RETIEF’S WAR

One

Jame Retief, Second Secretary and Consul of the Terrestrial Embassy to Quopp, paused in his stroll along the Twisting Path of Sublime Release to admire the blaze of early morning sunlight on the stained glass window of a modest grog shop wedged between a stall with a sign in jittery native script announcing Bargain Prices in Cuticula Inlays, and the cheery facade of the Idle Hour Comfort Station, One Hundred Stalls, No Waiting. He took out a long cigar of the old-fashioned type still hand-rolled on Jorgensen’s Worlds, glanced back along the steep, narrow street. Among the crowd of brilliantly colored Quoppina-members of a hundred related native species mingling freely here in the Great Market of Ixix-the four Terrans who had been trailing him for the past half hour stood out drably. Retief drew on the cigar, savoring the aroma, turned and stepped through the low arch into the tavern. From a high stool within the raised ring-bar at the center of the gaily lit chamber, the barkeeper-a medium-sized, short-abdo-mened individual of the Herpp tribe, with chipped wing cases of faded baby blue and four dexterous arms of bristly wine-red on one of which a Terran wristwatch was strapped-manipulated the controls of the dispenser console, -exchanged banter with the customers, made change, and kept a pair of eyes on the free lunch simultaneously. He saw Retief, tilted his anterior antennae in friendly -greeting.

“I am Gom-Goo, and I dance the Dance of Welcome,” he susurrated in Quopp trade dialect, his voice reminiscent of fingernails on a blackboard.

“What’ll it be, Retief?”

“I’m Retief, and I dance the Dance of Glad Arrival,” the diplomat replied in the same tongue. “How about a shot of Bacchus brandy?”

“Red or black?”

“Black.” The other customers made room as Retief moved up, unclipped a carefully charred wooden bowl from the serving panel, got it under the proper bright-plated nozzle just in time to catch the tar-colored syrup as it jetted forth.

“That’s pretty good stuff,” Gom-Goo said; he lowered his voice. “But for a real kick, you ought to try a shot of Hellrose-cut ten to one, of course. That’ll put a charge on your plates.”

“I tried it once. Too sweet for a Terry. We like our sugar fermented.”

“Sourballs?” The Herpp indicated an assortment of pea-sized lumps of yellow, white, purple, and green.

Retief shook his head. “I prefer salt peanuts to salt-peter,” he confided.

“Well, every tribe to its own poison.”

“Here’s oil in your crankcase,” Retief toasted formally, nibbling the brandy.

“Oil,” Gom-Goo responded. “You haven’t been in lately, Retief. Been dormant?”

“No more so than usual, Gom-Goo. Ambassador Longspoon’s been imposing non-union hours on the staff, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t do to let the Groaci steal a march on us and get a Bolshoi-type ballet theater built before we can get a Yankee-stadium type sports arena off the drawing board.”

Gom-Goo worked his dorsal mandibles in the gesture that expressed courteous skepticism. “Frankly, Retief, we Quoppina aren’t much interested in watching Terries hobble around. After all, only two legs and no wings . .

.”

“I know; but it’s traditional in these diplomatic competitions to build something conspicuously inappropriate.”

Gom-Goo tilted his oculars toward the door, where a pair of Quoppina with highly polished black carapaces were rolling past, twirling nightsticks.

“Speaking of Terry programs, Retief, just between you and me, what’s behind this business of buffing up these Voion ne’er-do-wells and setting them to cruising the streets waving clubs at the rest of us?”

“Well, Gom-Goo, it appears that in some quarters the view is held that you Quoppina are a little too fond of brawling, anarchy, and dueling in the streets to qualify as natural democrats. Ergo, a native police force.”

“Uh-huh-but why pick the Voion for the job? Their tribe’s made its living by waylaying honest Quoppina in back alleys ever since the Great Egg first hatched-”

A heavy foot clumped behind Retief. He turned to find the four Terrans ringing him in, ominous expressions on their weathered features.

“We’re just in from the Trading Post at Rum Jungle,” the lean, scar-faced member of the quartet said flatly. “We want to have a little talk with you, Mister.” He put his left fist carefully against the palm of his right hand and twisted it, looking around nervously.

Retief nodded. “Go ahead,” he said pleasantly. A large man with thick, protuberant ears and thin sandy hair eased the scarred man aside.

“Not in this dump,” he said in a voice like a cannonball rolling downstairs.

“Outside.”

“If it’s a private matter, maybe you’d better drop by my office-”

“We already been to the Embassy; talked to some bird named Magnan,” the big man said. “He acted like his lace drawers was itching him; no joy there.”

“Don’t argue with this chump, Big Leon,” a squatty fellow with a bluish chin and a steel front tooth advised. “Bring him along.”

The bartender leaned over and buzzed sharply. “My name is Gom-Goo,” he started. “I-”

“Better get your wiring checked, low-pockets,” Scar-face cut him off.

“Sounds like you got a short in your talk box.” He jerked his head at Retief.

“Let’s walk, Mister.”

“I haven’t quite finished my drink,” Retief said mildly. “Why don’t you go stand outside; I’ll be along presently.”

The fourth man, yet to be heard from, edged close. “Ah, sir, we have a problem,” he began. “We-”

“Skip it, Jerry,” Scar-face snapped. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, glowered at Retief. “Outside, you, like Big Leon said.”

“Sorry,” Retief said. “Some other time, maybe.”

Scar-face narrowed his eyes, reached a large-knuckled hand for Retief’s collar; Retief leaned aside, caught the hand, and flipped it over, his fingers against the palm, his thumb against the scarred knuckles, doubled it back over the wrist. Scar-face went to his knees with a yowl. Retief tsked.

“A very poor lead, Lefty,” he said reproachfully. “It’s a good thing I wasn’t an enemy of yours.”

“Hey,” the big man said, stepping in. “Let him up.”

Retief looked at the wide face that topped his own six-three by an inch.

“Why do they call you Big Leon?”

Big Leon set himself. “Put Seymour down and I’ll show you,” he grated. Retief shifted his grip, lifted the scarred man clear of the floor, hoisted him chest-high. “Here, you have him,” he offered, and tossed him at the big man. Leon staggered back, oof!ed, thrust Seymour aside, frowned, doubled a large fist, and moved inThere was a shrill rasp of sound. A thick, five-foot Quoppina with a glistening black carapace decked out in elaborate silver ornaments rolled between Retief and Big Leon.

“Outside, foreign grubs!” the intruder keened. He waved a long billy club of black wood, jabbed it at the scar-faced man, who had stumbled to his feet. There were other club-wielders behind the first-two, three, half a dozen or more, all wearing the new black and silver trappings of the CDT-sponsored Federal Police. The Voion captain waved his palps, giving Retief a glimpse down a yellow-green throat set with silvery needles.

“All of you are under arrest,” he rasped. “Place your manipulative members above your sense-organ clusters and proceed hence!”

“What’s the charge?” Retief asked in the Voion dialect.

“Trespassing in forbidden territory, alien, not that it matters! The example may remind your fellows to remain in the ghetto graciously assigned to them by the indulgence of the Planetary Government!”

“Just a minute,” the barkeeper interrupted from his perch above. “I am Gom-Goo and-”

“Silence, panderer to alien perversions,” the Voion snapped. “Or I’ll find dungeon space for you, too!”

The other Voion were unlimbering clubs now. Over their heads, Retief caught Big Leon’s eye, jerked his head minutely to the right; the big man narrowed his eyes, nodded quickly. As the Voion before Retief brought his club back for a jab to the sternum, Leon reached, caught the alien by the upper pair of arms, lifted him clear of the floor, whirled him, and slammed him at his fellows. Two of them went over with a crash. Retief spun, intercepted an eager junior closing in from the left, caught him by his vestigial wing cases, sent him reeling back to collide with his partner as Scar-face feinted, twisted the club from the two-pronged grip of the nearest cop, ducked, and jammed it through the spokes of the alien’s yard-high main wheels. The victim stopped with a screech and a twanging of broken spokes. Big Leon met a second charging Voion with a roundhouse swipe, yelled as his fist glanced off the armored and thorned thorax, then landed a blow that spun the creature aside. Retief, ready, spiked its main wheels with the club he had wrenched from his last victim, just as the sole undamaged Voion struck Big Leon a vicious blow behind the ear. Leon turned with a roar, picked up the cop bodily, and slammed him against the barkeeper’s podium.

“Here!” the barkeeper shrilled. “I am Gom-Goo and I dance the Dance of Distress-”

“Let’s get out of here!” Scar-face ducked aside as a Voion’s club whistled, charged for the door. Quoppina of all sizes and colors scattered before him. Leon aimed a blow at a cop renewing the attack; Jerry took the arm of the fourth Terran, staggering from a bloody cut across the scalp, plunged through the crowd. Retief, backed against the podium by the last two Voion still in action, keeping their distance and swinging their clubs in whistling arcs, plucked a tall bottle from a display, got in a hearty crack across the head of one as Gom-Goo leaned down and laid the other out with a bung starter.

“Retief!” The Herpp called above the chatter of the clientele who had been enjoying the free show. “I am Gom-Goo and I dance the Dance of Apology-”

“This dance is on me,” Retief panted. “I think I’d better be off now, Gom-Goo; sorry about the damage-”

“It was entirely the fault of these jacks-in-office,” the bartender clashed his wing cases in agitation. “Interfering in a friendly dispute among cash customers! Tum-Tuk . . .” He signaled to his two table waiters. “Haul these Voion troublemakers out into the alley, to survive or not, just as they please.” He leaned over to eye the one Big Leon had thrown against the podium. “As for this fellow, stuff him in the incinerator. He’s shouldered his last free citizen off the parking-ledge.”

“We’d better dust, Mister,” Leon said. “That Bug was a cop and he’s got plenty of pals . . .”

There was a distant clanging of gongs.

“You’d best transfer the scene of your diversions elsewhere for the nonce, Retief,” Gom-Goo called. “One of these spoil-sports has summoned his fellow black-guards . . .”

“We were just leaving; and thanks for tapping that last fellow; he was getting too close for comfort.”

“My pleasure, Retief. The rascals have been getting pushier by the day. They’re up to something, mark my words! And remember: After the wheels, the juncture between the parietal plates is the best spot to go for on a Voion.”

“I’ll remember that. Ta ta.”

In a quieter grog shop half a mile from the scene of the action, Retief and four Terrans found a table at the back of the room from which they could keep an eye on the street. Through the wide, doorless arch, Voion cops could be seen hurrying past, grim and businesslike in their black and silver trappings. Big Leon blew on his skinned fist, looked at Retief almost shyly.

“Sorry about the rough stuff, uh, Mister, uh . . .”

“Retief. No apology needed. I see now why they call you Big Leon.”

Leon nodded. “You looked pretty good in there yourself, Mister. Maybe those Bugs’ll think about it before they tackle a bunch of Terries again.”

“What’s got into them Bugs?” the scarred man demanded. “They been giving us a hard time out in the field, but I figured they’d be minding their manners here in town.”

“That’s what we came here to talk about,” Big Leon said. “Something’s stirring the Voion tribe up. I thought it was just us planters and traders they were out to get, but they’ve got the whole town sewed up like a dead sailor.”

“We pretty near didn’t get into the city,” the steel-toothed man said.

“There’s a patrol around the port; a man could get the idea he wasn’t welcome.”

“The new police force was designed to bring law and order to Quopp,”

Retief said. “According to the official T.O. there are supposed to be no more than a hundred of them assigned to the city, with smaller detachments at the major trading towns.”

“A hundred my uncle Edgar,” Leon growled. “The whole town’s swarming with ’em-and there must be another ten thousand between here and Rum Jungle.”

“Yes, I’d say our friends the Voion have answered the call to civic duty in surprising numbers,” Retief said.

“They say Longspoon’s the one behind it,” Scar-face said. “Sometimes I wonder whose side you CDT boys are on.”

“The motivation of the diplomat is an enigma that even his best friend, if he had one, would be hard put to define,” Retief confided. “Technically, the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne is dedicated to the protection of Terran interests, Galaxy-wide. Of course, figuring out what those interests really are can get a little complicated.”

“Like equipping local cops with clubs to pound Terry heads, using fees squeezed out of Terry businessmen,” Seymour growled.

“What does the Corps want here, anyway?” Leon demanded. “Quopp was doing all right-with a little help from Terry free enterprises; then along comes a bunch of CDT Johnnies getting everything organized, and all of a sudden us Terries are undesirable aliens.”

Retief refilled glasses. “Admittedly, some of the measures selected by our Chief of Mission may seem paradoxical at first glance. But that’s just because you haven’t entered into the spirit of the game. All of the measures Ambassador Longspoon has taken-restrictions on private enterprise by Terrans, establishment of the Planetary Police, free goods for the indigent, subsidies for Voion commercial enterprise, and the rest-are designed to bring peace and plenty to the downtrodden locals whom you fellows have been exploiting.”

“What do you mean, exploiting?” Big Leon’s fist hit the table. “Why, a hundred years ago, when the first Terries hit Quopp, there was nothing here but wild Bugs living in grass huts and eating each other. We laid out the towns, built trails, started ’em in on a little cottage industry and intertribal trade. We brought in electronics men to be country G.P.’s, developed new lines of merchandise to make life more beautiful for the Quopp in the street, and taught ’em the idea of civilization. Sure, we made a good profit-but they’ve got their money’s worth every step of the way!”

“Still, Leon, now that you’ve put Quopp on the star maps, competition has set in. Our friends the Groaci aren’t going to let this world drift into the Terry camp without a struggle. They’ve set up a string of trading posts along the other coast of Continent One, and they’re doing a brisk trade in miniature Tri-D’s, artificial limbs and wheels, and electronic Mah-Jongg sets-”

“Direct competition with us!” Jerry burst out. “The copy-cats!”

“Of course,” Retief went on, “no self-respecting diplomat could let the challenge pass without making an effort to out-enlighten the opposition. Whatever the Groaci do, we have to do bigger-”

“Why?” Seymour grunted.

“Why does a golfer have to hit the golf ball?” Retief riposted. “Such is the challenge of diplomacy.”

“But why this sudden compulsion to unite the planet under a single government-and with the Voion in charge, of all people!” Jerry looked indignant.

“You know we can’t even travel inland to look over the markets?” Big Leon said.

“You know why? The Voion! They’re all over like a land-lubber’s lunch-waving clubs and telling us where we can and can’t go!”

“Longspoon’s made a mistake, backing the Voion,” Big Leon said. “There’s not a Bug on the planet doesn’t hate their main windings. Slavers and dope-runners, con artists, highway robbers, and second-story men-that’s what they were-until this idea of reforming ’em and putting badges on ’em came along.”

“His Excellency envisions the day when a trained cadre of reformed Voion will lead the newly enlightened masses to a new era of planetary unity,”

Retief explained. “Or so he frequently says.”

“Retief, how long you been here on Quopp?” Leon inquired.

“Only a few weeks, I’m afraid.”

“You talk the dialects pretty good.”

“I’ve spent a few hours on the encephalotapes.”

“Uh-huh,” Leon nodded. “Well, I was born here, Retief. Hell, I haven’t been off the planet half a dozen times in my life. And I can tell you-these devils have got something up their sleeve!”

“I’m inclined to agree their police badges seem to have gone to their heads-”

“It ain’t just that,” Seymour said. “There’s something in the wind! We saw it, out in the jungle-and now here in town! It’s getting ready to pop!

Pushing Terries around-that’s bad medicine, Mister!”

“And I’ll tell you something else,” the steel-toothed man said. “Those Bugs are tapping CDT shipments at the port-in broad daylight!”

Retief frowned. “You’re sure of that?”

“Been down to the port lately?” Big Leon inquired.

“Not in the past month.”

“Come on,” Leon rose. “Let’s go take a look-see. There’s a CDT shipment on the pad right now big enough to put half the Terries on Quopp out of business.” As he stood, a buzzing three-inch yellow-green flyer sailed by, settled to a puddle of spilled liquor on the floor. Big Leon raised a size thirteen shoe“Don’t do it,” Retief said. “He probably needs a drink as bad as we did.”

“That’s just a Phip,” Seymour said. “You talk like they was human.”

“You never can tell,” Retief said, skirting the small creature. “He just might be somebody’s cousin George.”

