouldn't you be willing to see a modest rock-mining operation set up here to unlock some of those scarce elements that are tied up in the planetary crust?"

 

            "Modest, my lord? The figure I heard was a million metric tons per day per unit, and Great Tussore knows how many units." He looked toward the ruin-crowned skyline. "Rather the easy erosion of eons than eaten by industry's engines insatiable," he quoted. "At least that's what the poet Eulindore said a couple of millenia ago. Me, I wouldn't know."

 

            "But what about importation?" Magnan persisted.

 

            "Why, your Administrative Council turned thumbs down flatly on the CDT proposal that we haul in a few million cubic miles of useful minerals and establish raw material dumps that all could draw on freely!"

 

            "I guess we'd rather look at the landscape the way it is, sir," the Sulinorian said. "And besides, rooting in a dump isn't our style. You know, a race of heroes and all that." He flicked an imaginary crumb from the table. "How about another flagon of ancient wine, my lords? Laid down by Yodross in the year 574,635. That would be about 3600 B.C., old Terry reckoning."

 

            "I think not—" Magnan broke off as the table-side P.A. unit pinged and lit up. The plump features of Ambassador Shindlesweet snapped into mirror-bright focus on the one-way screen.

 

            "Ah, gentlemen," the portly diplomat beamed. "It's my pleasure to inform the staff that the Blug delegation has, after all, been prevailed upon to be present at the Peace Conference here on Sulinore."

 

            "What, those bloodthirsty little killers?" Magnan gasped. "With their armor and their opaque atmosphere helmets and their sneaky ways? Why, everybody knows they're the Groaci's protégés, and responsible for all the fighting!"

 

            "At least that's a dozen or so Blugs that won't be off plundering somewhere—as long as the conference is on anyway," Retief pointed out.

 

            "... a gesture which reflects their sincere desire to see peace restored to the Sector," Shindlesweet was rumbling on. "And with all due modesty, I think I may say—"

 

            A pale visage sporting five stalked eyes crowded onto the screen, thrusting the Terrestrial ambassador aside.

 

            "As you're perhaps aware," the Groaci ambassador whispered in his faint voice, "it was through my efforts as co-sponsor of the present talks that this happy eventuality was brought about. And—"

 

            "Look here, Mr. Ambassador," Shindlesweet muttered from the side of his mouth, turning a glassy smile to the camera. "I was on the air first!"

 

            "Hogging the limelight, as usual, George," the Groaci hissed. "An unfortunate habit of yours. But as I was saying," he addressed the screen, "I was able, through deft handling of a number of sensitive issues—"

 

            "Now just a minute, Shith!" The Terran forced his way back to center screen. "When I agreed to lend the weight of Terran participation to your confounded gab-fest, I—"

 

            "Ha! You begged me on bended anterior ginglymus joint to be permitted to crowd in!"

 

            "Why, you little—"

 

            "Ah-ah," Ambassador Shith admonished. "No racial epithets, George. Open mike, remember?"

 

            Retief and Magnan had a last quick glimpse of Shindlesweet's rage-flushed features as he reached to blank the screen.

 

            "Well, the peace talks are off to a rousing start," Retief said cheerfully. Magnan shook his head, looking grave.

 

            "I foresee no good to come of this gathering." He rose and looked at his watch. "We've time for a constitutional before dinner, Retief. And if we're to dine cheek by mandible with our Groaci colleagues at tonight's banquet, I for one have need of a hearty appetite."

 

 

II

 

            A block from the renovated palace housing the Terran Chancery, Magnan plucked at Retief's arm.

 

            "Look there; another party of Groaci Peacekeepers, in full armor. You'd think they were expecting full scale rioting to break out at any moment."

 

            A block away, a squad of constabulary, in grotesque flaring helmets and black hip-cloaks, side-arms at knobby hips, minced briskly along the empty avenue.

 

            "Shith was quite insistent that the Groaci be assigned responsibility for the security arrangements for the Conference," Magnan muttered. "They have the only guns on the planet."

 

            "For alleged police, those fellows have a suspicious look of regular infantry about them," Retief said.

 

            "Good lord, you don't imagine they're planning anything foolish?" Magnan gasped. "Everybody knows the Groaci secretly covet Sulinore. They've even tried to have it officially declared a deserted world, open to colonization."

 

            "It's a little hard to see how they could swing it, with a full squadron of CDT Peace Enforcers standing by off-planet," Retief said.

 

            "You're right. We're imagining things." Magnan shook his head briskly. "A few dozen blasters can't take over a world. Still, I'd as soon avoid these bravos. In their arrogance they might attempt some sort of harassment." He angled across toward the entrance to a side street.

 

            "That's the route to the Forbidden City, off-limits to foreigners," Retief said. "How badly do you want to miss the fuzz?"

 

            "Not that badly." Magnan shuddered, veered in the opposite direction. "If even half the stories are true, not even our gnawed bones would ever be found."

 

            Fifteen minutes later they were in a narrow, crooked street where age-weathered carved griffins, satyrs and nymphs adorned the steep facades of the deserted buildings lining the way.

 

            "This isn't the most cheerful route for a stroll," Magnan commented uneasily. "At least not after sundown." He cocked his head. "One almost imagines one can hear stealthy footsteps behind one."

 

            "Not so stealthy at that," Retief said. "They've been getting pretty careless the last five minutes, as if they didn't care whether we heard them or not."

 

            "You mean someone's really following us?" Magnan turned to stare back along the shadowy late-evening street.

 

            "Two someones," Retief corrected. "Non-humans, I'd say, weighing in at under a hundred pounds, and wearing padded shoes."

 

            "That could mean anything! There are forty-six non-human species on-world this week for the conference, and I can think of at least ten of them that wouldn't be above assaulting a pair of peaceful Terran diplomats for their own nefarious ends."

 

            "Or for the iridium in their teeth," Retief amplified.

 

            "I think I recognize the street ahead," Magnan muttered. "Coriale's Comestible Counter is just around the corner. I was there last week—in daylight—making some arrangements for the Reception. We can nip inside and 'phone the Embassy for transportation back ..."He broke off as they came in view of a high, narrow shop-front displaying the cranium and crossed thighbones, the Sulinorian symbols of a caterer's establishment. Beneath the deeply incised device, the windows were dark, the massive stonewood door shut tight.

 

            "It's closed!" Magnan put his nose against the glass. "But there's someone inside. I heard a sound."

 

            Retief tried the heavily patinaed bronze door latch, cast in the form of fanged jaws clenched on a leg.