Outside, the five Terrans hailed two massive peach-colored Wumblums, mounted to the creaking velvet-lined seats strapped to the heavy creatures’

backs, relaxed as their mounts trundled off on broad leather-shod wheels toward the space port, groaning up the steep slopes, puffing down the declines, shouting for way among the thronging Quoppina packing the route. Clear of the main shopping streets, the Wumblums made better time, wheeling along briskly under the crisp morning sky. Overhead, the glaring crescent of Joop, Quopp’s sister world, swung toward its twice-daily eclipse of the distant sun, a blinding point of white light casting short midmorning shadows across the intricately surfaced buildings that thrust up everywhere like giant, lumpy loaves of pastel-toned bread.

“You gents coming back?” Retief’s mount inquired in a voice like the E-string on a bass cello. It tilted an auditory receptor to pick up the reply over the noise of wheels of pavement. “Ten percent off for a round trip.”

“Not right away,” Retief said. “Better not wait for us.”

“I’ll stick around anyway; Voom-Voom’s the name. Ask for me when you’re ready to go. Not much action this morning. All these Zilk and Jackoo in town from the villages, they’d wear out their wheels rubbernecking before they’d hail a ride-and these Voion cops all over the place-they’re not helping business any.”

The Wumblum behind Retief’s swung out, came alongside. “Looks like we got company,” Big Leon called, pointing over his shoulder with a large, blunt thumb. Retief glanced back; a pair of Voion were trailing fifty yards behind, black shells glistening, light winking from their recently applied police insignia.

“There are two more flanking us on the right,” Retief said. “I’d guess we’re covered on the left, too. They don’t want us to be lonely.”

“Maybe you’d better cut out of here,” Leon suggested. “I guess they’re still mad. Me and the boys’ll handle this.”

“It’s a nice day for a drive,” Retief said. “I wouldn’t think of missing it.”

The Wumblum took a quick look back at Retief. “Some of those Voion giving you gents trouble?”

“They’re trying, I’ll concede, Voom-Voom.”

“Don’t worry about a thing, boss. I’ll say a word to my sidekick Rhum-Rhum, and we’ll lead those grub-eaters down a couple of side streets to a cul-de-sac I know and work ’em over for you.”

“That’s friendly of you, old-timer, but we don’t have time for any more horseplay today.”

“All part of the service,” Voom-Voom said.

The port came into view as the party emerged from the twisting avenue; a hundred acre expanse of hilly ground ringed by a sagging wire fence, paved and scabbed over with a maze of flimsy temporary structures, some now nearly a century old, among which the tall shapes of scattered vessels thrust up, festooned with service cables and personnel rigging. As Retief watched, a vast black shadow swept down the hillside beyond the ships, rushed across the port blanking out the gleam of sun on chromalloy and concrete and corrugated aluminum, then enveloped them, plunging the street into abrupt, total darkness. Retief looked up; the great fire-edged disk of Joop loomed black against the midnight blue sky. Voom-Voom lowered his head, and the beam of dusty light from his luminescent organ cut a path through the gloom ahead.

“You know, you Terries have done us Quoppina a lot of good,” he said, slowing now to pick his way with more care. “Like the focusing lenses for us Wumblums’ head-lights; a real boon. And the rubber wheel-shoes like some of the fellows wear; a useful item. And the synthetic lubricants-and the surgical spares-you’ve kept a lot of fellows on the street earning a living at the time o’ life when our dads would have been laid up for good. But these Voion cops, and this one-world, one-government idea: It’s a mistake. It’s always been every tribe for itself, and a good system, too-”

“Watch out, Retief,” Big Leon called quietly. There was a soft swish of tires on clay pavement, the abrupt stab of yellowish light beams as fast-moving forms closed in on both sides.

“Halt!” a Voion accent came from the darkness. “Pull up here, you Wumblums, in the name of the law!”

“You small-time chiselers have got the gall to pull that routine on me?”

Voom-Voom trumpeted, accelerating. “Stay out of my way, or I’ll leave my tread-marks down your backs!”

“That’s an order, you great bumbling lout!” One of the Voion, apparently carried away by his own recently acquired rank, swung too close; Voom-Voom shot out an arm like a ship-grapple, gathered the luckless creature in, tossed him aside to slam the pavement with a clang of metallo-organic body plates. A second Voion, veering aside, gave a shriek, disappeared under the massive wheels of Rhum-Rhum. The others sheered off, fell back, as the Wumblums sped off toward the lights now gleaming all across the port. Retief held on to the worn leather hand-straps as the solid wheels hammered over the potholed road.

“A good thing the CDT hasn’t gone as far as handing out power guns to those Jaspers,” Seymour shouted as Rhum-Rhum came up on the starboard beam.

“Look there-” Jerry leaned forward beside Retief. “There are Voion swarming all over the port!”

“Don’t worry, gents,” Voom-Voom hooted. “Rhum-Rhum and me will stand by. That was the first time I’ve had my wheels on a Voion since the last time I caught one prying the lid off my fare-box. It felt good.”

There was a flood-lit gate ahead, flanked by a pair of Voion who rolled forward officiously-and darted back as Voom-Voom barreled past them, slammed through the fence, hurtled on without slowing. They were in among the tall ships now, threading their way among stacked packing cases, dangling cargo nets, hurrying stevedores, and Vorch cargo-carriers, the latter squat Quoppina with three thick functional wheels and broad, labor-scarred carapaces. Ahead Retief saw the familiar CDT code stenciled on the sides of stacked cases being unloaded by Voion stevedores from the hold of a battered tramp trader under a battery of polyarcs.

“You notice they’re not shipping the stuff in Corps vessels,” Big Leon pointed out as their mounts pulled up at a signal from Retief. “It’s all handled pretty cagey; looks like there’s angles to this that Longspoon doesn’t want publicity on. It just happens I know that cargo-mark.”

A pair of bustling Voion were at work on the cargo net, overseeing the placement of the crates. Others stood about, as though on guard-humbler specimens than the elite police, Retief noted; their dull black wing cases lacked the high polish and brightwork of their favored tribesmates. One, wearing the armband of a Ramp Master, wheeled across to confront the visitors. He was an oldster, beginning to silver around the edges, his thickened wing cases showing the marks of repeated paring.

“What d’ye seek here, sirs?” he chirped in tribal Voion, in what was meant to be an authoritative tone, meanwhile working his anterior antennae in frantic Voion thieves’ code.

“Shift . . . cases . . . conceal . . . special . . . consignment . . .” Retief deciphered. He noted a sudden stir of activity among the Voion at the net. A pair of the patrolling stick-wielders rolled in to help. The center of attention appeared to be a stack of cases conspicuously tagged with large red cards reading “For the Terran Ambassador.”

“We takee look-see,” Seymour was saying in trade pidgin. “We lookee gift-gift Terry friend-friend send.”

“Very good,” the oldster shifted to the same tongue. “Looky see, plenty ski pants, snowshoe, smoked oyster, bagels, tennis racquet, paint-by-number kit; all stuff keep tiny Quoppina tot alive all winter.”

“You hear that, Retief?” Big Leon growled. “Some of my hottest trade items, those are. You’d think Longspoon was deliberately trying to put us traders out of business.” He pointed suddenly. “Hey, look there!” A Voion in tribal dress, with the feathery antennae of a Flying Jarwheel strapped to his head, was maneuvering a pink Timblum-a smaller cousin of the mighty Wumblum-into position. There was a squat cart hitched behind the mount.

“That’s Smuk; he’s a retired slaver; used to be one of my best customers. Now look at him, freeloading! No wonder I don’t see him around the warehouse sales anymore!”

Retief climbed down from his seat, strolled across to study the stacked crates. The Ramp Master trailed him, his wheels squeaking on the dry bearings of old age. Behind the façade of hurriedly places boxes, Retief counted at least half a dozen of the red-marked cases, identical with the others except for the prominent diplomatic address. The Voion twittered nervously at his heels.

“Nice Terry gentleman take look-see next side, see plenty nice box, you bet,” he creaked.

“What’s in those, Ramp Master?” Retief asked in tribal Voion, indicating the half-concealed boxes.

“Eee, the sir speaks good Tribal,” the old Voion clacked his palps in a gesture indicating Respectful Congratulation. “Why, as to those cases there, they contain educational material, yes, sir, that’s what they contain. Now, over here . . .”

Big Leon had come up beside Retief. “Feel like sticking your nose into trouble?” Retief asked softly.

Leon nodded. “Sure, why not?”

“Why don’t you go stir up a little activity over there, on the far side of the landing jack-say in about ten minutes?”

“Huh? Oh, I gotcha.” Leon gave Retief a quizzical look, went over and spoke to Seymour. Beside Retief, the old Voion signaled with his antennae. A pair of cargo-handlers wheeled casually over to hover near the Terrans, trailing as they sauntered off, looking over the scene of bustling activity. Retief moved on along the deep-shadowed lane between stacked cargo, paused before a heap of crates, pointed to the manila envelopes stapled to their sides.

“Mind if I look?” he inquired.

“As the sir desires,” the oldster said quickly. Retief pulled a folded copy of a bill of lading from the pocket, opened it out. It indicated that the crate contained bound volumes of the Pest Control Journal, consigned to the Information Service Library in the care of the Terran Consulate at Groon-a small city a hundred miles upriver in Deep Jungle. He went on, casually checking packing lists, rounded the end of the line of stacked crates, came up the back side. Directly behind the red-tagged cases, he found a pile of boxes, containing blank forms destined for the Terran Chancery. At that moment, an outcry came from beyond the looming bulk of the ship. Retief turned to his guide, who was now jittering nervously and looking in the direction from which the disturbance emanated.

“By the way, I forgot to mention it, but one of my companions-the large one-is something of a practical joker. He may have taken it into his head to start a fire or plant a couple of small choke-bombs. Maybe you’d better wheel over and check on him.”

“The sir jests . . . ?” The Ramp Master looked around for a courier, saw the last of his crew curving sharply out of sight on one wheel, headed for the scene of the growing uproar. “If the sir will excuse . . .” he shot off at surprising speed.

At once, Retief turned to the nearest red-tagged crates, used a handy pry-bar to lever a slot free. A layer of oil-impregnated plastic barred his view of the contents of the box. He took out a compact pocket knife, snapped the blade out, slit the liner, reached in, felt a lump coolness of a plastic coated object. He managed a two-fingered grip, drew it out. It was a bulky, heavy package, roughly triangular, larger than Retief’s hand, its outlines obscured by the protective cocoon. He slit it, peeled it back; the polished butt of a Mark XXX power gun nestled in his hand. Retief glanced around; none of the port personnel were in view. He stripped away the oily covering from the gun, dropped the weapon in his pocket, then tucked the empty plastic back inside, folded the liner over it, pressed the slat back in position.

The noises from Big Leon’s direction were gaining in timbre and volume, accompanied by splintering sounds. Voom-Voom glanced at Retief. “Say, boss, that racket-”

“Just boyish high spirits; it won’t last much longer,” Retief said.

“Meanwhile, see that nobody disturbs me for the next five minutes.”

Voom-Voom waved one arm, clicked his lumi-nescent organ on, and rolled forward to cover the approach. Retief set to work moving the barricade of boxes aside and removing red tags from the special consignment. The riot continued, still growing in volume. With the red tags free, Retief moved back to the crates marked for Groon, quickly removed the tags, used the butt of his pocket knife to -hammer labels removed from the consignment of forms in place in their stead, then hurried on to the crated forms, placed the red tags on the boxes.

“Better hurry it up, boss,” Voom-Voom hooted softly. “I think the excitement’s dying down over there-” He broke off to rumble suddenly into action. Retief heard the shrill of Voion voices. He glanced up at the black disk of Joop; a glowing bulge was showing at one edge now; the eclipse would be over in another half-minute. He hurried back to the special consignment, attached the cards from the library shipment intended for Groon. Behind him, voices shrilled; Voom-Voom was still blocking the lane, loudly demanding why he should move merely to let a pack of Voion riffraff through. Retief stepped quickly to Rhum-Rhum.

“If you backed up carelessly, you might just ram that pile of boxes,” he said. “They might get all mixed up together . . .”

“They might, at that,” the Wumblum agreed. “Take those scalpers half their siesta hour to unscramble ’em.” He straightened his wheels, glanced back, and moved suddenly, slammed into the neatly stacked crates. They skidded, toppled with a crash. Voom-Voom, watching the byplay with one pair of eyes, whirled about in mock alarm, dumped another row. Excited Voion shot past him, shrilling, just as the glare of returned sunlight sprang across the hills, scythed down the slope and on across the crowded tarmac to bathe the scene of chaos in brilliant day.

Big Leon appeared, looming over the scurrying cargo-tenders. He looked around, frowning.

“What the Sam Hill happened here?” he demanded loudly.

“Big brute of a dumb Wumblum makee big mess-mess,” the old Voion cargo master shrieked. “Great clumsy louts gotee no damn pidgin here!”

“Don’t spin your wheels, grandpa,” Voom-Voom rumbled carelessly. He leaned over to put his armored cranium near Retief’s. “How’d I do, chief?”

“Very effective,” Retief said approvingly. He walked over to the sidelines where a dull-eyed Vorch cargo-carrier was squatting, watching the activity.

“There are half a dozen crates marked for the Terry Library at Groon,” he said in trade dialect to the heavyweight. “I wonder if you know of an unused shed nearby where they might accidentally be tucked away out of sight for a few days.” He dropped a strip of embossed plastic trade wampum in the Vorch’s nearest hand, which immediately twitched it out of sight.

“What’s this-a bribe?” the carrier swiveled his wide head to bring his silicon-lensed rear eyes to bear.

“Just a gratuity for services rendered,” Retief reassured him.

“That’s OK then; just so you don’t offer me no graft.” The Vorch pointed with a short, thick arm. “The little bonded warehouse over there-the one with the red carving on the front. I’ll stack the stuff in there.”

Retief nodded and rejoined the party.

“Hey, what gives, Mr. Retief?” Seymour demanded. “Leon says-”

“Maybe you better not ask too many questions,” the big man put in. “I think we made our point. Let’s settle for that and head back for Rum Jungle. Something’s ready to pop, and I want to be minding the store when it happens.”

“Maybe you better come with us, Retief,” Steel-tooth said. “The post is a pretty fair fort if push comes to shove.”

“Don’t talk foolish, Lester,” Leon said. “Retief’s got a job to do here.”

“Yeah,” Steel-tooth said, “but when the job blows up in your face, remember Rum Jungle. We’ll need every man-and then it won’t be enough.”

Two

At the Terran Chancery in the Path of Many Sporting Agents, Retief stepped down from his perch and handed a strip of credit to his mount.

“Call on me any time, boss,” the Wumblum said. “I kind of like your style.”

He nodded toward the irregularly surfaced Embassy complex, a cluster of standard Quopp-style buildings perched on the uneven ground, painted ocher, Indian red, and dusty aquamarine, perforated by irregularly shaped windows at random intervals. “First time I ever hauled a Terry,” the Wumblum went on in a confidential tone. “Between you and me, I heard you folks were a tight crowd with a credit and not much in the sporting line, if you know what I mean.”

“A base canard, Voom-Voom. A diplomat considers a day wasted if he isn’t playing at least three games at once.”

As Retief stepped through the main entry, incongruously aluminum-framed and glass-doored, First Secretary Magnan hurried up, a thin, harassed figure in the limp yellow seersucker shorts and dickey of subtropical undress kit.

“Retief,” he called. “Wherever have you been? The ambassador is furious!

And Colonel Underknuckle’s been calling for you for an hour! I’ve been frantic!”

“Why? Can’t they be furious without me?”

“The sight of you seems to stimulate the condition, that I grant,” Magnan said witheringly. “Come along now. I’ve told the colonel you were probably out gathering material for the quarterly Sewage Report. I trust you’ll say nothing to dispel that impression.”

“I’ve been cementing relations with the Terran business community,” Retief explained as he accompanied the -senior diplomat along the wide, tiled, office-lined corridor which had been installed to replace the warren of tiny, twisting passages and cubicles originally filling the interior of the structure.

“Hmmm. I’m not sure that was wise, in view of the present down-playing of Terran private enterprise here on Quopp. You know how Prime Minister Ikk frowns on that sort of thing.”

“Oh, prime minister, eh? Who gave him that title?”

“Why, he advised the ambassador that it was conferred early this morning by unanimous vote of the Council of Drones.” Retief followed Magnan into the lift; the doors closed with a soft whoosh! of compressed air. The car lurched, started heavily upward.

“Let’s see,” Retief mused. “That’s the dummy legislature he set up to satisfy the ambassador’s passion for democracy, isn’t it? It was fortunate he had seventy-three senile uncles handy to appoint; saved the bother of breaking in strangers.”

“Yours is a distorted view of the evolution of representational government here on Quopp,” Magnan said reprovingly. “Closer attention to your Daily Bulletin from the Bird’s Nest would go far toward homogenizing your thinking on the subject.”

“I thought that was something they did to milk.”

“The term refers to voluntary alignment of viewpoint toward a group-oriented polarity; a sort of linkage of moral horsepower for maximal thrust toward the objective.”

“I’m not sure that pasteurized thinking is rich enough in intellectual vitamins to satisfy my growing curiosity about just what Ikk is up to.”

“It should be apparent even to you, Retief,” Magnan said sharply, “that the Corps can hardly accredit a full Mission to a nonexistent planetary government. Ergo, such a ruling body must be formed-and who better qualified than the Voion to undertake the task?”

“You might have something there; their past history has given them a firm grounding in the basics of politics; but with the other tribes outnumbering them a hundred to one, it’s a little hard to see how they’re planning to impose planet-wide enlightenment on a race that’s as fond of anarchy as the Quoppina.”

“That, my dear Retief, is Ambassador Longspoon’s problem, not ours. It was his idea to groom the Voion for leadership; our task is merely to implement his policies.”

“And if in the process we saddle the other ninety-nine percent of the population with a dictatorship, that’s a mere detail.”

“Ah, I can see you’re beginning to get the picture. Now . . .” The elevator halted and Magnan led the way out, paused at the heavy door barring the public from the Chancery wing. “I hope you’ll restrain your unfortunate tendency to essay japes at the expense of decorum, Retief. Colonel Underknuckle is in no mood for facetiae.” He pushed through, nodded mechanically at the small, gray Voion female buffing her chelae at a small desk of polished blue wood at one side of the red-carpeted corridor. She clacked her palps indifferently, blew a large bubble of green spearmint, and popped it with lively report.

“Impertinence!” Magnan sniffed under his breath. “A few months ago the baggage was an apprentice slop-drudge in a local inn of most unsavory repute; now, after we’ve trained her and given her that expensive set of chrome inlays, a derisive pop of the gum is considered adequate greeting for her benefactors.”

“That’s the trouble with uplifting the masses; they get to believing it themselves.”

Magnan stopped at an austere slab door marked MILITARY ATTACHE, fitted an expression on his narrow features appropriate for greeting a Grade Seven employee, pushed through into deep-carpeted silence.

“Ah, there, Hernia, I believe Colonel Underknuckle wished to see Mr. Retief

. . .”

The fat woman behind the desk patted a coil of mummified hair with a hand like a glove full of lard, showed Magnan a simper suitable for a first secretary, thumbed a button on a console before her. A chime sounded beyond the half-open door.

“Yes, confound it, what is it this time!” a voice like splitting canvas snarled from the desk speaker. “What in the name of perdition’s become of Magnan? If he’s not here in five minutes, send along that memo to the ambassador I keep handy-”

“It is I,” Magnan said stiffly. “And-”

“Don’t use grammar on me, Magnan!” the attaché shouted. “Come in here at once! There’s been another communication from that benighted vessel!

The saucy minx at the controls insists she’s bringing her in, clearance or no clearance. And where the devil’s that fellow, Retief?”

“I have him right here, Colonel . . .” As his callers entered the room, Underknuckle, a lean, high-shouldered man with bushy white hair, hollow, purplish cheeks, and a lumpy, clay-colored nose, his immaculately tailored midafternoon semiformal uniform awry, spun in his hip-u-matic contour chair, causing the power-swivel mechanism to whine in protest. He glared at Retief.

“So there you are at last! What’s the meaning of this, sir? Is it possible that you’re unaware of the new -restrictions on tourism here on Quopp?”

The colonel lowered his voice. “Schemes are all about us, gentlemen. We’ll have to look sharp to our fences to keep our powder dry!”

“But just one little shipload of ladies-and in difficulty at that-” Magnan began.

“Orders are orders!” Underknuckle hit the desk with his fist, winced, slung his fingers as though drying them.

“Let me assure you, when Ambassador Longspoon imposed entry quotas on sightseers, there was an excellent reason for it!” He barked through a grimace of pain.

“Gracious, yes, Colonel,” Magnan chirped. “We all know Prime Minister Ikk doesn’t like Terries.”

“Ikk’s likes and dislikes have nothing to do with it! It was the ambassador’s decision!”

“Of course, Colonel. What I meant was, you don’t like Terries-”

“Don’t like Terrans? Why, I’m a Terran myself, you idiot!”

“I didn’t mean to give the wrong impression, I’m sure, Fred,” Magnan said breathlessly. “Personally, I love -Terries-”

“Not these Terries!” Underknuckle snatched up a paper and waved it. “A boatload of females! Giddy, irresponsible, women! Idlers-or worse!

Parasites! And no visas, mind you! And the ringleader, Mr. Retief”-the colonel thrust a mobile lower lip at him-“is demanding to speak to you, sir!

By name!”

“Retief!” Magnan turned on him. “What can you be thinking of, importing luxury goods-”

“It’s clear enough what he’s thinking of,” Underknuckle snapped. “And I needn’t point out that such thoughts are hardly in consonance with tight military security!”

Magnan assumed a troubled-but-determined expression. “Did the young lady give a name?”

“Harrumph! Indeed she did. ‘Tell him it’s Fifi,’ she said-as though the military attaché were a common messenger boy!”

“Heavens-such cheek!” Magnan sniffed.

“The name itself conjures up images of rhinestone-clad doxies,”

Underknuckle snorted. “I confess it’s difficult to understand how a diplomat has occasion to make the acquaint-ance of persons of such stripe!”

“Oh, I’m sure Mr. Retief can fix you up, Fred,” Magnan volunteered. “He seems to have a knack-”

“I do not wish to be fixed up!” Underknuckle roared. “I wish to make it clear to these junketing trollops that they will not be permitted to make planetfall here! Now, if you, Mr. Retief, will be so kind as to report to the Message Center and so inform your, ah, petite amie-”

“I don’t have an amie at the moment, Colonel, -petite or otherwise,” Retief said. “And, as it happens, I don’t know any young ladies named Fifi. Still, it’s never too late to rectify the omission. I’ll be happy to talk to her.”

“I’m gratified to hear that,” Underknuckle said coldly. “And if that vessel lands on this planet, young man, I’ll hold you solely responsible!”

Back in the corridor, Magnan trotted at Retief’s side, offering advice. “Now, just tell this young person, kindly but firmly, that your time is fully occupied by your duties and that if she’ll just flit along to Adobe, say-there’s a fascinating museum there with a lovely display of mummified giant spiders-”

“I won’t presume to plan any itineraries,” Retief interrupted gently. “I think it might be better to find out what the girls are up to, first.”

“Yes, it does seem odd they’d plan a vacation on Quopp; after all, there’s nothing here but jungle, with a few thousand tribal villages and three or four dozen market towns.”

They turned in at the Message Center, showed badges; electro-locks clicked and the inner door slid back, revealing a bright-lit room crammed with lock-files and coding machines.

“Oh boy, am I glad to see you, Mr. Retief,” a freckled youth with thick contact lenses and a struggling mustache blurted, coming forward. “That babe aboard the yacht’s a dish, all right, but she’s got a way of flashing her eyes at a fellow when she doesn’t get her way-”

“If you don’t mind, Willis, Mr. Retief and I are in something of a hurry,”

Magnan cut him off. “Which screen are they on?”

“The yacht’s over the horizon at the moment,” the boy said. “She’ll make reentry on the next pass; a couple more minutes, I guess.”

“What’s a yacht doing out here, Willy?” Retief asked. “Quopp’s a long way off the regular tourist runs.”

“Beats me, Mr. Retief. She’s a nice job-ten thousand tons, loaded with all the latest comm gear. Too bad all we have is this obsolete line-of-sight stuff.” He gestured at the banked equipment panels. “Tough about those girls losing their celestial tracking circuit, too. Even if they could get in here, they’d be stuck for months waiting for a replacement. That Mark XXXIV stuff is hard to come by.”

“Emergency letdown, eh? What kind of help are we giving them?”

The youth shrugged. “None-Longspoon’s orders. Says they’ve got no business coming in on Quopp.”

“Did you tell him about the tracker?”

“He said they could go on to the next system on manual tracking-”

“Two months of staring into a tracker scope could get tiring,” Retief said.

“And a good chance of fatigue error and no planet-fall at the end of it. Let’s get ’em down.”

“Yeah, but the ambassador’s orders-”

“I’ll take the responsibility of countermanding them. Get the yacht on the SDR and start feeding her data as soon as she makes contact again.”

“Look here, Retief,” Magnan held up an admonitory hand. “I can’t stand idly by while you exceed your authority! I confess it seems a trifle surprising the ambassador hasn’t authorized aid to a distressed Terran vessel, but-”

“We don’t need authorization in a Deep Space emergency. Check Title Nine, Article Twelve, Section three-B of the Uniform Code.”

“Hey, that’s right,” Willis blinked. “The code overrides any planetary authority, it says so right in-”

“See here, Retief,” Magnan moved to Retief’s side, speaking low. “Quoting technicalities is all very well, but afterward one still has the problem of an overridden ambassador to deal with. Hardly a shrewd move, career-wise . .

.”

“We’ll get the ladies down first, and carry out career salvage afterward,”

Retief said soothingly. “Maybe it would be better if you went down to spot-check the commissary while I attend to this.”

Magnan frowned, settled his dickey in place. “Never mind,” he said shortly.

“I’ll stand by.”

A blare of static burst from the center screen on the console across the room, followed by rapidly flickering bars of light; then the image steadied into focus. A girl’s face appeared, framed in red-blond hair, a headset clamped in place. Other feminine faces were visible behind her, all young, all worried.

“Hello, Quopp Control,” she said calmly. “It looks as though the rock that hulled us did more than take out the tracker. I have no horizontal gyros, and damned little control in my left corrector banks. I’m going to have to do this by the seat-of-the-pants method. I’d appreciate it if you’d loosen up and feed me some trajectory data.”

Retief flipped the SEND key.

“Quopp Control here, young lady. Listen closely; there won’t be time for a repeat. You have two choices on -impact areas; one is the commercial port here at Ixix. If you’ve got a fix on me, you know the general location. I’m throwing the R and D fixer beam on the line now; lock into it if you can-”

The girl frowned. “Sorry, Quopp Control. No response from my R and D. I have a fix on your transmission, though, and-”

“Your other possibility is an unimproved patch of rocky desert about fifty miles north-north-west. Try to align on my signal here; if you miss, you’ll have the other as a backup.”

“Roger, Quopp Tower. I’ve got some speed to kill if I want to make you on this pass-”

“This pass is it,” Retief rapped out. “I’m clocking you on a descending spiral with an intersect this orbit. Damp that velocity fast!”

The image on the screen jittered and jumped; Retief waited while the girl worked the controls, watching the glowing red blip moving rapidly across the R and D screen, dropping steadily closer to the line representing the

-horizon.

“More grief,” the girl said briskly. “I’ve got about half power on the forward main tubes. I’m afraid I’m going to have to give your beacon a miss and try for the desert.”

“Throw everything you’ve got to your retros, let ’em blast and keep blasting! You’re going to overshoot by a hundred miles on your present course, and there’s nothing out there but nineteen thousand miles of unexplored jungle!”

There was a long moment of tense silence as the girl’s hands moved out of sight. Then she shook her head, gave a quick, flashing smile. “That’s it, Quopp Control. A fizzle. Did you say nineteen thousand miles?”

“As the Phip flies. How many are there aboard?”

“Ten of us.”

“I’ve got a tracker on you; try to nurse her in as easy as you can. Got any flares aboard?”

“If not, there are a few cases of hundred and sixty proof Imperial Lily gin; I’m sure the intended recipient won’t mind if I light them off.” Already, her voice was growing fuzzy as the hurtling ship neared the horizon.

“Hold her steady on your present course. Looks like you’ll intersect ground zero about eighty miles out.”

“I’m not reading you, Quopp. I hope you get here before all the gin’s-” Her voice broke off. Then it came again, faint and far away: “Quopp . . . er, a . .

. ing in . . . make it . . .” The voice was gone in a rising hiss of random noise.

“Good Lord, I hope the poor girls land safely,” Magnan gasped; he dabbed at his forehead with a large floral--patterned tissue. “Imagine being down in that horrible wilderness, swarming with unpacified Quoppina-”

“I’ll get an Embassy heli on the way to make the pickup,” Retief said; he glanced at the wall clock. “No time to waste if we’re going to collect them by dark.”

“Retief-are you sure you don’t know this Fifi person?” Magnan queried as they turned to the door.

“Regrettably, no. But I hope to correct the omission soon-”

The interoffice communicator screen burped; an angular female face with stiff-looking hair and a porridgy complexion blinked into focus.

“There you are,” she snapped at Retief. “The ambassador wants to see you in his office-right away!”

“Tsk,” Magnan said. “I warned you about stretching those coffee breaks . .

.”

“Hi, Fester,” Retief greeted the woman. “Is it business, or should I bring my tennis racket?”

“You can save the wisecracks,” she sniffed. “There are two Planetary Police officers with him.”

“Goodness, I’d be glad to give His Excellency a character reference,”

Magnan burbled. “What did they catch-that is, what’s the charge?”

“It’s not Ambassador Longspoon who’s in trouble,” Fester said coldly. “It’s Mr. Retief they want to see.”

Ambassador Longspoon was a small man with bright, close-set eyes in a parchment-yellow face, a mouth which would have been inconspicuous on a carp, and a shiny skull over which a few strands of damp-looking hair were combed for maximum coverage. He sat behind a nine-foot ambassadorial desk of polished platinum, flanked by two Voion, one ornately crested and jeweled, whose oculars followed Retief unwaveringly as he entered the room.

“Commissioner Ziz, Mr. Retief,” Longspoon said in a voice like a dry bearing. There was silence as he looked expectantly from one of the Voion to the other.

“Well, how about it, Xif,” the commissioner buzzed in harsh tribal Voion to his companion. “Is this the one?”

“That’s him, chief,” the other cop confirmed. “He was the ringleader.”

“Here, Commissioner, I must ask you to speak Terran!” Longspoon rasped.

“Just advising my associate that he mustn’t harbor grudges for the brutal treatment he received,” Ziz said smoothly. “I assured him Your Excellency will make full amends.”

“Amends. Yes.” Longspoon favored Retief with a look like a jab from an old maid’s umbrella. “It appears there’s been some sort of free-for-all in an unsavory local drinking spot.” He put bony fingers on the desk top and pinched them together. “I trust you have some explanation?”

“Explanation of what, Mr. Ambassador?” Retief inquired pleasantly.

“Of just what would possess an Embassy Officer to attack members of the Planetary Police in the performance of their duties!” Purplish color was creeping up from under Longspoon’s stiff midmorning informal collar. Retief shook his head sympathetically. “No, I certainly couldn’t explain a thing like that.”

Longspoon’s lower jaw dropped. “Surely you have some, ah, justification to offer?” He shot a quick side glance at the Voion.

“It would be pretty hard to justify attacking a policeman,” Retief offered.

“In the performance of his duties at that.”

“Look here . . . !” Longspoon leaned toward Retief. “You’re supposed to be a diplomat!” he hissed from the corner of his mouth. “You might at least try lying a little!”

Retief nodded agreeably. “What about?”

“Confound it, sir!” Longspoon waved a hand. “When a police commissioner rolls into my office and charges one of my staff with aggravated breach of the peace, you can hardly expect me to simply ignore the situation!”

“Certainly not,” Retief said firmly. “Still I think if you explain to him that invading the Terrestrial Embassy to make unsupported charges is impolite, and warn him never to try it again, it won’t be necessary to demand his resignation-”

“His resignation!” Longspoon’s mouth was open again. “Hmmm . . .” He swiveled to face the commissioner. “Perhaps I should point out that invading the Terrestrial Embassy to make unsup-”

“One moment!” Ziz cut in harshly. “The question here is one of appropriate punishment to lawless foreigners who engage in the murder of harmless, grub-loving Voion! I demand that the culprit be turned over to me for a fair Trial by Internal Omens!”