 

            "Perhaps—great heavens, Retief! What are you doing?" Magnan blurted as Retief gripped the knob in both hands and twisted hard. There was a sharp tinkle of breaking metal.

 

            "Retief, stop!" Magnan gasped. "You can't—"

 

            "I think it might be a good idea to get in off the street—now!" Retief thrust his protesting senior through into the gloomy interior, whirled to ease the door silently shut.

 

            "We found the door unlocked," he said briskly, looking around the room. "And stepped inside to see if everything was okay."

 

            Magnan peered from the window, made a choking sound. "Two Sulinorians in artisan's headdress just came around the corner! They'll find us here!"

 

            "Let's check the back room." Retief led the way past tables heaped with displays of Sulinorian pastries, stuffed fowls and candied nutmeats, thrust aside a curtain. The dim shapes of stacked cartons bulked in the darkness. He sniffed the air, took a tiny handlight from his pocket, played the pencil-thin beam across the floor.

 

            "What's that?" Magnan hissed, pointing. From behind a wall locker, a pair of narrow high-arched, long-toed feet protruded. Retief went across, flashed the light on a small, crumpled body. The bright robes were bedraggled and torn. A wound in the narrow chest oozed ochre blood.

 

            "A Sulinorian," Magnan breathed. "He's been shot!" His lips moved in a faint whisper. Retief knelt beside him.

 

            "Who did it?" he asked urgently. "Why?"

 

            "He was not ... what he seemed." Retief caught the whispered words. Then the luminous eyes closed; the last tinge of vital color drained from the small face, leaving it an unattractive shade of waxy green.

 

            "It looks like Coriale, the caterer," Magnan groaned. "How terrible!"

 

            "Listen!" Retief raised a hand. From the far comer of the storeroom a faint rustle sounded. He motioned Magnan to the left, started around the right side of the stacked boxes. There was a hurried scuttling sound.

 

            "Why—there you are, Coriale," Magnan's voice squeaked. "We, er, just stepped in to increase our order. We'll have twelve gross of the bean and kidney pies and six dozen jellied bramble-hens—under glass, of course ..." Magnan backed into view, keeping himself between the small local and the body in the corner. The Sulinorian pulled free of Magnan's grip on his elbow. His bright eyes flicked around the room.

 

            "But if you're busy," Magnan went on hastily, "we'll just toddle along now ..."

 

            "Ummm. You are Terrestrials, isn't it?" the alien piped in a piercingly high voice.

 

            "I'm, er, why, ah ..." Magnan swallowed audibly. "I was here just the other day, Mr. Coriale. Don't you remember me?"

 

            "Yes. Quite so, I recalled now." The Sulinorian moved toward the door. "Six dozen jellied kidney-beans and glass hens under mud, I'll make notes of it. And now, you wish to leave, are you? To be sure. Goodby quickly, please."

 

            Magnan reached the door ahead of the local, fumbled it open. "Well, it was jolly seeing you, Coriale. By, now ..."He tugged at Retief's sleeve. "Come along!" he hissed. "We're in a frightful rush, remember?"

            "I'm not sure Mr. Coriale got the order just right." Retief eased Magnan aside, glanced out the door. The dark street was empty. Pale flames burning in blue glass globes high on the walls cast wavering shadows along the ancient cobbles.

 

            "It doesn't matter! I'm sure he can cope." Magnan's voice faltered as his eye fell on the Sulinorian, from whose nostrils brown smoke was filtering.

 

            "Say, isn't that brown smoke filtering from your nostrils?" he blinked. "I didn't know you Sulinorians smoked."

 

            Coriale edged sideways, eyeing the door. "A new vice, acquiring this week only. And now, reluctance, farewell."

 

            Magnan frowned. "Curious," he said. "A few days ago you spoke perfect Galactic."

 

            "Duck!" Retief snapped and dived past Magnan as the undersized alien made a lightning-fast motion.

 

            Something flashed in his hand; a plate of hors d'oeuvres beside Magnan exploded in a shower of antipasto. With a yelp, Magnan leaped sideways, collided with the alien as the latter bounded aside from Retief's charge.

 

            For a moment, there was a wild tangle of threshing limbs. Then Magnan staggered back, sat down hard. His head wobbled. He fell sideways and lay still.

 

            The Sulinorian had whirled, bringing the gun up—

 

            Retief swept a pie from a table, slammed it full into the pinched faced. The alien shrieked; the gun barked sharply, twice. One slug ripped the gilt epaulet from the shoulder of Retief's wine-red mid-evening semiofficial blazer. The second thunk!ed into a pewter tureen; thick purple soup spurted from paired holes. Then Retief was on the gunner. He twisted the alien's gun-hand behind him, reached to seize his quarry's other arm ... and felt the room expand suddenly to three times its former size.

 

            He snorted hard, held his breath, threw the alien across the room. His legs felt like piano wire. He grabbed at a table for support, sent it crashing over on its side.

 

            Magnan sat up, spluttering, as a cascade of icy green punch sluiced over him.

 

            "Yes, yes, I'm coming, Mother," he gasped.

 

            To Retief, Magnan's voice seemed to be filtered through an echo chamber. As in a dream, he saw the other totter to his feet.

 

            "Wha ..." Magnan gobbled. "What happened?"

 

            His eyes focused on the room, took in the smashed crockery, the overturned furnishings the spilled viands—and the crumpled figure against the wall. "Retief—he isn't ...?"

 

            Retief shook his head to clear it. He went across to the fallen alien. The creature lay on his back, eyes wide open, glassy. A great shard of broken punch-bowl protruded from his chest. His dead face was a livid purple.

 

            "Coriale!" Magnan choked. "Dead again!"

 

            "We'd better get out fast," Retief said. "And sort out the Coriales in the morning."

 

            "By all means!" Magnan whirled to the door, pulled it wide—and backed into the room, prodded by the gleaming barrel of a crater gun in the hands of a spindle-legged Groaci in the uniform of a Peacekeeper.

 

            "To make no move, vile miscreants," the helmeted and greaved Shore Patroller hissed in his native tongue as his five stalked eyes scanned the shambles. "To have you red-handed this time, Soft Ones."

 

            "You're making a frightful mistake," Magnan choked as half a dozen more Groaci pushed into the shop, all with levelled weapons. "We didn't—that is, I didn't—I mean, Retief only—"

 

            "Ah, Mr. Magnan, is it not?" the Patrol captain whispered in his faint voice. "The acceptance of your complete innocence, of course, dear sir. Provided only the testimony against the true criminal!"

 

            "True criminal?" Magnan stuttered. "You mean Retief? But—"

 

            "What other?" the Groaci inquired in a reasonable tone.

 

            "But ... but ..."

 

            "To have no need to make a statement now," the captain soothed. "To come along quietly and to leave us to deal with the killer." He motioned sharply and his subordinates closed in, hustled the protesting Magnan away. Then the Groaci turned to Retief.

 

            "To remember me, perhaps, Retief? Shluh by name, formerly of the Groacian Planetary Police, once deeply wronged by you. Tonight, in the cells of a Groaci prison, to even at last the bitter score."

 

 

III

 

            The jeweled eye-shields of Captain Shluh gave back brilliant glints from the dazzling white Interrogation lights rigged at the center of the dusty room.

 

            "Once more, my dear Retief," he whispered in accent-free Terran. "What was your motive for your atrocious crimes against the peace and order of Groac? Or Sulinore, if you prefer. Was it perhaps your plan to introduce subtle impurities into the provender to be supplied to the delegates? Or did your schemes run deeper? Was it your full intent to secrete illegal monitoring devices in the serving vessels—devices of the kind which I will testify were found on your person when you were searched?"

 

            "A couple of years pounding a beat have done wonders for you, Schluh," Retief said conversationally. "You've lost that fat-behind-the-ears look. Unfortunately, you still sound about the same."

 

            "And you, unlucky Terry, still indulge your penchant for flippancy! It will be amusing to watch the evolution of your japes into pleas for mercy, as our acquaintance ripens."

 

            "You Groaci must be planning something a little more elaborate than usual," Retief mused aloud. "Conning Ambassador Shindlesweet into lending CDT backing to these phony peace talks took a lot of time and groundwork—and you lads don't waste credits on empty gestures."

 

            "You imply that our motives are less than selfless?" Shluh inquired in a careless tone. "Ah, well, what matter your thoughts, Soft One? You may share them freely with your executioner."

 

            "Let's look at it analytically," Retief went on. "What have you accomplished with all this effort, other than getting representatives of every important world in a CDT dominated sector of the Arm together in one room? But maybe that's enough, eh, Shluh? If some unfortunate incident occurred and wiped out the lot of them, whoever was responsible would find himself in a most unenviable position, public-relations-wise. And I have a feeling it wouldn't be you Groaci who'd be left holding the satchel. Which leaves the CDT, the other sponsor of the gathering."

 

            "Enough, presumptuous Terry!" Shluh's eyestalks were whipping in an agitated manner. "In your panic, you rant nonsense!"

 

            "And with the CDT discredited," Retief continued, "Groac would have to step in to straighten out the confusion; and they just might find it necessary to call on someone like their friends the Blugs to help keep the peace during the emergency. And maybe, before things got back to normal, the few remaining Sulinorians might just sort of go into a decline and die off, leaving an empty world for an enterprising power like Groac to latch onto."

 

            "What fever fancies are these?" Shluh hissed. "It is known to all that you Terries, ever suspicious of the pure motives of others, have installed Mark XXI surveillance devices at the port and throughout the Conference rooms, thus making impossible the introduction of any weapons other than the handful allotted to my Security patrols!"

 

            "A good point, Shluh. The Mark XXI's will frisk every attender from socks to hair-piece. Of course, a little poison in the caterer's salt-shaker wouldn't trip the detectors, but the metabolic monitors would catch that on the routine analysis that's run on food to be sure it's safe for alien consumption. So the Borgia approach is out, too."

 

            "I tire of your theorizing!" Shluh was on his feet. "Think what you will! I tell you in confidence: Even now your Chancery is surrounded by my troops— ostensibly as honor guard—but none can leave or enter! By this hour tomorrow no Terry will dare to show his naked face in any capital in the Sector—"

 

            "Tomorrow, eh?" Retief nodded. "Thanks for giving me your timetable."

 

            "Have done, infamous meddler in the destinies of Groac! But before you die, tell me the name of the spy who sold you our secrets, and I shall personally supervise his impalement on the wall of one thousand hooks!"

 

            "Secrets, eh? I guess that confirms my guesswork," Retief said. "One more question: What pay-off do the Blugs get—"

 

            "Silence!" Shluh keened. "Be assured your brief remaining hours will be devoted not to questioning matters of policy beyond your grasp, but to supplying detailed answers to a number of queries of my own!"

 

            "Wrong again," Retief said and took a step toward the desk on which the police officer leaned, shaking a gloved fist. Shluh jumped back, motioned to the armed guard standing by, who swung his power gun to the ready, aimed at Retief's face.

 

            "Haven't your lads been told that you can't fire a blaster in an enclosed space like this without incinerating everything in it, including the shooter?" Retief asked casually, and took another step. The guard lowered the gun hesitantly, his eyes twitching in confusion.

 

            "He lies, cretinous hive-mate of broodfoulers! Fire!" Shluh screeched, and ducked to snatch at an open drawer. Retief reached him in a bound, caught the unfortunate captain by the neck, sent him skidding toward the guard as a belated shot lit the room like a photoflash. As the two Groaci went down in a heap, Retief caught up the dropped gun.

 

            "Well, another myth exploded," he said. "Shluh, take off your belt and strap him up." With the gun covering the two aliens, he seated himself at the desk, flipped up the OUT key on the desk field-phone, punched in a number. A moment later, the glum face of Counsellor of Embassy Clutchplate appeared on the screen. He gaped.

 

            "Retief! What—how—Do you realize—? Did you actually—? How could you have ..."his voice faltered as he took in the scene in the background. "Isn't that Chief Shluh? What's he doing?'

 

            "He just ran into an old acquaintance," Retief soothed, ignoring a sharp rap at the door. "Mr. Clutch-plate, how far along are the arrangements for Blug participation in the Conference?"

 

            "Why, their delegation will arrive within the hour. The convoy just 'vised Port Authority for landing clearance. But see here—"

 

            "Convoy?" Retief glanced up as pounding sounded at the door.

 

            "Just fifty first-class cruisers; as escort for the transport. The Blug never travel unarmed, you know. But—"

 

            "See if you can get the ambassador to turn them down," Retief rapped. "Failing that, meet 'em with an armed guard and—"

 

            "Mr. Retief!" the counsellor barked. "I don't know what mad scheme you've embarked on, but it won't work! I know how you feel about the Blugs, and the Groaci too, for that matter. But taking the law into your own hands—"

 

            "No time for any long discussions, Mr. Clutch-plate," Retief cut in as a heavy thud rocked the door. "I'd ask you for a squad of Marines if I knew where I was, but—"

 

            "Turn yourself in," Clutchplate blurted. "It's the only way. You can plead guilty due to temporary insanity brought on by outraged political convictions, and get off with no more than half a dozen years on a penal satellite."