“As I recall, the method requires a surgical operation to study the evidence,” Longspoon mused. “What happens if the victim, er, I mean patient, is innocent?”

“Then we weld him back up and give him a touching funeral ceremony.”

“No, Ziz,” Longspoon wagged a finger playfully. “If we simply turned our diplomats over to anyone who wanted them, we’d be stripped of personnel in no time.”

“Just the one,” Ziz suggested delicately.

“I’d like to oblige, my dear Commissioner, but the precedent would be most unfortunate.”

The desk screen chimed apologetically.

“Yes, Fester?” Longspoon eyed it impatiently. “I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed-”

“It’s His Omnivoracity,” Fester squeaked excitedly. “He presents his second best compliments and insists on speaking to you at once, Mr. Ambassador!”

Longspoon twitched a bleak smile at the police commissioner. “Well, my good friend Ikk seems to be a bit outside himself today. Just tell him I’ll ring him up later, Fester-”

“He says it’s about an educational shipment,” the female cut in. “Heavens, what language!”

“Ah, yes, educational material,” Longspoon said. “Well, I’m always most concerned about educational affairs; perhaps I’d best just see what he has in mind . . .” He turned the volume down low, listened as a tiny voice chirped angrily.

“Are you sure?” he muttered. “Six cases?”

There was more shrill talk from the communicator.

“Nonsense!” Longspoon snapped. “What possible motive-”

Ikk buzzed again. Longspoon glanced at Retief with a startled expression.

“No,” he said. “Quite out of the question. See here, I’ll call you back. I have, er, callers at the moment.” He rang off. The police commissioner relaxed the auditory members which had been straining forward during the exchange.

“You still refuse to remand this one to my custody?” He pointed at Retief.

“Have you all gone mad?” Longspoon barked. “I’ll deal with Mr. Retief in my own way-”

“In that case . . .” Ziz turned to his retainer. “Put phase two into operation,” he snapped in Tribal. “Just sending the lad along to water the jelly flowers down at headquarters,” he added soothingly as Longspoon drew breath to protest. Xif wheeled across to the door, left silently. Ziz rolled to the lopsidedly hexagonal window, glanced out into the street.

“A pity Your Excellency didn’t see fit to assist the police in the maintenance of law and order,” he said, turning to Longspoon. “However, I shall take the disappointment philosophically . . .” He broke off, waving both posterior antennae. “Hark!” he said. “Do I scent a suspicious odor?”

Longspoon cleared his throat hurriedly. “My throat balm,” he said. “My physician insists . . .” He sniffed again. “Smoke!” He jumped to his feet. At that moment, a shrill bell jangled into strident life somewhere beyond the door.

“Flee for your lives!” Ziz keened. He shot to the door, flung it wide. A billow of black smoke bulged into the room. Longspoon dithered for a moment, then grabbed up a code book and the Classified Dispatch reel, tossed them into his desk-side safe, slammed it shut just as a pair of Voion charged into the room, hauling a heavy fire hose with a massive brass nozzle from which a weak stream of muddy water dribbled into the deep-pile carpeting. Ziz barked a command and pointed at Retief; the firemen dropped the hose-and were bowled aside as Ambassador Longspoon hurtled between them, his basketball-sized paunch jouncing under overlapping vests. Ziz spun, reached for Retief with a pair of horny grasping members; the Terran leaned aside, caught one of the Voion’s arms and jerked; Ziz went over with a crash.

Retief whirled to the window from which the commissioner had glanced a moment before, saw a crowd of crested and ornamented Voion police pressing toward the Embassy doors.

“Fast action,” he murmured. He stepped past the overturned firemen into the corridor; wide-eyed staff members were appearing from doors, batting at smoke clouds. Shouts and squeals sounded. Retief pushed through toward an open door from which dense yellowish clouds were pouring, layering out at chest height. He reached the far wall of the room, groped for and found an overturned typist’s chair, slammed it at the dim glow of a small triangular window. The colored glass fell outward with a musical tinkle. At once, the smoke-boiling from an overturned wastebasket, Retief saw-was swept toward the opening by a strong draft. He picked up the smoking wastebasket and contents, stepped into the lavatory and doused it with water; it died with a prolonged hiss. Retief lifted a small, soot-blackened plastic canister from the basket; a small wisp of smoke was still coiling from it; incised on its base were what appeared to be Groaci hieroglyphs.

Back in the hall, First Secretary Magnan appeared from a smoke cloud, coughing, eyes blurred.

“Retief! The service door’s jammed with people! We’re trapped!”

“Let’s try another route.” Retief started toward the front of the building, Magnan trailing.

“But-what about the others!”

“I predict the fire scare will give them excellent appetites for dinner.”

“Scare?”

“It seems to be just smoke bombs.”

“You mean-Retief! You didn’t-”

“No, but somebody did.” They reached the wide hall before the main Embassy entrance door, packed now with excited diplomats and semihysterical stenographers milling in the smoke, and swarms of Voion firemen, wheeling authoritatively through the press, shrilling the alarm. More Voion were struggling in the door to breast the tide of escape-bent Terrans.

“All personnel must evacuate the premises at once,” a cop with a bright red inlay across his ventral plates keened. “Collapse is imminent! The danger is frightful! Remember, you are all highly combustible . . . !”

“I don’t know what the game is, but we’d better have a fast look around.”

Retief headed for a side corridor. A stout diplomat with four boneless chins flapped a hand at him.

“I say, young man, all these locals invading the Terrestrial Embassy-it’s irregular! Now, I want you to speak to Chief Sskt, and point out-”

“Sorry, Counselor Eggwalk; rush job.” Retief pushed past, forced his way through a shouting knot of entangled police and Terrans, rounded a curve in the corridor. A small door marked MAINTENANCE PERSONNEL ONLY caught his eye. It stood ajar; the lock, Retief noted, was broken.

“Mr. Magnan, if you see any volunteer firemen headed this way, give me a fast yell.”

“Retief! What are you-”

Magnan’s voice cut off as Retief slid through the door, went down a narrow ramp into the cool of a low-ceilinged cellar. There was a scurry of sound ahead; he ducked under insulated air ducts, saw a flicker of motion down a shadowy passage, heard the scrape of wheels scuffling on uneven pavement.

“Come on out,” he called. “Nothing back there but a couple of sump pumps and some bilge water.”

The sounds had ceased now. Retief took a step-and a three-foot yellow-green Quoppina of the Dink tribe shot out of the darkness, ducked under his arm, veered around the looming bulk of the furnace, disappeared into the dark mouth of a narrow crawlway. Retief paused, listening. There was a soft buzzing from far back in the recess where the Dink had hidden. He ducked his head, moved toward the source of the sound. Above, the thudding of feet and the shouts of Terran and Voion voices were faint, remote. Somewhere, water dripped.

Retief followed the sound, traced it to a dark crevice behind the metal-clad housing of an air-processing unit. He reached in, brought out a foot-long ovoid, plastic-surfaced. It hummed busily; he could feel the tiny vibration against his hands. He spun, headed for the ramp.

Back in the hall, Magnan was nowhere in sight. Ten feet away, a Voion cop stood on relaxed, outward-slanting wheels, talking into a small field microphone. He broke off when he saw Retief, jerked two arms in a commanding gesture.

“Out! Fire has reached boilers!” he rasped in badly accented trade dialect. Retief balanced the humming object on one outstretched hand. “You know what this is?” he inquired casually.

“No time for ball games,” the Voion shrilled. “Fool Terry-” He stopped, snapped his anterior eyes forward, made a whistling noise between his palps, then spun, dug off with a squeak of new Terry-issue neoprene. Retief turned toward a side exit. Two Voion appeared ahead, skidded to a halt at sight of him.

“That’s him!” one shrilled. “Get him, boys!” More Voion shot into view, closing in. “Don’t move, stilter!” the cop commanded. “What’s that you’re holding?”

“This?” Retief juggled the ovoid. “Oh, this is just an old Plooch egg. I was just cleaning out my collection, and-”

“You lie, unwheeled crippling!” The cops crowded in reaching. “I’ll wager a liter of Hellrose it’s part of the loot!” one keened. “It’ll mean promotions all around when we bring this in!”

“Give me that, you!” eager Voion manipulative members grabbed for the buzzing object. “We’ll take it out the back way!”

“Sure, you have it, fellows,” Retief offered genially. “Just hurry back to your boss with it-”

“Bribes will do you no good, Terran,” a cop shrilled as the find was passed from one gleeful fireman to another. “His Omnivoracity wants to see you-in person.” He jabbed with his club at Retief, who caught the heavy weapon, jerked it from its owner’s grip, slammed it across his wrist with a metallic clang. More clubs flashed; Retief fended off blows, then charged, slamming Voion in all directions. A club whistled past his ear; a harsh voice shrilled,

“Stop him!” Ahead, a dim blue light glowed over a side door. Retief skidded to a halt, tried it: locked. He stepped back, kicked at the lock; the door burst wide. Retief plunged through into a narrow street-and stopped dead facing a solid rank of Voion who ringed him in with leveled spears featuring prominently barbed heads.

“Welcome to our midst,” a police lieutenant with an enameled badge hissed. “You will now accompany us without resistance, or you will die, unseen by your fellows.”

“Ah-ah,” Retief chided. “Ikk will be annoyed if you do anything rash.”

“An excellent point,” the cop agreed. “I suppose after all we shall have to satisfy ourselves with merely poking holes in you here and there. The effect will be the same.”

“Your logic is inescapable,” Retief conceded. “I’ll be delighted to call on His Omnivoracity.”

There was a sharp tremor underfoot, followed instantly by a dull Boom! and a shower of plaster dust from the nearby windows. Shrill Voion sounds broke out, questioning. Retief turned, surveyed the wall of the Embassy tower. A large crack had appeared some yards to the right of the door.

“I guess it wasn’t a Plooch egg after all,” he said judiciously. The spearheads had jumped a foot closer at the explosion. “Watch him!”

the lieutenant barked.

“Steady, boys,” Retief cautioned. “Don’t louse up an important pinch with any hasty moves.”

“Button your mandibles,” the cop rasped. “You’ll have your chance to work them soon enough!” He motioned and an avenue opened through the warriors. Retief moved off, spear-points at his back. Three

Prime Minister Ikk was a larger than average Voion with a sixteen-coat lacquer job, jeweled palps, and an elaborately crested headpiece featuring metallic turquoise curlicues and white Rhoon plumes. He lounged at ease in his office, a wide, garishly decorated room the floor of which, Retief noted, was scattered with blank CDT forms. The Voion’s main wheels were braced in padded, satin-lined frames; a peculiarly vile-smelling dope-stick of Groaci manufacture was clamped in one manipulative member. He waved the latter at the guards standing by, dribbling ashes carelessly on the rug.

“Leave us,” he snapped in Tribal. “And no spying, either!” The cops filed out silently. Ikk waited until the door closed, then swiveled to stare at Retief.

“So, you are the person.” He canted both sets of anten-nae forward alertly.

“It seems we had a busy morning, eh?” His voice had an edge like torn metal.

“Rather dull, actually,” Retief said easily. “Sight-seeing, you know.”

“And what sort of sights did you see . . . ?”

“Some rather interesting samples of Navajo beadwork and a nice display of hand-painted Groaci back-scratchers. Then there was-”

“Save your flippancy, Terran!” Ikk snapped. “Your activi-ties are known! It remains merely to fill in certain, ah, details!”

“Perhaps you’d care to be a little more specific,” Retief suggested. “After all, nobody’s listening.”

“You were seen at the port,” Ikk grated. “You created a disturbance, after which certain items were found to be missing.”

“Oh? What items?”

“Six large cases, newly arrived aboard a chartered freight vessel,” Ikk snapped. “They contained educational material destined to play an important role in my program for the uplift of the downtrodden Quoppina masses.”

“I see; and you think I may have picked them up and strolled off without noticing.”

“An end to your insolence,” Ikk snarled. “What have you done with the purloined consignment?”

Retief shook his head. “I haven’t seen your school books, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“Bah; enough of this verbal pussyfooting! You know what the cases contain as well as I-”

“I believe you mentioned educational material-”

“What could be more educational than guns?” Ikk screeched. “The truth, now!”

“The truth is, you’re making a blunder, Ikk. Your fellow Quoppina aren’t as ready for compulsory education as you seem to imagine.”

“If they’ve grown wise at my expense-through your meddling,” Ikk cut in, “I promise you an enlightening exper-ience under the implements of a staff of experienced speech tutors!”

“I’m sure your training aids are tucked safely away out of circulation,”

Retief said soothingly. “That being the case, I suggest you reappraise the whole indoctrination program and try a less ambitious approach.”

“Ah, I see it now!” Ikk shrilled. “Longspoon thinks to unseat me, replace me with some compliant puppet-a Herpp, perhaps, or one of those wishy-washy Yerkle! Well, it won’t work!” He lowered his voice suddenly. “See here, my good fellow, I’m sure we could work out something. Just tell me where you’ve hidden the guns and I’ll see to it you’re appropriately rewarded after the enlightenment.”

“That’s a fascinating proposal, Mr. Prime Minister. But I’m afraid I’d lie awake nights wondering what you -considered appropriate. No, on the whole I think I’d prefer to take my chances on my own.”

“An opportunity you are hardly likely to enjoy,” Ikk grated, “considering the fact that I have fifty thousand crack troops in the city at this moment, all of them between you and your friends.”

“Fifty thousand, you say,” Retief countered. “That’s not a big enough army for a first class victory parade, to say nothing of taking over a planet with a population of five billion argumentative Quoppina.”

“The fifty thousand I mentioned are merely my household detachment,” Ikk purred. “Every Voion on Quopp answers to me-two million of them! They’ve been training for a year at secret camps in the Deep Jungle. They are now ready!”

“Except for the guns,” Retief said. “Still, there were only a few hundred of them; they wouldn’t have helped you much-”

“Today’s shipment was but the first of many! But enough of this gossip! For the last time: Give up your secret and enjoy my lasting favor!”

“You mean if I tell you, you’ll give me an escort back to the Embassy, no hard feelings?”

“Certainly, my dear chap! I’ll even concoct a stirring tale of your abduction by unscrupulous elements from whom I effected your rescue, not neglecting to mention your own brisk resistance to their wiles.”

“Brisker than you anticipated, perhaps,” Retief said. “I think I’ve learned enough to satisfy my curiosity, so-if you’ll just move away from that desk and back up against the wall . . .”

Ikk erected his oculars violently. “Eh-” He broke off, looking at the gleaming new power gun in Retief’s hand.

“What’s this?” he squeaked. “I’ve offered you safe -conduct . . . !”

“Now, Ikk, you don’t really think I’d expect a campaigner of your experience to let me off scot-free, do you?”

“Well, my fellows might have to employ just a few little measures on you to be sure you weren’t holding anything back-but then I’ll have them patch you up nicely afterward.”

“Sorry-but I have a strong intuitive feeling that your Torture Department may not realize just how fragile human hide is.”

“I shall know in a moment.” The prime minister started toward Retief-six feet of armored hostility, four arms like sheet-metal clubs tipped with bolt cutters cocked for action.

“I can see that Your Omnivoracity hasn’t yet sampled Terran educational methods personally,” Retief commented. “Another foot and I’ll give you your first lesson.”

Ikk halted. “Would you dare?” he keened.

“Sure. Why not? Now, don’t make any sudden moves. I’m going to tie you up. Then I’m leaving.”

Ikk hissed but submitted as Retief plucked the ministerial flag from its place, thrust the staff through his spokes and bound it in place, then tied all four arms firmly.

“There, now, you’ll be all right until the sweepers arrive along about dinner time.”

“You’re a fool!” Ikk shrilled. “You’ll never get clear of the building!”

“Perhaps not,” Retief said. “In that case, education may never come to Quopp.” He went to the intercom. “When I flip the key, tell them I’m coming out,” he said. “Tell them to trail me at a respectful distance, because I’m suspicious. Also, you’re not to be disturbed until further notice. Sound like you mean it.”