 

            "It's an interesting proposal." Retief ducked as splinters of door whined past his head. "What am I guilty of?"

 

            "Murder, of course," Clutchplate yelped. "Two Sulinorians, remember?"

 

            "It slipped my mind," Retief said. "But see if you can hold the charge open a little longer. I may have a few Groaci to add to it." He flipped off the screen as the door shuddered and bulged inward.

 

            "Time for you to talk fast, Shluh," he said crisply. "I've decided to slip out the back way to avoid the autograph hounds. There are three doors I could use. You'll tell me which one's the best route."

 

            "Never!"

 

            Retief fired a bolt from the hip past the Groaci.

 

            "On the other hand," Shluh hissed quickly, "what matter if you temporarily elude my overzealous troops? Our plans will proceed—and the measures you sought to set in motion will avail naught to stop them!" He darted to a side door, keyed it open.

 

            "Go, then, Retief! But take what path you will, a dreadful end awaits you!"

 

            "In that case, you'd better go first." Shluh hissed and tried to dart aside, but Retief caught him, propelled him ahead with a foot in the seat. He slammed and barred the panel behind him, as the outer door fell in with a crash.

 

 

IV

 

            They followed dim, dusty passages, ascended winding stairways, moved silently along dark, lofty halls lined with ancient armor and hung with rotted banners. Half a dozen times Retief eluded Groaci search parties by a hair's breadth. In a wide room decorated with painted murals showing centauroids cavorting on purple grass, Shluh gestured toward a high-arched, doorless opening through which pale moonlight gleamed.

 

            "There is your exit to the night, Retief!" he keened sardonically. "Make what use of it you will! The way is clear!"

 

            Retief crossed the room, stepped out onto a tiny balcony, thick with the droppings of the tiny bat-like creatures that wheeled and skree!ed at his appearance. Ragged vines grew over a low balustrade, beyond which darkness spread to a skyline of tower-encrusted hills. He looked down. The wall dropped sheer into inky shadows far below.

 

            "Thanks for everything, Shluh." He threw a leg over the stone railing. "I'll see you at your trial—if your bosses let you live that long, after the way you've botched your assignment."

 

            "Stop, impetuous outworlder!" Shluh keened, as Groaci feet clicked in the room behind him. "Even should you survive the descent, you know not what you do! Not even you would I urge on to to what waits in the darkness below!"

 

            "You mean your short patrols?"

 

            "Not my patrols, nor the Marines of your own embassy which even now seek you, warrant in hand, will ever find you, if once you set foot in those demon-haunted byways!"

 

            "So that's where you set up your jail-house?" Retief looked thoughtful. "Still, I'd rather mingle with spooks than go back to your little party. Ta-ta, Shluh. Stay as sweet as you are." Shluh hit the deck as Retief -raised the gun and fired a burst toward the approaching search party, slung the blast rifle over his shoulder and started down toward the silent streets of the Forbidden City.

 

            It was an easy climb. Once a pair of Groaci heads appeared over the balcony rail above, but they drew back quickly. The wall was deeply carved, and the stout vines provided ample hand-and foot-holds. It was less than ten minutes before Retief swung down and dropped the last few feet into a mass of unpruned shrubbery from which he emerged in an avenue of marble mansions like abandoned funeral homes. The two pale moons of Sulinore came from behind a cloud and shone down ghostly white. Something small and dark flitted overhead, emitting thin cries. Far away, a mournful wail sounded. Retief set off at a brisk walk, his footsteps echoing hollowly on the worn mosaics that paved the way.

 

            Ahead, a lofty obelisk reared up. The inscription, nearly effaced by time, seemed to commemorate a battle fought with giants. At the next corner, the carved heads of ogres peered blindly down at him from an ornate cornice. He passed a fountain, dry and silent, where finned and tailed maidens of stone disported themselves amid marble waves. The dank wind blew dead leaves along the street. As Retief paused, a sound as of small feet pattered for a moment, then fell silent.

 

            "Come on out," Retief called. "There's some news you ought to hear."

 

            There was a ghostly laughter—or perhaps it was only the wind, searching among the fluted columns of a temple. Retief went on. Rounding an abrupt angle, he caught a glimpse of movement—a darting shape that disappeared into a gaping doorway. He followed, found himself in a hall, open to the sky. From its walls, giant frescoed figures stared down with empty eyes.

 

            "I need a guide," Retief called. "Any volunteers?"

 

            "Tears ... tears ... tears," the echoes rolled back from every side.

 

            "There's a small matter of an invasion to deal with right now."

 

            "Now ... now ... now ..." the sound faded and died, and as if the word were a signal, a creak sounded from the high doors through which Retief had entered.

 

            He spun in time to see them clash shut with a dull boom that echoed and re-echoed. He went to them, found them jammed tight, immovable. He turned back to the interior of the roofless room. A wide passage was visible at the rear. Skirting a black pool that reflected a shattered moon, he entered the passage, emerged after twenty paces on a terrace above a flight of wide, shallow steps. Below a dark and wild-grown park spread out, a wilderness of untrimmed shrubs and lofty, black-leaved trees.

 

            He descended to the foot-high sward; soft rustlings from the shadows retreated as he advanced along a weed-obscured path winding among the buttressed trunks of patriarchal trees. Carved faces leered at him from the shadows. The eerie shapes of stone monsters gleamed through the unpruned foliage. He emerged onto a broad mall along the center of which a double rank of what appeared to be painted statues of heroic size were drawn up along an aisle that led away into the night. Near at hand, a small collonaded shrine was almost hidden among the low-sweeping boughs of a giant conifer. Silently, Retief approached the building from the side.

 

            Through a latticed opening, faint moonlight fell on the vine-entwined effigy of an oversized Sulinorian in the armor of an ancient warrior. In the darkness behind the graven hero, something moved minutely. Retief tossed a pebble through the window, flattened himself against the wall by the doorway. A moment later, a head poked cautiously from the entry—and Retief's hand clamped on the slender Sulinorian neck.

 

            "Pardon my interrupting the game," he said. "But it's time we had a talk."

 

 

V

 

            "The price of entrance into the Sacred Grove of Heroes is death, Terran!" the tenor voice of the alien shrilled.

 

            "So I understand," Retief said holding his catch at arm's length to avoid the wildly kicking feet. "However, my little intrusion is nothing compared with what the Groaci have scheduled. Maybe you'd better listen to what I have to say before you carry out the sentence."

 

            "Tomorrow is nothing; the past is all," the Sulinorian declaimed. "Why struggle against Destiny, outworlder?"

 

            "We can give destiny a run for her money if you'll spread the word that I need a few hundred able-bodied Sulinorians to distract the Groaci patrols long enough for me to get through to the Terry Embassy—"

 

            "Offer your final devotions to your gods, man of Terra," the Sulinorian cut in. "Your fate is sealed."

 

            "You're consistent, I'll concede that," Retief said. "it looks as though I'll have to look a little farther for a public-spirited citizen." He released the native, who jerked his varicolored toga straight and faced him defiantly.

 

            "Not so, Terran!" The local folded his knobby arms. "Never will you leave these hallowed precincts!"

 

            Rustlings sounded behind Retief. He turned. From every shadowed clump of shrubbery, a Sulinorian emerged; light winked from the foot long stilettos in their hands. Silently, the ring of aliens closed in. Retief backed to the shrine, unlimbered the blast rifle, swung it to cover the throng which halted, facing him.

 

            "Welcome to the party," he said. "Now that we've got a quorum, maybe we'll get somewhere."

 

            "You outrage the glorious past, Terran," a wizened Sulinorian quavered, staring up at Retief. "You heap outrage on outrage!"

 

            "The outrage the Groaci are planning is the one I'm concerned with," Retief said. "You people don't seem to care much, but from the Terry viewpoint, it might set an unfortunate precedent for other budding empire-builders."

 

            "Terry, gone are the days when we of Sulinore were mighty warriors. If now it falls our lot to die, we face our fate in dignity."

 

            "There's nothing dignified about being scragged by the Groaci, or strung up by the heels by a platoon of Blugs," Retief cut in. "I hear they have a curious sense of humor when it comes to dealing with anyone who's proved his inferiority by getting conquered by them."

 

            "Kill this alien at once, isn't it?" a scratchy-voiced Sulinorian in the front rank called. "After, everybody die nicely, as scheduled."

 

            "Enough talk," the elderly Sulinorian declared.

 

            "Let the disturber of the sleep of heroes suffer the penalty!"

 

            The Sulinorians eyed the gun in Retief's hands, shuffled their feet. No one advanced.

 

            "Maybe you'd better call the penalty off," Retief suggested. "Then you can divert your righteous indignation into doing something about the invasion."

 

            "Hmmmm." The elderly spokesman beckoned to a couple of his fellows; they put their heads together.

 

            "We have decided," the oldster stated as the conference ended, "that the matter must be referred to the Old Ones for decision." He raised a trembling hand. "Not that we fear to fall under your murderous weapon, Terran—but it is a death which lacks elegance." He waved a hand and an avenue opened up through the dense ranks of armed locals.

 

            "Terran, I give you temporary safe-conduct and the honor of confrontation with the Ancient Lords of Sulinore, who will themselves dispose of this case. Come, if you fear not!"

 

            "Fair enough," Retief said. "When you want fast action, there's nothing like going direct to the top brass. Where do we find them?"

 

            "Behold the Lords of Sulinore!" the ancient piped feebly. The locals made sweeping bows to the ranks of still figures about them. Retief inclined his head respectfully .

 

            "They cut an impressive figure," he said. "I'll be interested to see how they go about dealing with the problem at hand."

 

            "Simplicity itself," the old Sulinorian said. "One waft of the sacred incense, and a faint shadow of their vanished vitality will energize them. Then will they hear our pleas and hand down justice in the ancient way."

 

            Retief walked slowly along the row of motionless effigies, noting the worn trappings, the realistically scarred limbs and fierce visages, the tarnished armor of the ancient warriors. In spite of their size and varied forms, all bore some resemblance to the shrunken Sulinorians who followed, silent and awed.

 

            "Once the races of Sulinore were many," the ancient said as he noticed Reliefs questing gaze. "And mighty was their prowess.

 

            "There stands Zobriale the Intense, Requiter of Wrongs. Beyond, we see proud Valingrave, victor at Har and Jungulon and Spagetwraithe. Here—" he indicated the modest crypt "—behold the shrine of Bozdune the Restial, known also as Bozdune the Baresark, of ferocious memory. And there—" he pointed to a four-legged barrel-chested creature with a typical Sulinorian torso and head "—stand the mortal remains of Great Tussore, he who single-handed vanquished the hordes of Doss, on a world so distant that even now the sunlight of his day of battle has not yet reached the face of Sulinore!"

 

            "He looks like a tough boy," Retief commented. "Too bad he's not still around. He might take a dim view of the way things are going."

 

            "Did I not say Mighty Tussore would give his judgment? Aye, and Cranius the August, and Maglodore the Swift, and Belgesion, and Vare, and High Pranthippo, King of Kings—"

 

            "A most august assemblage," Retief conceded. "But they seem a rather taciturn group."

 

            "You jape at the Lords of Sulinore, Terran?" The oldster drew himself up, made an imperious gesture. A pair of locals nearly as old as himself came forward, bearing a large case which they placed on the grass, opening the lid. Inside was a cylindrical tank fitted with valve and a coil of flexible plastic tubing. The dodderer lifted the nozzle of the hose, advanced to the pedestal on which the centauroid stood.

 

            "Awaken, Great Tussore!" he cried in his cracked voice. "Rouse from thy long dreams to render judgment on one who comes unbidden to the Place of Heroes!" He raised the hose and waved it under the flared nostrils. Retief heard a faint hiss of escaping gas.

 

            "Give us of thy ancient wisdom, as in days of old, O Tussore," the old fellow exhorted. He shoved the hose closer. "Almost is the sacred effluvium exhausted," he muttered. "I'll bet a pretty some of these backsliders have been tapping it on the sly."

 

            Suddenly one pointed ear of the statue twitched. The flared nostrils quivered. The eyelids fluttered. As Retief watched the lips parted.

 

            "Glop," the mighty figure said, and fell silent. "Drat it, what a time for the tank to run out," someone beside Retief muttered.

 

            "How does he work it?" Retief inquired softly as the Keeper of the Sacred Fumes waved the hose agitatedly, vainly invoking the unmoving demigod.

 

            "We work nothing, interloper," the Sulinorian said sullenly. "A good shot of sacred gas, and their metabolism starts ticking over fast enough to start them talking, that's all."

 

            Abruptly Tussore stirred again. "The devil take the blackguards," a deep voice suddenly rumbled from his chest. "Where's my greaves? Where's my fetlock powder? Where's my confounded mace? Blast that butter-fingered squire ..."