Ikk clacked his palps.

“And,” Retief added in fluent Voion thieves’ dialect, “don’t make any mistakes.” He pressed the key.

“What is it this time?” a sharp Voion voice came back. Retief held the gun aimed at Ikk’s center ventral plate while the prime minister delivered the message.

“Well done, Ikk.” Retief flipped off the switch, bent it out of line to render it inoperative. “You may yell all you like now; I have great confidence in ministerial soundproofing.”

“Listen to me, Terry!” Ikk keened. “Give up this madness! My troops will hunt you down without mercy! And what can you hope to accomplish alone?”

“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it, Ikk?” Retief went to the door. “And on that note I’ll leave you . . .”

In the outer office the bodyguards standing by swiveled their oculars nervously at Retief.

“Ikk’s tied up for the rest of the afternoon,” he said breezily. “He’s busy pondering some surprising new developments.” He stepped into the corridor, made his way along narrow, strange-smelling passages, winding, dipping, curiously angled, lit by chemical lamps and lined with cubicles from which bright Voion eyes glinted. He emerged in a cramped courtyard surrounded by high, curving, decoration-crusted walls of faded Burgundy and Prussian blue, gleaming in the -eerie light of Second Eclipse. There were, if anything, more -police gathered now than an hour before. A ripple seemed to pass across the crowd as Retief appeared-twitching antennae semaphoring a message. At once, a path opened through the press. In the open street the mob was scarcely less dense. Voion-both polished police and dull-finished tribesmen-stood in rows, packed the parking ledges, jostled for wheel-space in the narrow thoroughfare. Here and there a tall bottle-green Yerkle or blue-and-white Clute hurried, a furtive touch of color against the sea of restless black. Through lighted shop windows, Quoppina of other tribes were visible, gathered in tight groups, watching the street. Except for a steady, subdued buzzing in the Voion dialects, the city was ominously silent.

Retief strode along briskly, the Voion continuing to unobtrusively edge from his path. On a street corner he paused, glanced back. A pair of crested Special Police were shouldering through, keeping a fifty-foot interval between themselves and the object of the prime minister’s instructions. A third Voion came up behind them, shrilled a command. The two came on at a quick roll. Retief pushed on across the street, turned down a narrow sideway. Ahead, there was a stir. More of the tall Special Police appeared, keening orders to those about them. A message rippled across the crowd. To the right, three more cops had come into view, pushing through toward him, clubs prominently displayed.

“Maybe you’d better step in to avoid the crowd, Terry,” a thin voice said at Retief’s back. He turned. A small, purplish, lightly built Quopp of the Flink tribe stood in the doorway of a tiny shop. He stepped back; Retief followed, glanced around at shelves loaded with trinkets; Yalcan glasswork, Jaq beaten copper-ware, wooden objects from far-off Lovenbroy, a dim-lit display of Hoogan religious mosaics featuring the Twelve Ritual Dismemberments.

“That one caught your eye, didn’t it?” the Flink said. “That’s always been a snappy seller with you Terries.”

“It’s a winner,” Retief agreed. “There wouldn’t be a back way out of here, I suppose?”

The Flink was staring out at the street. “Ikk’s up to something big this time; such a force he never had in town before. Half his tribe he’s got in the streets, just standing around like it was a signal they was waiting for.”

He turned to look at Retief. “Yep, there’s a back way-but you won’t get far; not if Ikk’s bully boys are looking for you. Right now, you must be the only Terry in Ixix still running around loose.”

“That’s a distinction I’d like to retain,” Retief pointed out.

“Terry, I’d like to help you out,” the Flink waggled his head. “But you’re as easy to spot as an off-color grub at a hatching ceremony-” He broke off, twitched vestigial wing cases, producing a sharp pop. “Unless . . .” he said.

“Terry, are you game to try something risky?”

“It couldn’t be any riskier than standing here,” Retief said. “The cops are closing in from all four directions.”

“Come on.” The Flink flipped aside a hanging, waved Retief through into an even tinier chamber behind the shop, from which a number of dark tunnel-mouths opened-mere holes, two feet in diameter.

“You’ll have to crawl, I’m afraid,” he said.

“One of the basic diplomatic skills,” Retief said. “Lead on.”

It was a five-minute trip through the cramped passage, which twisted and writhed, doubled back, rose suddenly, then dropped, did a sharp jag to the left, and opened into a leather-and-wax smelling chamber, lit by a sour-yellow chemical lamp inside a glass bowl. The room was stacked with curiously shaped objects of all sizes and colors. Retief snapped a finger against the nearest-a large, shield-shaped panel of a shimmering pearly pink. It gave off a metallic bong.

“These look like fragments of native anatomy,” he said.

“Right. This is the back room of Sopp’s Surgical Spares; Sopp has the best stock in the district. Come on.”

Hobbling on small wheels better adapted to trolley service than ground-running, the Flink led the way past heaped carapace segments of glossy chocolate brown, screaming orange, butter-yellow, chartreuse, magenta, coppery red. Some of the metallo-chitinous plates bore ribs, bosses, knobs, spikes; some were varicolored, with polka dots and ribbons of contrasting color, or elaborate silver-edged rosettes. A few bore feathers, scales or bristles. At one side were ranged bins filled with gears, bearings, shafts, electronic components.

“Yep, for anything in the used parts line, old Sopp’s the Quopp to see,” the Flink said. “He can pull this off if anybody can. Wait here a minute.” He stepped through an arched opening into the display room beyond.

“Hey, Sopp, close the blinds,” Retief heard him say. “I’ve got a friend with me that doesn’t want to attract any -atten-tion . . .” There was an answering twitter, a clatter of wooden shutters, followed by more low-voiced conversation punctuated with exclamations from the unseen proprietor. Then the Flink called. Retief came through into a neat showroom with cases filled with bright-colored objects of obscure function, presided over by a frail-looking Yerkle with a deep green carapace half-concealed under a silken paisley-patterned shawl. He stared at Retief, looking him over like a prospective purchaser.

“Well, what about it, Sopp?” the Flink demanded. “You’re the best in the business. You think you can do it?”

“Well . . . I can give it a try.”

“Great!” the Flink chirped. “If this works, it’ll be the slickest caper pulled in this town since you rigged Geeper out as a Blint and he fertilized half the rolling stock in the Municipal Car-Barns!”

“Well,” the Yerkle said two hours later. “It’s not perfect, but in a bad light you may pass.”

“Sopp, it’s your masterpiece.” The Flink, whose name was Ibbl, rolled in a circle around Retief. “If I didn’t know different, I’d swear he was some kind of a cross-breed Jorp in town for the bright lights! That set of trimmed down Twilch rotors is perfect!”

“Just so you don’t try to fly,” Sopp said to Retief. “It’s a wonder to me how some of these life-forms get around, with nothing but chemical energy to draw on. I’ve tucked a few Terry food bars in the hip pouch to help keep you running.”

Creaking slightly, Retief stepped to the nearest window, a roughly hexagonal panel of rippled amber glass, backed by a closed shutter of dark wood. His reflection, distorted by the uneven surface, was startling: curving plates of deep maroon metallo-chitin had been snipped, warped, then neatly welded to form a suit of smoothly articulated armor which covered him from neck to toe. Over his hands, Sopp had fitted a pair of massive red snipping claws salvaged from a Grunk, operable from within by a system of conveniently arranged levers, while a dummy abdominal section from a defunct Clute, sprayed to match the over-all color scheme, disguised the short Terran torso. A handsome set of vestigial pink wing cases edged in a contrasting shade of purplish black lent a pleasant accent to the shoulder region that went far to camouflage their width. The headpiece, taken from a prime specimen of the Voion tribe, sprayed a metallic red-orange and fitted with a crest of pink-dyed Jarweel plumes, fitted lightly over Retief’s face, a hinged section closing down to clamp in place behind.

“Of course, those big, long, thick legs are a bit odd,” Sopp said. “But with the rotating members adapted for rotor use, naturally the anterior arms have to fill in as landing gear. There’s a few tribes that have gone in for stilting around, and developed them into something quite useful.”

“Sure,” Ibbl agreed. “Look at the Terries: no wheels, but they manage OK. I tell you, he looks like a natural! Outside of a few unreconstructed Voion trying to flog him a set of gold inlays or some snappy photos of the tribal ovumracks, nobody’ll give him a second look.”

“Gentlemen,” Retief said, “you’ve produced a miracle. It’s even comfortable. All it needs now is a service test.”

“Where will you go? Ikk’s got the whole town sewed up tight as a carapace in molting season.”

“I’ll head for the Terry Embassy. It’s not far.”

Sopp looked doubtful. “Farther than you think, maybe.” He turned to a wall display, selected a two-foot broadsword fashioned from the iridescent wing case of a Blang. “Better take this. It may come in handy to, shall we say, cut your way through the undergrowth.”

The long twilight of Quopp was staining the sky in vivid colors now; through a chink in the shutter, Retief saw lights glowing against the shadows blanketing the hushed street where the Voion waited, silent. Up high, the carved facades still caught the light, gleaming in soft pastels against the neon-bright sky.

“I think it’s time to go,” he said. “While I still have light enough to see where I’m going.”

“You want to be careful, Terry.” Ibbl was scanning the street from the other window. “Those Voion are in a nasty mood. They’re waiting for something. You can feel it in the air.”

“I’m subject to moods myself,” Retief said. “At the moment I think I could spot them high, low, and jack and still win it in a walkaway.” He took a final turn up and down the room, testing the action of the suit’s joints; he checked the location of the power pistol with his elbow; it was tucked inconspicuously behind the flare of a lateral hip flange, accessible for a fast draw.

“Thanks again, fellows. If our side wins, the brandies are on me.”

“Good luck, Terry. If your side wins, remember me when it’s time to let the contract to junk out the police force.”

“You’ll be first on the list.” Retief worked the lever that clacked his anterior mandibles in the gesture of Reluctant Departure on Press of Urgent Business and stepped out into the street.

It was a brisk fifteen minutes walk to the Path of Many Sporting Agents, every yard of the way impeded by Voion who stared, gave ground reluctantly. Retief came in sight of the Embassy complex, saw Voion clustered before the main doors in a solid mass. He forced his way closer, eliciting complaints from jostled sightseers. Behind the wide glass panels, the darting shapes of Dinks were working busily; a steady stream of Voion were coming and going, with much shrilling of commands and waggling of signals. There were no Terrans in evidence.

Retief pushed into a narrow shop entry across the street from the scene of the activity, scanned the -upper Embassy windows. There were lights on there, and once or twice a shape moved behind the colored glass panes. There was a distant, thudding clatter. Retief looked up, saw the vast shape of an immense flying Rhoon soar on its wide rotors across the strip of sky between buildings, followed a moment later by a second. Then a tiny heli appeared, bilious yellow-green in color, flitting low above the Chancery Tower. As Retief watched, a head appeared over the cockpit rim-the merest glimpse of stalked eyes, a pale throat bladder-“That one’s no Voion, nor no Terry, either,” a reedy voice said at Retief’s elbow. He looked around to see an aged Kloob, distinguished by a metallic vermilion abdomen and small, almost atrophied wheels.

“Whoever he was, he seems to be on good terms with the Rhoon,” Retief said.

“Never saw that before,” the Kloob said. “There’s unnatural things going on in the world these days: Rhoon flying over town. Like they was patrolling, like.”

“I don’t see any of the Terry diplomats around,” Retief said. “What’s been going on here?”

“Ha! What hasn’t been going on? First the smoke and the big bang; then the Voion cops swarming all over . . .” The Kloob clacked his ventral plates with a rippling noise indicating total lack of approval. “Things are coming to a pretty pass when a bunch of Voion trash can take over the Terry Embassy and make it stick.”

“So it’s like that, eh?” Retief said. “What happened to the Terries?”

“Dunno. I’m taking a short siesta and I wake up and all I can see is cops. Too bad, too. The Terries were good customers. I hate to see ’em go.”

“Maybe they’ll be back,” Retief said. “They’ve still got a few tricks left.”

“Maybe-but I doubt it,” the Kloob said glumly. “Ikk’s got ’em buffaloed. The rest of us Quoppina better head for the tall grass.”

“Not a bad idea. I wonder where I could pick up a map.”

“You mean one of those diagrams showing where places are? I’ve heard of

’em-but I could never quite figure out what they were for. I mean, after all, a fellow knows where he is, right? And he knows where he wants to go . . .”

“That’s one of the areas in which we Stilters are a little backward,” Retief said. “We seldom know where we are, to say nothing of where we’re going. The place I’m looking for is somewhere to the northeast-that way.” He pointed.

“More that way.” The Kloob indicated a direction three degrees to the right of Retief’s approximation. “Straight ahead. You can’t miss it. That where your tribe hangs out? Never saw one like you before.”

“There’s a group of my tribesfellows in trouble out there,” Retief said.

“About eighty miles from here.”

“Hm. That’s a good four days on a fast Blint if the trails are in shape.”

“How does the port look?”

“Guards on every gate. The Voion don’t want any of us traveling, looks like.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to argue that point with them.”

The Kloob looked dubiously at Retief. “Well, I can guess who’ll win the argument-but good luck to you anyway, Stilter.”

Retief pushed through the loosely milling crowd for half a block before one of the stick-twirling Planetary Police thrust out an arm to halt him.

“You, there! Where are you going?” He hummed in Voion tribal.

“Back where a fellow can dip a drinking organ in a short Hellrose and nibble a couple of sourballs without some flat-wheel flapping a mandible at him,”

Retief replied shortly. “One side, you, before I pry that badge off your chest to give to the grubs for a play-pretty.”

The Voion retreated. “Tell the other hicks to stay clear of the city,” he rasped. “Now get rolling before I run you in.”

Retief thrust past him with a contemptuous snap of his left chela. The sun was almost down now, and few lamps had gone on in the shops to light the way. There were no other Quoppina in sight, only the sullen black of the Voion, many of them with the crude shell inlays and filed fangs of tribesmen. The port, Retief estimated, would be off to the right, where the last purplish gleam of sunset still showed above the building tops. He headed that way, one elbow touching the butt of the power gun. Clustered polyarcs gleamed down from tall poles to reflect on the space-scarred hulls of half a dozen trade vessels as Retief came up to the sagging wire fence surrounding the port. More lights gleamed by the gate where four Voion were posted, twirling clubs.

“Which one of you blackwheels do I bribe to get in?” Retief called out in Tribal.

All four Voion spoke at once; then one waved an arm for silence. “I’m corporal of the guard here, rube,” he buzzed. “What have you got in mind?”

“Well, now, what’s the going price?” Retief sauntered casually to a position two yards from the open gate.

“You talking Village, or Terry credit?”

“Do I look like I’m hauling thirty or forty pounds of Rock around with me?”

Retief inquired. “I just peddled a cargo of country booze down at the barracks. I’ve got enough Terry credit to hang the four of you with.”

“Have you, now?” The quartet shifted positions to encircle Retief, a move which placed two of them farther from the gate than himself.

“You bet.” He reached into the pouch slung at his hip, pulled out a tangle of plastic, gained another step toward the corporal, who canted his oculars at the cash.

“Here, catch.” Retief tossed the credit. As the NCO reached to snare it, the other three Voion said “hey!” and converged on him. Retief stepped through the gate, slammed it, clicked the hanging padlock shut, leaving the four guards outside.

“Hold on there, you!” the corporal keened. “You can’t go in there!”

“I figured you sharpies would hold out on me,” Retief said. “Well, I’m in now. You can yell for the sergeant and turn the bundle over to him, or you can forget you saw me and work out a fair split. So long.”

“Hey,” one of the Voion said. “Look at the way that Stilter walks! Like a Terry, kind of . . .”

“Are you kidding?” the corporal inquired.

“Look, fellows, the way I see it, what’s it to us if this yokel wants to sight-see . . . ?”

Retief moved off as the foursome settled down to quarreling over the loot, headed for the nearest of the five ships in sight, a battered thousand tonner with the purple and yellow comet insignia of the Four Planet Line. The few lounging locals in sight ignored him as he went to the rear access ladder, swung up and stepped inside. A startled Voion looked up from a litter of papers and clothes spilled from a locker, the door of which had been pried from its hinges. As the looter reached for a club lying on a table, Retief caught his outstretched arm, spun him around, planted a foot against his back, and launched him toward the open entry. The Voion emitted a thin screech as he shot through, yelped as he hit the pavement below with a splintering crash.