 

            "Great Tussore, wake from thy dreams!" The hosewielder redoubled his efforts. "Hear me! Even now there stands in our midst a stranger who violates the honored rest of the Lords of Sulinore with his presence!"

 

            "Oh ... it's you, Therion," Tussore mumbled. His eyes were open now, bleary and dull. "You look terrible. Been a long time, I guess. And it's not the stranger who disturbs my rest—it's you, with your infernal babbling!" He reached, plucked the hose from the oldster's hand, jammed it under his nose, drew a deep breath. "Ahhhh! That's what the doctor ordered."

 

            "Even so, Great Tussore!" The Sulinorian proceeded to relate the circumstances surrounding Retief's presence. Halfway through the recital, Tussore's eyelids drooped. The hose fell from his hand. He snored.

 

            "So the problem, Great One, is how to administer the prescribed rituals without suffering the indecorum of being mowed down like ripe beer-corn by the condemned one," the oldster concluded. "Great Tussore? Mighty one?" He waved the hose frantically, but his efforts this time were unavailing. The still figure stood, unmoving as a sphinx.

 

            "So much for the wisdom of the ages," Retief said. "Nice try, Therion, but it looks like the oracle's not interested. Let's go."

 

            "Make silent this one, plenty quick!" a small Sulinorian rasped—the same one, Retief thought, who had spoken up earlier. "No more time for pulling string on wooden god! Cut away the head of this Terry, yes! And soon after, fates proceed on schedule!"

 

            "Silence, impertinent oaf!" Therion rounded on the speaker. "Your cacophonous squeakings impugn the majesties of Sulinore! Give me your name, for later disciplining!"

 

            The one addressed backed away, looking flustered, as if suddenly conscious of being conspicuous. Retief studied his face.

 

            "Well, if it isn't my old friend Coriale," he said. "You ought to be an expert on the subject of dying. Seems to me I've seen you expire twice already this evening."

 

            The Coriale-faced alien whirled suddenly, plunged for the rear rank.

 

            "Seize him!" Therion called. The quarry ducked, dodged, dived through a gap in the suddenly surging ranks, scuttled sideways as his retreat was cut off, made a dash for the shrubbery. The chase pounded off into the underbrush. Retief seated himself on a convenient pedestal and lit a dope-stick. Five minutes passed before the crowd again surged into view, the darting quarry still in the lead. He put on a sprint, scuttled to the shrine, dived inside.

 

            "His impiety passes all bounds!" Therion puffed, coming up to Retief. "Now the mad creature seeks shelter in the very crypt of Bozdune!"

 

            "Let him be fetched out and dealt with!" someone shrilled.

 

            "Stay!" Therion piped as the aroused crowd closed in. "We'll not bring dishonor to the hero by scuffling about his feet. Come! Let us withdraw and leave this fevered maniac to regain his sense among the shadows of the greatness which was his race's!"

 

            Retief took out his pocket light and played the beam between the columns of the refugee's hiding place. Between the great steel-toed boots of Bozdune, a smaller pair of feet was visible. He directed the light higher.

 

            "Correction," he said. "Not his race's; that's no Sulinorian. Look." The light revealed a cloud of brown mist coiling upwards around the rigid features of the preserved hero. "The meeting's been infiltrated by a masquerading alien—an alien who exhales brown gas when he gets excited."

 

            "What's this? Brown gas—?" Therion's question was interrupted by a startled cry from a Sulinorian near the temple entry, followed a moment later by a snort like a teased bull.

 

            "He stirs! Bozdune rouses!" Suddenly Sulinorians were running in every direction. Retief caught Therion's arm as the elder turned to follow the general flight.

 

            "Unhand me, fellow!" the oldster screeched as a bellow sounded from the shrine. "Death I face with a proud smile—but there's something inappropriate about being ripped limb from limb by an ancestor!"

 

            "Is that the kind of fellow you make a hero of?' Retief inquired as smashing sounds emanated from the crypt, followed by the hurtling body of the Coriale double, which skidded to Retief's feet and lay moving feebly.

 

            "Unfortunately Bozdune lost his wits as a result of three month's exposure to the Tickling Torture at the hands of the infamous Kreee," Therion explained hastily. "He's prone to rages, when suddenly aroused, and prudence demands my swift removal hence!" He pulled free and bounded away with an agility remarkable in a being of his age. Retief turned as a rumble of falling stone sounded from the shrine. A mighty figure had appeared between the columns, stood with hands pressed against them. Great cords of muscle stood out on his neck; his biceps bulged; his latissimi dorsi strained. The column buckled and went over, bringing down a section of the arhictrave. Bozdune roared as the marble slab bounced from his back. With a final thrust he toppled a second column, stepped forth as stone collapsed behind him. Eight feet high, massive as a buffalo, he stood in the moonlight, snarling. His wild gaze fell on Retief.

 

            "Kreee!" he bellowed. "I have you now!" and charged the lone Terran.

 

 

VI

 

            Retief stood his ground as Bozdune closed in.

 

            "You've got me confused with someone else. Bozdune," he called. "I'm just a Terry doing a little job of planet-saving."

 

            With a bellow, the ancient fighter thundered past the spot where Retief had stood a moment before. He fought his way clear of the underbrush into which the momentum of his dash had carried him, rounded up his elusive prey.

 

            "And in that connection, I'd like to ask a little favor of you," Retief continued. "A group of opportunists called the Groaci are planning to massacre all the foreign diplomats in town—"

 

            "Arrrrghhh!" Bozdune roared and closed in swinging roundhouse swipes sufficient to decapitate a horse. Retief leaned aside from one wild swing, ducked under another, planted his feet and drove a solid left-right to the giant's stomach, an effect like punching a sea-wall. He jumped aside as Bozdune grunted and made an ineffective grab, landing a blow in his own midriff that staggered him.

 

            "Now, the Groaci have the streets cordoned off," Retief went on. "And since it's important that I get through to the Embassy with the news, I'd like to ask you to lend a hand." He stepped back as Bozdune ripped his six-foot blade from its sheath, whirled it overhead. Retief tossed the last rifle aside, plucked a wrist-thick spear from the grip of a horned warrior which loomed immobile beside him. Bozdune made a bound, brought the massive claymore down in a whistling arc that cleaved air an inch to Retief's right as he faded aside.

 

            "Now, if you'd just say a word to your descendants, I think they might consent to lend a hand." Retief poked the spear hard against Bozdune's breastplate. "How about it?"

 

            Bozdune dropped his sword, grabbed the spear shaft with both hands, and gave a prodigious pull—and as Retief let go, tottered backward, tripped over a fragment of shattered column and went down like a fallen oak. Retief heard the dull thonk! as his head struck the marble steps of his erstwhile shelter. He stepped quickly forward, used the warrior's own harness straps to bind his wrists together, then his ankles. At that moment, the bushes parted and Therion's aged faced appeared.

 

            "What transpires?" he piped. His eye fixed on the prone giant. "What, Bozdune the Bestial, felled by a mere outworlder?"

 

            "I'm afraid I can't claim the glory," Retief said. "He ran out of gas." He glanced toward the spot where the false Coriale had lain. "But if you can find the ringer, I may be able to remedy that."

 

            "He's here, the infamous dastard," a Sulinorian called, dragging the unfortunate imposter from a clump of gorse. Retief got a grip on the captive's collar, assisted him to Bozdune's side.

 

            "Breathe on the nice man, Shorty," he ordered.

 

            A great gout of brown gas puffed obediently forth.

 

            "Again."

 

            The prisoner huffed and puffed, exhaling the vapor past the fallen fighter's snoring visage. In a moment, Bozdune twitched, jerked and opened his eyes.

 

            "You're still here, eh?" he said to Retief. "I thought I dreamed you." He sniffed again.

 

            "Gadzoons, first good air I've breathed in a couple hundred years. More!" He raised his voice as Retief withdrew the pseudo-Coriale.

 

            "Not unless you agree to lend a hand," Retief countered. "Then I promise you all the sacred essence you want."

 

            "Are you kidding? Just let me get my hands on these Gruckles or whoever they are that think they can carve my home town up, and I'll grind them into library paste!"

 

            "It's a deal." Retief turned to Therion. "How about it? You in or out?"

 

            "If Bozdune approves the enterprise, then who are we to demur?" the oldster inquired of the cool night air. "Rise, loyal Sons of Sulinore! For this night at least, the ancient glories live again!"

 

            Retief gave Bozdune another shot of gas, then passed the captive to Therion.

 

            "Don't squeeze him too hard," he cautioned. "We've got to make him stretch as far as we can; if this caper's going to succeed, we'll need all the ancient glory we can muster."

 

           

 

            From a shadowy arch half a block from the carved gates of the Terran Embassy, Retief, seated astride Tussore's broad back, watched as the fifty-Groaci guard detail sauntered past, their stemmed eyes scanning the street alertly, their blast rifles ready at port arms. Behind him, the tread of booted Groaci feet approached relentlessly.

 

            "Get ready," he said softly. "Another ten seconds ..."

 

            There was a chorus of weak shouts from the rear, a slapping of running feet, the buzzzz-whapp! of power guns firing; then a pair of Groaci troopers appeared, pelting along in advance of a mighty figure in ancient armor. In full stride, he overtook them, snatched them up by their necks and tossed them aside. Behind him, a crowd of Sulinorians, toga skirts hitched high, brandished their ceremonial knives as they followed their massive leader toward the gate. A moment later, the giant was among the patrollers, flailing with a spike-studded mace before the gun was fired.

 

            "Let's go!" Retief kicked his heel into Tussore's sides, and the mighty centauroid bounded forward. In an instant, they were in the thick of the melee, Retief swinging a yard-long club as Tussore reared and struck out with iron-hard hooves.

 

            "Cut your way through!" Retief called to his mount. We can mop up later, after we've taken care of the main event!"

 

            "Aiii! What a lovely squishing sound these Gruckers make beneath my hooves!" the old warrior yelled, but he wheeled and charged the gate. Half a block away, Retief caught a glimpse of Bozdune, tossing Groaci troopers aside like straw dummies. From every dark alleymouth and byway, Sulinorians were pouring. A lone Groaci in the gatehouse brought up his blast-rifle, loosed a round that missed by inches; then Retief's club felled him, and they were through, crossing the lawn toward the lighted entry at full gallop. A startled Marine guard let out a yell and reached for the lever which would slam the grill in the faces of the invaders, but a sweep of Tussore's arm sent the sentry sprawling. Inside, Retief swung down, started up the grand staircase, five steps at a time. Suddenly Counsellor Clutchplate appeared on the landing above.

 

            "Retief!" His eyes took in the massive, sweaty, horse-bodied Tussore, helmeted and sword-girded, the motley horde of Sulinorians swarming behind.

 

            "Good lord! Treason! Treachery! Hallucinations!" He whirled to run as Retief caught him, spun him around.

 

            "Has the banquet begun yet?" he demanded.

 

            "J ... j ... just starting now," the counsellor choked. "It happens I don't like Groaci iodine chowder, so I just stepped out for a breath of air." He stumbled back as Retief dashed on.

 

            At the high double doors to the banquet hall, a Marine in dress blues, polished helmet and chrome-plated ceremonial .45 departed from his rigid position of attention sufficiently to roll his eyes as the newcomers surged down on him. At what he saw, he grabbed for the holster at his hip. Retief slammed a side-handed blow at his wrist. "Sorry, son," he snapped and sent the doors flying open on the roomful of startled diplomats. From both sides of a long U-shaped table, oculars of every description goggled at the spectacle that burst upon them. Retief pointed to the impassive Sulinorian servitors standing behind the diners, spaced all along the room, one to a customer.

 

            "Get 'em" he commanded and reached for the nearest as the troop at his heels boiled past to carry out his instruction.

 

 

VII

 

            "You've gone out of your mind, Retief!" Counsellor Clutchplate gazed, white-faced and shaken, from the broken doorway at the scene of carnage after the capture of the last of the servitors. "What can it mean, leading this party of dacoits to violate the Embassy? I must protest, even at risk of my life, whatever atrocities you plan to visit on these poor chaps! They're under CDT protection!"

 

            "They'll survive—some of 'em," Retief said, and plucking a steak knife from the table, he stooped over one of the fallen waiters and with a quick stroke, laid him open from chin to navel. Clutchplate uttered a strangled yelp; Ambassador Shindlesweet turned pale and quietly collapsed under the table as Retief reached, extracted a limp, two-foot-tall creature resembling a shelled lobster from the interior of the pseudoflesh costume.

 

            "They're not Sulinorians; they're Blugs." He reached again, pulled out a small pressure-tank. "This is his air supply; liquid nitrogen."

 

            "Blugs?" Clutchplate gaped at the unconscious creature, from whose breathing orifice a brown exhalation now was issuing. "But what—how—? See here, Retief! even if these are, er, Blugs, what harm could they have done unarmed, which would warrant your outrageous behavior?"