Retief swarmed up the ladder to the cargo deck, rode the one-man lift to the control compartment, cycled the other lock shut, then quickly checked gauges.

“Swell,” he said softly. “Just enough fuel to stage a blazing reentry.” He whirled to the lifeboat bay, cycled the hatch. Two tiny one-man shells rested in their slings. Retief wiped dust from the external inspection panel of the nearest, saw the dull red glow of panic lights indicating low accumulator charge, a leaky atmosphere seal, and over-aged fuel. He checked the second boat; its accumulators read full charge, though it, too, was leaking air and indicating a decayed fuel supply. Retief went back to the panel, flipped a key, glanced at the ground-view screens. Voion were closing in on the vessel from three sides; he recognized the evicted impulse shopper in the van, limping on an out-of-round wheel. He went back to the Number Two lifeboat, popped the canopy, climbed inside, fitting himself into the cramped seat, taking care to settle his rotors and wing cases comfortably, then closed the hatch. He activated the warm-up switch; panel lights blinked on. The boat was flyable-maybe. Retief kicked in the eject lever and slammed back in the padded seat as the rocket blast hurled the tiny boat skyward.

Level at five thousand feet, Retief set a northeast course. As he looked back at the pattern of city lights below, a brilliant red light glowed, climbed upward from a point near the center of the town, burst in a shower of whirling pin-wheels of green, yellow, magenta. A second rocket went up, then three together, more, shedding a carnival glow over the clustered towers of the city. Retief punched a button on the tiny panel, twirled a dial.

“ . . . laration of the establishment of a new era of Quopp-wide peace and plenty,” a voice boomed from the radio, “under the benign and selfless leadership of His Omnivoracity, our glorious leader, Prime Minister Ikk! All loyal Quoppina are instructed to remain in their village or other place of residence until tax assessors, draft board officials, and members of the emergency requisition team have completed initial surveys. All citizens will be required to purchase a copy of New Laws and Punishments, for sale at all newsstands for a low, low nine ninety-eight, plus tax. Failure to possess a copy will be punishable by Salvage. And now, a word from our effulgent chief, the great liberator of Quopp, Prime Minister Ikk!”

There was a prolonged burst of shrill prerecorded applause that made Retief’s eardrums itch, then the familiar tones of the Voion leader:

“Fellow Voion, and you other, shall I say, honorary Voion,” he started. “Now that the planet is free, certain changes will be made; no longer will the unenlightened struggle on, following erroneous tribal customs! We Voion have figured out all the answers, and-”

Retief flicked off the radio, settled down for the eighty mile run ahead. The lifeboat rocked abruptly, as though it had glanced off a giant, spongy pillow. Retief banked to the right, scanned the sky above. A wide, dark shape swooped quickly past; there was a sudden buffeting as the small craft pitched in the backwash of the thirty-foot rotors of a giant Rhoon. It swung in a wide circle, climbing, then pivoted sharply, stooped again, hurtling straight at him like a vast pouncing eagle. Retief slammed the controls full over, felt the lifeboat flip on its back, drop like a stone toward the jungle below. He rolled out, shot away at full thrust, at right angles to his previous course. Off to the right the Rhoon tilted up in a sharp turn, faint starlight gleaming from its spinning rotors, swelling enormously as it closed. Again Retief dove under it, pulled out to find it close on his port side, angling in across his bows. He gave the boat full throttle, shot under the Rhoon’s yellow-green head, then pulled the nose up, climbing . . . The skiff was sluggish under him, staggering; he -reduced the angle of climb, saw the Rhoon dropping in from his port quarter. Again he dived, leveled out this time a scant thousand feet above the dark jungle below. A glance to the right showed the Rhoon banking in for another pass; its mighty rotors drove it effortlessly at twice the speed the skiff could manage on its outdated fuel. Retief saw its four ten-foot-long armored fighting members, its gaping jaws armed with saw-edged fangs that could devour any lesser Quoppina in two snaps. At the last moment, he rolled to the right, went over on his back, snapped out of the maneuver to whip off to the left, coming around sharply on the Rhoon’s flank. With a jerk at the release handle, he jettisoned the canopy; it leaped clear with a dull boom, and a tornado of air whipped at Retief’s face. He jerked the power gun clear of its holster, took aim, and as the Rhoon banked belatedly to the right, fired for the left rotor. Yellow light glared from the whipping blades as Retief held the beam full on the spinning hub; a spot glowed a dull red; then a puff of vapor whiffed up-and suddenly the air was filled with whining fragments, whistling past Retief’s exposed head and ricocheting off the skiff’s hull. Retief held the beam on target another five seconds, saw the Rhoon tilt almost vertically, vibrating wildly as the damaged rotor shook itself to pieces; something small and dark seemed to break from the Rhoon then, clung for a moment, dropped free. Then the great predator was on its back, a glimpse of gray belly plates and folded legs, then gone as the boat shot past. At that moment, a violent shock slammed Retief hard against the restraining harness. He grabbed the controls, fought to pull the boat up. A flat expanse of black wilderness swung up past the nose, rolled leisurely over the top, then slid down the left side . . . The controls bit into the air then; fighting vertigo, Retief hauled the boat out of the spin. The motor barked once, twice, snarled unevenly for a moment, then died. The ship bucked, wanting to fall off on its port stub-wing. A glance showed torn metal, a dark stain of leaking coolant. The skiff was no more than a hundred feet above tree level now; ahead a tall spike-palm loomed. Retief banked to the right, felt the boat drop under him. He caught a momentary glimpse of the immense wreckage of the Rhoon strewn across half an acre of bushy treetops; then he was crashing through yielding foliage, the boat slamming left, then right, then upended, tumbling, dropping to a final splintering crash of metalwood, a terrific impact that filled the tiny cockpit with whirling fireworks even brighter than the ones over the city, before they faded into a darkness filled with distant gongs . . .

Four

Something sharp poked Retief in the side, a vigorous jab that bruised even through the leather strip that joined the dorsal and ventral plates of his costume. He made an effort, sat up, reached to investigate the -extent of the skull fracture, felt the metallic clang as his claw touched the painted Voion headpiece. The tough armor, it seemed, had its uses. He pushed the helmet into alignment, looked around at a torch-lit clearing among the boles of great trees, and a ring of three-foot blue-green Quoppina, members, he saw, of the Ween tribe, all eyeing him with faintly luminous oculars, their saber-like fighting claws ready, their scarlet biting apparatus cleared for action.

“Hoo. Meat-fall-from-sky moving around,” a tiny, penetrating voice keened in heavily accented Tribal. “Us better slice it up quick, before it get clean away.”

Retief got to his feet, felt for the gun with his elbow. It was gone-lost in the crash. One midget meat-eater, bolder than the rest, edged closer, gave a tentative snap of his immense white-edge claw. Retief worked levers, clacked back at him.

“Stand back, little fellow,” he said. “Don’t you recognize a supernatural apparition when you see one?” He moved to put his back to a tree.

“What you mean, big boy?” one of the natives demanded. “What that big word mean?”

“It means it’s bad medicine to cook a stranger,” Retief translated.

“Hmm, that mean we is got to eat you raw. How is you, tough?”

Retief drew the short sword. “Tough enough to give you a bellyache, I’d estimate.”

“Hey, what kind of Quopp is you, anyway?” someone inquired. “I ain’t never see one like you before.”

“I’m a diplomat,” Retief explained. “We mostly lie up during the day and come out at night to drink.”

“A Dipple-mac. Hmmm. Ain’t never heard of that tribe before, is you, Jik-jik?”

“Can’t say as I is. Must come from over the mountain.”

“How you get here, Meat-from-sky?” somebody called. “You ain’t got the wingspan for no flying.”

“In that.” Retief nodded toward the smashed shell of the skiff.

“What that?” one native inquired. Another prodded the machine with a small wheel, adapted for rough jungle trails. “Whatever it is, it dead.” He looked at Retief. “You friend no help to you now, big boy. You is all alone.”

“You a long way out of your territory, Stilter,” another said. “Ain’t never see one like you before. What you doing here in Ween country?”

“I’m just passing through,” Retief said. “I’m looking for a party of Terrans that wandered off-course. I don’t suppose you’ve seen them?”

“I heard of them whatchacallums-Terrans. They twelve feet high and made out of jelly, I hears; and they takes their wheels off at night and leaves

’em outside.”

“That’s the group. Any sign of them in these parts?”

“Nope,” the Ween crossed their rear oculars, indicating negation.

“In that case, if you’ll stand aside, I’ll breeze on my way and let you get back to whatever you were doing when I dropped in."

“What we was doing, we was starving, Meat-from-sky. Your timing good.”

“Jik-jik, you all the time talking to something to eat,” someone said from the ranks. “What you all say to a nice barbecue sauce on this meal, with greens on the side?”

There was a sudden flurry of sound from the near distance, punctuated by shrill cries.

“Get your feather-picking members off me, you ignorant clodhoppers!” a thin Voion voice screeched. “I’m a member of the Planetary Armed Forces!

There’s a big reward-” the speech cut off in mid-sentence; threshing sounds followed. Moments later, three Ween pushed into the clearing, hauling the limp figure of a bright-polished member of the Planetary Police. He groaned as they dropped him; one of his wheels, badly warped, whirled lopsidedly.

“Hoo, this evening shaping up,” someone said. The Voion was lying on his back, waving all four arms feebly.

“You can’t do this to me,” the captive tweeted. “In the name of the Wo-”

The Ween standing closest to the fallen policeman brought his immense claw around and with a sound like a pistol shot nipped off the newcomer’s head with a single snap.

“Well, that the first of them big noises I see trimmed up like he ought to be,” Jik-jik said. “You got him just in time, Fut-fut, before he call on the Name of the Worm-” He broke off, looked at Retief.

“In the Name of the Worm,” Retief said, “what about a little hospitality?”

“You and your big vocalizing apparatus,” someone said disgustedly. “Well, back to camp. At least us can fry up some policeman to tide us over.” A quartet of Ween lifted the limp body; someone picked up the head.

“Lucky for you you call on the Name of the Worm,” Jik-jik said conversationally. “Old Hub-hub ready to dine right now, what I mean.”

“Mentioning the Worm takes me off the menu, eh?”

“Well, it give you time to get you thoughts in order, anyway.”

“I have a feeling that remark is pregnant with meanings, none of them pleasant.”

“Hoo, it simple enough, big boy. It mean us keep you pen up for five days, and then skin you out for a old--fashioned tribal blowout.”

An aggressive-looking Ween pushed forward. “How about if us trim off a few edges now-just to sample the flavor?”

“Get back there, Hub-hub,” Jik-jik admonished. “No snacking between meals.”

“Come on, Meat-from-sky,” the aggressive pygmy called. “Get you wheels in gear.” He reached out with his claw to prod Retief-and jumped back with a screech as the heavy sword whipped down, lopped off an inch of the member’s pointed tip.

“Look what he do to my chopper!” he shrilled.

“You ask for it, Hub-hub,” Fut-fut said.

“I like a lot of space around me,” Retief said, swinging the sword loosely in his hand. “Don’t crowd me.”

The Ween edged back, fifty or more small, dark--glittering creatures like oversized army ants in a wide ring around Retief, his armor a splash of vivid color in the gloom. Hub-hub jittered, holding his damaged claw high, torchlight glinting on his metallic sides. “I is hereby taking this piece of meat off the chow list!” he screeched. “I is promoting him to the status of folks!”

“Hey, Hub-hub, is you gone out of you head? What the idea of doing a trick like that . . . ?” A chorus of protest broke out.

Jik-jik confronted the outraged tribesman.

“He chop off a piece of you, and now you chumming up to him. What the idea?”

“The idea is now I ain’t got to wait no five days to get a piece back!”

Hub-hub keened. “Get back, all of you . . .” He waved the two-foot long, steel-trap claw in a commanding gesture. “I is now going to snip this Stilter down to size!”

The Ween drew back, disappointed but obedient to tribal custom. Hub-hub danced before Retief, who waited, his back to the tree, the sword held before him, torchlight glinting along its steel-hard razor-sharp edge. Hub-hub darted in, legs twinkling, snick-snacked a double feint high and low with the big fighting arm, lashed out viciously with a pair of small pinchers, then struck with the big claw, eliciting a loud clang! from Retief’s chest armor-and staggered as the flat of Retief’s blade knocked him spinning.

“Hoo!” Jik-jik shrilled. “Old Hub-hub chew off more than he can bite this time!”

“Let’s call this off, Shorty,” Retief suggested. “I’d hate to have to skewer you before we’ve really gotten acquainted-”

The Ween danced in, pivoting on spider legs, feinted, struck with his fighting clawRetief’s sword flashed in a lightning arc, sang as it bit through steel-hard metallo-chitin. The oversized claw dropped to the ground.

“He . . . he done chop off my chopper . . . !” Hub-hub said faintly. “Now he going to stick me for sure . . .” He crouched, waiting, a drop of syrupy dark fluid forming on the stump.

“Serve you right, Hub-hub,” someone called.

“Suppose I let you go?” Retief stepped forward and prodded the Ween’s slender neck with the sword point. “Promise to be good and speak only when spoken to?”

“Way I feels now, I done talking for good,” Hub-hub declared.

“Very well.” Retief lowered the blade. “Go with my blessing.”

“Well, that a neat trick, big boy,” Jik-jik commented. “Take him six months to grow a new arm, and meantime he learn to keep his mandibles buttoned.”

Retief looked around. “Anybody else?” he inquired. There were no takers.

“In that case, I’ll be on my way. You’re sure you haven’t noticed a ship crashing in the vicinity in the past few hours?”

“Well, now, that different,” Jik-jik stated. “They was a big smash over yonder way a while back. We was looking for it when we found you, Stilter.”

“The name’s Retief. Now that we’re all friends and tribesfellows, how about a few of you showing me the spot where it came down?”

“Sure, Tief-tief. It not far from where you was.”

Retief walked over to examine the body of the decapitated Voion. He had obviously been a member of Ikk’s police-or army-complete with brand-new chromalloy inlays and an enameled cranium insignia with a stylized picture of what looked like a dragonfly.

“I wonder what this fellow was doing out here, so far from town,” Retief said.

“I don’t know,” Jik-jik said; “but I got a feeling when us finds out us ain’t going like it.”

The bright disk of Joop was high above the treetops, shedding a cold white light on the village street. Retief followed as Jik-jik and two other tribesmen led the way along a trail worn smooth by the wheels of generations of forest dwellers. It was a fifteen minute trek to the spot where Pin-pin halted and waved an arm. “Yonder’s where I found that policeman,” he said. “Back in the brush. I heard him cussing up a cyclone back there.”

Retief pushed through, came to a spot where fallen limbs and scattered leaves marked the position of the injured Voion. Above, the silvery ends of broken branches marked a trajectory through the treetops.

“What I wondering, how he get up there?” Pin-pin inquired. “Funny stuff going on around here. Us heard the big crash-that why us out here-”

“The big crash-which way was that?” Retief asked.

“Yonder,” Pin-pin pointed. Again he led the way, guided by the unerring Quoppina instinct for direction. Fifty feet along the trail, Retief stooped, picked up a twisted fragment of heavy, iron-gray metallo-chitin, one edge melted and charred. He went on, seeing more bits and pieces-a bright-edge shred here, swinging from a bush, a card-table-sized plate there, wedged high in a tree. Then suddenly the dull-gleaming mass of a major fragment of the wrecked Rhoon loomed through the underbrush, piled against the ribbed base of a forest giant.

“Hoo, that big fellow hit hard, Tief-tief,” Pin-pin said. “Wonder what bring him down?”

“Something he tried to eat disagreed with him.” Retief made his way around the giant corpse, noting the blaster burns on the stripped hub of the rotors, the tangle of inter-nal organic wiring exposed by the force of the crash, the twisted and shattered landing members. The rear half of the body was missing, torn away in the passage through the trees.

“Wonder what a Rhoon meet big enough to down him?” Pin-pin wondered.

“He the toughest critter in this jungle; everybody spin gravel when a Rhoon flit overhead.” The Ween dipped a finger in a smear of spilled lubricant, waved it near an olfactory organ.

“Fool!” he snorted. “That gone plumb rancid already! I guess we don’t make no meal off this fellow!”

Retief clambered up the side of the downed behemoth, looked down into an open cavity gouged in the upper side of the thorax, just anterior to the massive supporting structures for the rotating members. Wires were visible; not the irregular-diametered organic conduits of the Quoppina inter-nal organization, but bright-colored cables bearing lettering . . .

“Hey, Tief-tief!” Pin-pin called suddenly. “Us better get scarce! This boy’s relations is out looking for him!”

Retief looked up; a great dark shape was visible, hovering a few hundred feet above treetop level. By the bright light of Joop, a second and a third Rhoon appeared, cruising slowly back and forth over the position of their fallen comrade.

“They going to spot him any minute now,” Pin-pin said. “I say let’s get!”

“They can’t land here,” Retief said. “They’ve already spotted him; they’re patrolling the location . . .” He looked around, listening. There was the whine of the breeze among metallic leaves, the high throb of idling Rhoon rotors, a distant rustle of underbrush . . .

“Somebody’s coming,” Retief said. “Let’s fade back and watch.”

“Look, Tief-tief, I just remembered, I got a roof needs patching-”

“We’ll lie low and pull back if it’s more than we can handle, Pin-pin. I don’t want to miss anything.”

“Well . . .” The three Ween went into a hurried consultation, then clacked palps in reluctant agreement. “OK-but if it’s a bunch of them no-good Voion coming to see what can they steal, us leaving,” Pin-pin announced. “They getting too quick with them clubs lately.”

It was five minutes before the first of the approaching group came into view among the great scarlet-and purple-boled trees, laden with full field packs and spare tires.

“What I tell you?” Pin-pin whispered shrilly. “More of them policemen! They all over the place!”

Retief and the Ween watched as more and more Voion came up, crowding into the clearing leveled by the passage of the Rhoon, all chattering in a subdued buzz, fingering their blackwood clubs and staring about them into the forest.

“Plenty of them,” a Ween hissed. “Must is six sixes of sixes if they’s a one .

. .”

“More than that. Look at ’em come!”

An imposing-looking Voion with a jewel in his left palp appeared; the others fell back, let him through. He rolled up beside the dead Rhoon, looked it over.

“Any sign of Lieutenant Xit?” he demanded in trade dialect.

“What he say?” Pin-pin whispered.

“He’s looking for the one you fellows found,” Retief translated.

“Oh-oh; they ain’t gonna to like it if they finds him.”

The conversation among the Voion continued:

“ . . . trace of him, Colonel. But there a native village not far away; maybe they can help us.”

The colonel clacked his palps. “They’ll help us,” he grated. “Which way?”

The Voion pointed. “Half a mile-there.”

“All right, let’s march.” The column formed up, started off in a new direction.

“For a minute I figure they mean Weensville,” Pin-pin said. “But they headed for the Zilk town.”

“Can we skirt them and get there first?” Retief asked.

“I reckon-but I ain’t hungry just now-and besides, with them policemens on the way-”

“I’m not talking about grocery shopping,” Retief said. “Those Voion are in a mean mood. I want to warn the villagers.”

“But they’s Zilk. What we care what happen to them babies?”

“The Terries I’m looking for might be there; I’d prefer to reach them before the Voion do. Beside which, you villagers should stick together.”

“Tief-tief, you is got funny ideas, but if that’s what you wants . . .”

Retief and his guides pushed through a final screen of underbrush, emerged at the edge of a cleared and planted field where the broad yellow leaves of a ripening crop of alloy plants caught the Jooplight.

“Them Zilk a funny bunch,” Pin-pin said. “Eats nothing but greens. Spends all they time grubbing in the ground.”

“In that case, I don’t suppose they have to wait until a policeman drops in to plan a meal,” Retief pointed out. He started across the open field.

“Hoo, Tief-tief!” Pin-pin hurried after him. “When I say they don’t eat folks, that don’t mean they don’t snap a mean chopper! Us is tangled with them before, plenty of times! You can’t just wheel in on ’em!”

“Sorry, Pin-pin. No time for formalities now. Those cops aren’t far behind us.”

A tall, lean Quoppina appeared at the far side of the field-a bright yellow-orange specimen with long upper arms tipped with specialized earth-working members, shorter, blade-bearing limbs below.

“Oh-oh; they sees us. Too late to change our minds now.” Jik-jik held his fighting claw straight up in a gesture indi-cating peaceful intentions.

“What d’ye want here, ye murderous devils?” a high, mellow voice called.

“I’m looking for a party of Terrans whose boat crash-landed near here a few hours back,” Retief called. “Have you seen them?”

“Terrans, is it?” the Zilk hooted. “I’ve not seen ’em-and if I had, I’d not be likely to turn ’em over to the likes o’ you.”

Other Zilk were popping from the low, domed huts now, fanning out, moving forward on both flanks in an encircling pincer movement. At close range, Retief could see the businesslike foot-long scythes tipping the lower arms.

“Listen here, you Zilk,” Jik-jik called in a voice which may have quavered a trifle. “In the Name of the Worm-us ain’t just here to ask foolish questions; us is got news for you folks.”

“And we’ve got news for you-not that ye’ll ever have the chance to spread it about-”

“Us come to tip you folks off,” the Ween persisted. “They a mob of mean-looking Voion on the way! Less you wants to tangle with ’em, you better head for the brush!”

“Don’t try to put us off with wild tales, Ween!”

“It’s the truth, if I ever told it.”

“Why would ye tell us-if t’were true?”

“It beat me; it were Tief-tief here had the idea.”

“What kind o’ Quoppina is he?” the Zilk called. “I’ve seen no Stilter wi’ half the length o’ member that one shows.”

“He a out-of-town boy; just passing through.”

“T’is a trick, Wikker,” a Zilk beside the spokesman hooted. “I’d not trust the little butchers as far as I could kick ’em-nor the big Stilter, neither.”

“The Voion are looking for a friend of theirs,” Retief said. “They have an idea you’ll help them look.”

“We’ll help ’em off our land,” a Zilk stated. “I seen a mort o’ the scoundrels about the acreage lately, running in packs and trampling the crops-”

“They’re armed and they mean business,” Retief said. “Better get ready.”

The Zilk were closing in now; the three Ween crowded up against Retief, their fighting claws clicking like castanets. Retief drew his sword.

“You’re making a mistake,” he told the advancing Zilk leader. “They’ll be here any minute.”

“A sly trick, ye heathens-but we Zilk are too shrewd for ye-”

“Hey!” A Zilk called. The others turned. The lead ele-ments of the Voion column were just emerging from the forest. At once, the Zilk formation broke, fell back in confusion toward the town.

“Get the females and grubs clear,” the Zilk chief honked, and dashed away with the rest. The Voion colonel, seeing the tribesmen in confusion, barked an order; his troops rolled forward through the fields, clubs ready.

“Let them have the town.” Retief seized the arm of the chief as he shot by.

“Disperse in the jungle and you can reform for a counterattack!”

The Zilk jerked free. “Well-maybe. Who’d ha’ thought a crowd of Ween were telling the truth?” He rushed away.

The Voion were well into the village now; startled Zilk, caught short, dashed from the huts and wheeled for cover burdened with hastily salvaged possessions, only to drop them and veer off, with hoots of alarm, as fast-wheeling Voion intercepted them.

“Us better back off,” Jik-jik proposed from the shelter of a hut on the sidelines.

“Scout around and try to round up the survivors,” Retief said. “Pin-pin, you make it back to Weensville and bring up reinforcements. The Voion need a little lesson in inter-tribal cooperation before their success goes to their heads.”

Half an hour later, from a screen of narrow pink leaves that tinkled in the light breeze, Retief, several dozen Zilk, and seventy-odd Ween watched by the waning light of the fast-sinking Joop as a swarm Retief estimated at three hundred Voion, a few showing signs of a brisk engagement, prodded their captives into a ragged lineup.

“I don’t know what’s got into them babies,” Jik-jik said. “Used to be they garbage-pickers, slipping around after Second Joop, looking for what they could pick up; now here they is, all shined up and acting like they rule the roost.”

“They’ve gotten a disease called ambition,” Retief said. “The form they have causes a severe itch in the acquisitive instinct.”

“Not much meat on a Zilk,” someone mused. “What you reckon they want over here? Can’t be they just looking for they boy; them Voion never frets over no trifles like that.”

“Hoo!” Fut-fut said, coming to Retief’s side. “Look what they up to now!”

The Voion, having arranged the captive Zilk in two columns of a dozen or so individuals of both sexes, were busy with strips of flexible metallo-plastic, welding shackles to the arms of the first in line, while others of their number poised with raised clubs to punish any resistance. The lead Zilk, seeing the chain about to be linked to him, lashed out suddenly with his scythe, severing a Voion arm at the first joint, then plunged through the circle around him, dashed for the jungle. A Voion wheeled into his path, brought his club around in a whistling arc-and bounced aside as the Zilk snapped out an overlong digging arm, just as two more Voion closed from the off side, brought their clubs down in unison. The Zilk skidded aside, arms whirling, crashed in a heap and lay still.

“Nice try, Wikker,” the Zilk chief muttered. “Don’t reckon I’d endure chains on me, either.”

“That’s what happens when you play it their way,” Retief said. “I suggest we work out some new rules. We’ll decoy them into the jungle, break up their formation, and take them one at a time.”

“What you mean, Tief-tief? Us going to tackle them ugly babies?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, I guess you is right. Us ain’t got nothing else scheduled for the evening.”

“Good,” Retief said. “Now, here’s what I’ve got in mind . . .”

Three Voion working busily to pry the lid from the Zilk town grain bin paused in their labors. Again the thin cry sounded from the forest near at hand.

“Sounds like a lost grub,” one said. “A little tender roast meat wouldn’t go bad now; pounding in the skullplates of farmers is hard work.”

“Let’s take a look. The colonel’s busy overseeing the looting; he won’t notice us.”

“Let’s go.” The three dropped their pry-bars, wheeled briskly across to the deep shadow of the thicket whence the sound emanated. The first in line thrust branches aside, rolled slowly forward, peering through the shadows. There was a dull snack! and he seemed to duck down suddenly. The Voion behind him hurried forward. “Find it?” he inquired, then skidded to a halt.

“Juz!” he whistled. “Where’s your head . . . ?” Something small and blue-green sprang up before him, a huge claw openingAt the sound-a sharp whock!-the third Voion halted. “Huj?” he called. “Juz?

What’s go-” A scythe swung in a whistling arc, and his head bounced off to join those of his comrades. Jik-jik and Tupper, the Zilk leader, emerged from the brush.

“Work like a charm,” the Ween said. “Let’s do it again.”

Behind him, Retief turned from surveying the work in progress in the town.

“I think the colonel’s beginning to suspect something; he’s falling his men in for a roll call. How many have we given haircuts to so far?”

“Half a six of sixes, maybe.”

“We’ll have to stage a diversion before he figures out what’s going on. Tell Fut-fut and his group to wait five minutes, then kick up a disturbance on the far side of the trail we came in on.”

Jik-jik keened orders to a half-grown Ween who darted away to spread the word.

“Now we’ll string out along the trail. They’ll probably come out in single file. Keep out of sight until their lead unit’s well past our last man; at my signal, we’ll hit them all together and pull back fast.”

“It sounds slick. Let’s roll.”

Three minutes later, as a Voion sergeant continued to bark out names, the small messenger darted up to the position where Retief and Jik-jik waited beside the trail. “Old Fut-fut, he ready, he say,” the lad chirped breathlessly. “Hey, Jik-jik, can I get me one?”

“You ain’t got the chopper for it, Ip-ip; but you can scout around the other side of the town, and soon as you hear them policemen’s heads popping, you set up a ruckus. That’ll keep ’em guessing-them that still has guessing equipment. Now scat; it’s time for the fun to begin.”

A shrill yell sounded from Fut-fut’s position, then an angry yammer of Ween voices, accompanied by sounds of scuffling. From his concealment behind a yard-wide tree with a trunk like pale blue glass, Retief saw a stirring in the Voion ranks as they looked toward the outcry. The colonel barked an order. A squad of Voion fell out, rolled quickly to the trail mouth. There was a moment of confusion as the troops milled, not liking the looks of the dark tunnel; then, at a shrill command from a sergeant, they formed a single file and started in. The first rolled past Retief’s position, his club swinging loosely in his hand; he was followed closely by another, and another. Retief counted twenty before they stopped coming. He stepped from behind the tree, glanced toward the village; the roll call went on. He drew his sword, put two fingers in his mouth, and gave a shrill blast. At once, there was a crash of underbrush, a staccato volley of snicks and snaps, followed in an instant by a lone Voion yell, quickly cut off. The last Voion in the column, ducking back from the attacking Ween, spun, found himself confronting Retief. He brought his club up, gave a shrill yelp as Retief, with a roundhouse stroke, cut through the weapon near the grip.

“Go back and tell the colonel he has two hours to get to town,” Retief said.

“Any Voion found loose in the jungle after that will be roasted over a slow fire.” He implemented the command with a blow of the flat of the blade that sent the Voion wobbling villageward; then he whirled and plunged into the dense growth, made for a vantage point overlooking the village. There was a high-pitched cry from the far side of the town-Ip-ip at work. The Voion were milling now, unsettled by the sudden noises. The one whose club Retief had clipped off charged into the midst of the platoon, shrilling and waving the stump of the weapon.

“ . . . forest demon,” he was yelling. “Nine feet high, with wheels like a juggernaut, and a head like a Voion, except it was red! Hundreds of them!

I’m the only one got away . . . !”

Branches rustled and clanked as Jik-jik came up. “Hoo, Tief-tief, you quite a strategist. Got a passel of the trash that time! What’s next?”

The colonel was shrilling orders now, the roll call abandoned; Voion scurried to and fro in confusion.

“Let them go. I see they’re not bothering with their prisoners.”

The Voion were streaming away down the wide trail in considerable disorder, flinging loot aside as they went. In two minutes the village was deserted, with the exception of the ranks of chained Zilk, staring fearfully about, and the crumpled bodies of their relatives.

“We’ll go in quietly so as not to scare them to death,” Retief said. “And remember, the idea is to make allies of them; not hors d’oeuvres.”

Fifty-one Zilk, three of them badly dented, had survived the attack. Now they sat in a circle among their rescuers, shaking their heads mournfully, still not quite at ease in the presence of seventy fighting Ween.

“Ye warned us, I’ll gi’ ye that,” one said ruefully. “Never thought I’d see the day a bunch of Voion’d jump us Zilk, face to face-even if they did have us six to one.”

“The Voion have a new mission in life,” Retief said. “Their days of petty larceny are over. Now they’re after a whole planet.”

“Well, I guess we fix them, hey Tief-tief?” Jik-jik chuckled. “The way them babies run, they going to need retreads before they gets to town.”

“That was just a minor scuffle,” Retief said. “They’re shaken up at the moment, but they’ll be back.”

“You sure enough reckon?” Fut-fut executed a twitch of the palps indicating sudden alarm.

“For a Stilter what just hit town at First Joop, you sure is take in a lot of ground in a hurry,” Jik-jik said plaintively. “If you knowed them rascals coming back, how come you tell us to mix it in the first place?”

“I thought it would save a lot of talk all around if you Ween saw a demonstration of Voion tactics first hand. Then, too, it seemed worthwhile to help out the Zilk.”

“We lost good old Lop-lop,” Jik-jik pointed out. “His head plumb bashed in. He was a good eater.”

“They lost thirty-five club swingers,” Retief said. “We’ve gained fifty-one new recruits.”

“What that?” Jik-jik clacked his secondary claws with a br-r-rapp! “You ain’t talking about these here greens--eaters . . . ?”

“Why, ye murdering spawn o’ the mud devil, d’ye think we Zilk’d have any part of ye’r heathen ways?” one of the rescuees hooted, waving his scythe.

“Ye can all-”

“Hold it, fellow,” Retief said. “If it comes to a fight with the city boys, you tribes will stick together or lose. Which will it be?”

“Where you get a idea like that, Tief-tief? They always been a few Voion sneaking around, getting they antennae in-”

“Just before I arrived here, Ikk declared himself proprietor of the planet; if the rest of you are good, he promises to make you honorary Voion.”