 

            "Blugs are rock-eaters," Retief explained. "And they seem to have a remarkable degree of control over their metabolism. Normally, they exhale innocuous gases; under stress, they start exhaling nitrogen trioxide. But when occasion demands, they can switch to production of any one of three or four poisonous oxides of nitrogen. Here in this closed room, all it would have taken was one good whiff down each guest's neck, on signal, and bingo! Clean sweep."

 

            "But why?" Clutchplate wailed.

 

            "I have an idea Ambassador Shith can tell us how they happened to be here, instead of Coriale's regular table-waiting staff," Retief suggested.

 

            Shith, still dangling in Tussore's grasp, emitted a harsh bleat. "Gloat while you can, Mr. Retief!" he hissed. "True, every word! I commend your cleverness! But while you spent your efforts in thwarting this feint—yes, feint!—the squadron of Blug warships which you Terries so naively permitted to pass your blockade were discharging fifty thousand picked troops, the cream of the Bluggish navy! Even now these diminutive but doughty doughboys are spreading out over the town, breathing their deadly halitosis on every living creature in their paths! By morning, no Sulinorian will be alive to dispute the Groaci claim to planetary ownership!"

 

            "Shith—have you taken leave of your senses?" Shindlesweet had revived sufficiently to crawl forth, spluttering. "When this is known you'll be hauled before a Galactic tribunal and dealt with in a manner that will make the name of Groac a byword to replace that of Doctor Mush!"

 

            "Mud," Shith corrected. "Permit me to contradict you, my dear George! Not one word of the coup will be noised abroad. My constabulary have already taken the precaution of securing the only communications facilities on the planet capable of contacting CDT naval forces; in a matter of moments my chaps will arrive to put an end to your illusions of success! Don't fret, however. I promise you a swift and painless demise." He paused, aiming several eyes at Retief. "Why do you shake your head, sir! My scheme is flawless! My invasion is an accomplished fact!"

 

            "True—but you missed one small point," Retief said. "The Sulinorians were gradually fading off the scene due to the exhaustion of the planet's supply of a certain element vital to their well-being. But instead of dying, after about the age of five hundred, they'd drift off into a comatose state. You and your nitrogen-fixing Blugs have changed all that, Mr. Ambassador. Thanks to you, Sulinore has a new lease on life."

 

            "You seek even in the eleventh hour to delude yourself!" Shith hissed. "Hearken! Even now my occupation forces approach the door!"

 

            There was a noisy clump of feet from the hall outside.

 

            Then the mighty figure of Bozdune the Bestial, broad and bronzed, appeared in the entry. He plucked a shattered door from its hinges with one hand and tossed it aside.

 

            "Nice going, Retief," he boomed. "I don't know how you worked it, but the place is swarming with those lovable little guys you called Blugs. All the boys are catching 'em and making pets of 'em. I've got one in my pocket, and he's keeping me supplied like a tall glunthound!" The behemoth's ochre eyes fell on the laden table. "Chow!" he bassooned. "I haven't had a square meal in eight hundred years!"

 

            "Then—this means my invasion has failed?" Shith wailed. "My so meticulously planned invasion, spoiled in the eleventh hour by one trivial oversight?"

 

            "Oh, your invasion is a huge success," Retief said comfortingly. "But this time the invadees are the winners."

 

 

VIII

 

            "I really must protest this flagrant interference in the internal affairs of a sovereign world, George," Ambassador Shith whispered vehemently from his position on the platform where the group of local and foreign dignitaries stood, awaiting the appearance of the parade organized by the Sulinorians to celebrate the invasion. "I demand the immediate return of the impounded units of the Blug navy and the repatriation of all Blug nationals!"

 

            "Spare me your threnodies, my dear Shith." Ambassador Shindlesweet raised a remonstrative hand. "We'd have a sticky time of it were we to attempt to dislodge the Blugs now. You're aware, I'm sure, that as their breathing tanks ran low, they escaped their captors and burrowed their way down half a mile to a nitrogen-rich stratum and are busily digesting rock and releasing free radicals—that, and reproducing. I think you might be said to be fortunate to be sharing the honors today as co-sponsor of the Blug Immigration Plan, rather than languishing in the VIP suite of a CDT brig, awaiting trial."

 

            "Pah!" the Groaci envoy vibrated his throat-sac in indignation. "In that case," he changed tack, "I see no reason why Groac should share credit for this enlightened program under which, at no cost to these ungrateful locals, their atmosphere is being so rapidly renewed!"

 

            "Really, Shith," the Terran chief of mission said in a low voice, "it's only the fact that a full disclosure of the events leading up to the present rapprochement might tempt certain petty critics at Sector to the faulty conclusion that I had been in some way remiss, that prevents me from releasing the transcript of the rather excited pronouncement which you so providently delivered into the recorders set up to capture the after-dinner speeches ..."He cupped an ear as distant bugles sounded. "Gentlemen, I think I hear them coming now."

 

            Along the ancient street, a procession was advancing, banners awave. In the front rank were Tussore and Bozdune, grim and gigantic, CDT-supplied nitrogen tanks slung at their hips, their armor sparkling in the red rays of the swollen sun.

 

            Behind them, rank on rank, marched the revived immortals of Sulinore, a column that stretched away out of sight along the shadowy street.

 

            "This matter of allowing these chaps to seize the Blug ships as spoils of war and set off on a raiding expedition is an irregularity that I'm going to have difficulty glossing over in my report," Shindlesweet said behind his hand to Therion. "But off the record," he added, "I suppose I'll manage—so long as you're sure they'll do their raiding in Groaci-mandated territory."

 

            "Indeed, I hope you'll interpose no obstacles to the ruffians departing Sulinore as expeditiously as possible," the elder whispered loudly.

 

            "We're well rid of the smelly brutes. They have no conception of the dignity appropriate to legendary heroes."

 

            Tussore, catching sight of Retief, broke ranks and cantered over to the group, puffing smoke from the cigar clamped in his mouth.

 

            "Well, we're off," he called heartily. "And glad to be going! The old place isn't the same any more. I can't even step on the grass without some whisk-broom handler jumping out and giving me a hard time. And that dying sun! Paugh! It gives me the Deep Willies!" He puffed out a great cloud of smoke, raised an eyebrow at Retief.

 

            "Say, why don't you change your mind and join us, Retief?" he demanded. "We'll have a lot more fun out there chasing across the universe than you will staying back here with these stick-in-the-muds."

 

            "It's a temptation," Retief said. "Maybe some day I'll take you up on it. I have an idea your trail will be easy to follow."

 

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