There was a chorus of indignant buzzes and hoots from Ween and Zilk alike.

“Well, I’m glad to see an area of agreement at last,” Retief said. “Now, if you Zilk are recovered, we’d better be pulling out-”

“What about our crop?” Tupper protested. “It’s all ready to harvest-”

“This here grass?” Jik-jik contemptuously plucked a wide golden leaf from the row beside him, waved it under his olfactory organ. “Never could figure out what a Quoppina thinking of, all the time nibbling leaves . . .” He paused, sniffed at the leaf again. Then he bit off a piece with a sound like a sardine can being torn in two, chewed thoughtfully.

“Hey,” he said. “Maybe us been missing something. This plumb good!”

Fut-fut snorted his amusement, plucked a leaf and sniffed it, then bit.

“Hoo!” he announced. “Taste like prime Flink, dog if it don’t!”

In a moment, every Ween in sight was busily sampling the Zilk greens.

“Don’t s’pose it matters,” a Zilk grumbled. “We’ll never get the crop in anyway, wi’ these Voion robbers on the loose.”

“Don’t worry about that,” a Ween called. “Us’ll have these here greens in in ten minutes flat!”

Jik-jik nodded, still masticating. “Maybe us Ween and you Zilk could work together after all,” he said. “Us’ll do the fighting and you fellows grow the greens.”

Retief, Jik-jik and Tupper watched by the trail as the last of the grubs were carted away by nervous mothers to shelter in the deep jungle along with the village pots and pans, and the newly acquired store of alloy plants. Suddenly Topper pointed.

“Look up there,” he boomed. “A flight of Rhoon-big ones! Coming this way!”

“Scatter!” Retief called. “Into the woods and regroup on the trail to the north!”

Ween and Zilk darted off in every direction. Retief waited until the lead Rhoon had dropped to almost treetop level, heading for a landing in the village clearing; then he faded back into the shadows of the jungle. One by one ten great Rhoon settled in, their rotors flicking back glints of Jooplight as they whirled to a stop. In the gloom, dark figures moved: Voion, filing out from between the parked leviathans, forming up a loose ring among the deserted huts, fanning outward, clubs ready.

“Come on, Tief-tief,” Jik-jik said softly. “If them Rhoon wants the place I says let ’em have it-” He broke off. “Look there!” he hissed. “Voion-swarms of ’em--wheeling right under them big babies’ snappers!”

“They got here a little sooner than I expected,” Retief said softly. “They must have already set up a field HQ nearby.”

“Tief-tief, you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking them Voion and them Rhoon is working together! But they can’t! Ain’t no tribe never worked with no other tribe, not since the Worm’s first Wiggle!”

“The Ween and the Zilk got together,” Retief pointed out. “Why not the Voion and the Rhoon?”

“But that ain’t fair, Tief-tief! Ain’t nobody can fight a Rhoon! And they always been such peaceable babies. Just set on their mountaintops and leave the flatland to us.”

“It seems they’ve changed their ways. We’ll have to fall back. Spread the word to the troops to move off-and keep it quiet.”

“Sure is getting dark fast,” Jik-jik commented nervously. “Us Ween figure it bad luck to move around in the dark of Joop.”

“It’ll be worse luck if we stay here. They’re forming up to sweep this stretch of jungle clear.”

“Well-if you says so, Tief-tief,” Jik-jik conceded. “I’ll spread the word.”

Half an hour later, the party paused on the trail, in total darkness now. Tupper was peering through the blackness. “I’d give a pretty to know where we are,” he said. “Stumping along a trail in the dark-’tis no fit occupation for a sane Quopp.”

“We’ll have to call a halt until Second Jooprise,” Retief said. “We can’t see where we’re going, but neither can the Voion. They’re not using torches either.”

“But I can hear ’em; they’re not far behind us-the night-crawling heathen!”

“It’ll be Second Jooprise in another half hour, maybe,” Jik-jik said. “I hopes them Voion is as smart as we is and set still for a while instead of cooking up surprises.”

“I don’t like it,” Tupper stated. “There’s something about this spot-I got a feeling hostile eyes are on me!”

“They’ll be hostile clubs on you, if you keeps talking so loud,” Jik-jik said.

“Hush up now and let’s all set and rest whiles we can.”

Tupper was moving carefully about in the darkness. “Oh-oh,” he said softly.

“What that?” Jik-jik demanded.

“It feels like . . .”

“What it feel like?” Jik-jik asked breathlessly.

“Tief-better give us a light,” Tupper said tensely. Retief stepped to his side, took out a lighter, fired a torch supplied by a Ween. The oily brand flared up, cast dancing light on a purplish-gray mound blocking the path.

“Was there something?” a deep voice boomed out.

“Now we is done it,” Jik-jik choked out. “Us is right smack dab in the middle of Jackooburg!”

Five

At once, a dozen torches flared ahead; Retief looked around at a sprawling collection of wide mud and leaf sheds spotted at random under the shelter of a grove of vast green-barked nicklewood trees. There was a wide yard, beaten to concrete smoothness by heavy wheels; about it were parked a dozen massive, low-slung creatures, five feet at the shoulder and ten feet long, with dusty magenta back plates, foot-thick rear wheels a yard in diameter, and a pair of smaller wheels forward, evolved from the lower pair of arms. The upper arms, flexible and spade-tipped, were coiled under the wide, flat duckbilled heads.

“Well?” the same voice, like heavy syrup, insisted. “I hope you have some excuse for bursting in on our nightly contemplation hour!”

“Just leaving, big boy,” Jik-jik spun his wheels backward, raising dust that roiled in the torchlight. With a low rumble, a pair of Jackoo wheeled to cut off retreat. Another pair gave low, rumbling honks, took up positions flanking the intruders on the left. More Jackoo appeared from the darkness and still more emerged from shelter among the trees ringing the yard.

“Not in such a darned hurry, skinny-wheels,” the Jackoo purred. “Before I roll you out into a pretty orange rug, I’d like to know what you thought you could snitch here.”

“I’m looking for a missing party of Terrans,” Retief said. “Have you seen them?”

“Terrans? What on Quopp are those?”

“A type of Stilter; they look a little like me, actually, except that they have tender skins.”

“Hmm. Sounds tasty. Tell you what; whoever catches them first divvies up with the others, all right?”

“They’re not to be eaten,” Retief corrected. “I want them whole.”

“Oh, greedy, eh?” More Jackoo rolled to complete the encirclement.

“Oh-oh,” Jik-jik twittered. “Us surrounded.”

“That’s fine,” Retief said. “Now we won’t have any Voion sneaking up on us.”

* * *

“Tief-tief, us don’t want to tangle with those boys,” Jik-jik hissed. “They is tough customers. They ain’t fast on they wheels, but when they starts, it take a mountain to stop ’em. They flatten whatever they meets!”

“Good. They’ll make excellent heavy armor.”

“Tief-tief, you is got strange ideas. These Jackoo ain’t got a friend in the jungle. They grubbers, and they don’t care what kind they gets-Ween, Zilk, Flink-”

“Maybe we can offer them a change of diet.”

“If you have any last words, better get them said.” The Jackoo were closing in, ponderous as Bolo combat units.

“You boys is got wrong ideas,” Jik-jik crowded against Retief. “Us just dropped in to say howdy. I mean, us -figured-I mean Tief-tief figured-”

“What he means is,” Tupper amplified hastily, “the club-swinging rogues ha’

carried out a dastardly attack on Zilk Town, and-”

“And you boys is next,” Jik-jik added. “So-”

“Heavens, one at a time!” the Jackoo bellowed. “Gracious, a person can’t even hear himself think! Now, let me get this straight: Just which of you is offering what others for sale?”

“The cute one with the long stilts,” a Jackoo suggested from the background. “He’s the owner, and these other two-”

“Nonsense, Fufu; the sour-looking one owns the squatty one, and the Stilter is some kind of a flack-”

“You’re both wrong,” a third hollow voice chimed in. “The little jumpy one with the big bitey thing obviously-”

“Gentlemen . . .” Retief held up both gauntleted hands. “I wonder if you’ve noticed a small conflagration in the near distance?”

“Gracious, yes,” the Jackoo named Fufu said. “I thought it was morning and woke up hour early.”

“A large party of Voion calling themselves Planetary Police have raided Zilk Town. They’ll be here next.”

“Well, dandy! Maybe they’ll have some succulent grubs for sale. Last time-”

“This isn’t like last time,” Retief said. “They’re not small-time free-lance bushrangers anymore; they’ve incorporated as a government and gone into the wholesale end. They’ve started off by levying a modest hundred percent property tax; after collecting that, they draft the survivors into government service, in what capacity we haven’t yet deter-mined.”

“Ummm, no,” the nearest Jackoo thumped heavy palps together in the gesture of Invitation Declined. “We’re content as we are, living our peaceful, contemplative lives, bothering no one-”

“What about all them grubs you steals?” Jik-jik put in.

“Well, if you’re going to be picky . . .”

“What Fufu means is that we don’t want to sign up for the program,” a Jackoo explained. “Naturally, we think enterprise is ducky, but-”

“It’s not exactly an invitation,” Retief said. “More of an ultimatum. Your village is on their route of march. They should be here by First Jooprise.”

“Well, they’ll just have their trouble for nothing,” Fufu snorted. “Having one salesman call is one thing, but whole squads of them is simply out of the question!”

“Sure is glad us settle this thing when us did,” Pin-pin said heartily. “Now us better disappear in a hurry. Them Voion done snuck up on us; they about six deep all the way around the town.”

“I just remembered,” Jik-jik said. “I got cousins on the far side of the valley. I believes I’ll just go pay them Ween a call-”

“Hey, that a good idea, Jik-jik,” a nearby Ween chimed in. “Ain’t seen old Grandpa since I a nipper. I believes I’ll just go along . . .”

“It a shame the way us been neglecting our kin . . .” another offered.

“I has a yen to travel myself . . .” a third realized aloud.

“Hold on,” Retief called as a general surge toward the surrounding foliage gathered force. “Running away won’t help. The Voion will catch you, whichever way you go.”

“It was satisfying, getting the hook into a few o’ the murdering no-goods,”

Tupper keened. “But there’s too many o’ ’em; our only chance is to slip off, quiet-like . . .”

“Why, you bunch of spoilsports!” Fufu honked. “Do you mean you’re going to run away just because a few worthless lightweights might be decapitated?”

“Us worthless lightweights wheeling out of here while the wheeling good,”

Fut-fut declared. “Rest of you can do what you likes; it a free country!”

“That’s right, Tief-tief,” Jik-jik sighed. “You Dipple-macs is good fighters, but us knows when us licked.”

“Just listen to them chatter,” Fufu grunted. “A shameful display of arrant cowardice. Luckily, we Jackoo are simply too brave for words. Unfortunately, we can’t see in the dark, so we’ll have to bow out of night operations. In fact, I think it might be a good idea to slip quietly away to quieter territory now and recharge our plates. It has been rather an unsettling evening-”

“Gentlemen,” Retief called, “you’re all talking like idiots. They have us hemmed in on all sides. There’s only one way to get out of this trap-and that’s fight our way out.”

“How in the world did we get mixed up in this, Fufu?” a Jackoo boomed.

“Why don’t we just mash these noisy creatures and get back to sleep?”

“Listen at them,” Jik-jik said. “They ready to quit. Only us Ween doing any fighting talk. Too bad we is got to sneak off with the rest of them-”

“Ween, ha!” Tupper shrilled. “Tief-tief’s no Ween.”

“He a honorary Ween,” Jik-jik said sullenly.

“We’re wasting time arguing,” Retief said. “If we hit them hard, we can punch our way through. They won’t be expecting attack.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Fufu said. “Since Tief-tief is the one who wants to start trouble, why doesn’t he go do it-alone? Then in the confusion, the rest of us can just steal away . . .”

“Hey, that not a bad idea,” Jik-jik nodded judiciously. He eased over beside Retief.

“This you big chance to impress me,” he whistled. “Not only will you hog all the glory, but if you get annihilated, nobody miss you. What you say?”

“Very well,” Retief said. “I’ll lead the attack-if you’ll permit me to sit on your back, Fufu-and if the rest of you will follow my lead.”

“Well . . . us Ween is fighting sons of guns,” Jik-jik said. “But seeing as them Zilk done pooped the party . . .”

“It was you Ween started this talk o’ desertion,” Tupper honked. “We Zilk will stick as long as any o’ ye-if you go first, Tief.”

“That’s settled, then,” Retief said. “Sharpen up your cutting edges, everybody, and we’ll see what we can do.”

“One thing about being a Stilter,” Jik-jik said almost enviously, eyeing Retief, sitting astride Fufu. “You sticks up there like you was welded on. Can’t no fellow with wheels manage that trick.”

“Get ready,” Retief called. Brush was stirring across the yard. A big, tall Voion rolled into view, a jewel glinting in one palp. He crossed his upper arms, propped the lower ones on what would have been hips in a vertebrate.

“You, there!” he shrilled in tribal dialect. “This village is under arrest! Now, all of you Jackoo lie down and roll over on your backs, and if you happen to catch those out-of-town agitators under you, so much the better!”

Fufu’s oculars, plus both pairs of antennae, snapped erect.

“What did he say?”

“He wants you to lie down and play dead,” Retief explained.

“A Jackoo lie down? He must be having us on,” the great creature honked.

“Once a Jackoo is off his wheels, he’s-well, I shouldn’t noise this about, but since we’re allies now-”

“I know; he can’t get up again.”

“Well?” the Voion colonel shrilled. “You have exactly one minute to do as you’re told, or my troops will fire the underbrush and burn you and your village into slag!”

“These huts of yours; they burn pretty well, don’t they, Fufu?” Retief inquired.

“Well, we do use magnesium-bearing leaves for our roofs; they’re light and easy to manage.”

“What we going do now, Tief-tief?” Jik-jik demanded. “Them salesmen means business.”

“They’ve formed up a nice envelopment all the way around our position,”

Retief said. “And they have all the strategic advantages. That leaves it up to us to score a tactical victory.”

“What them words mean?” a Ween demanded.

“They mean the Voion have us outnumbered, outgunned, and outflanked; so we’ll have to beat the wheels off them in a fashion they’re not expecting.”

“How we going do that?”

“Just follow my lead.”

“I’m waiting!” the Voion screeched.

“Just be patient another ten seconds,” Retief said soothingly. The glow of approaching Jooprise was bright in the east; abruptly the fast-moving body leaped into view, a vivid edge of greenish light that swelled into a white glare as the great disk swept upward. Retief drew his sword, pointed it at the Voion.

“Let’s go, Fufu,” he said. The Jackoo leader gave a mighty honk, and with a surge of power lunged into motion-his tribesmen at his back. Retief could see leaves tremble on the trees ahead as the ground shook to the charge of the forty multiton Quoppina. For a startled moment, the colonel stood his ground. Then he backed, spun, shot into the underbrush a scant ten yards ahead of Fufu. Retief ducked as his mighty mount thundered in among the trees; leafy branches whipped aside with a screech and clatter of twisted metallo-wood. A polished Voion flashed into sight, gunned aside barely in time, whirled to thrust a bright lance head at Retief, who struck it aside, heard a screech cut off abruptly as the next Jackoo in line pounded across the spot where the invader had stood. More Voion were in sight ahead now, scattering before the avalanche of Jackoo. There was a loud twang! and a heavy arrow glanced off Retief’s chest armor, whined away over his shoulder. Fufu slammed full tilt into a six-inch tree, bounced it aside as though it were a bundle of straw, veered slightly to miss a two-foot trunk, flushed a Voion who darted ahead, tripped, disappeared under Fufu’s blind charge. Two Voion popped up at once, leveling lances, Retief crouched low, struck one spear aside with his sword point, saw Fufu’s grubber knock the other -flying.

Behind and on both sides a heavy crashing of underbrush attested to the presence of other units of Federation heavy armor charging in line abreast. Above, leaves tinkled and clanged to the passage of moving bodies. Reflected Joop-light winked from the accoutrements of half-concealed Voion soldiery.

“Wheee!” Fufu hooted. “This is perfectly thrilling! I never thought I’d be charging into battle with a generalissimo sitting on me.”

“Just be sure I’m still in place when you charge out again,” Retief instructed.

A portable searchlight winked on ahead, silhouetting scurrying Voion against a bluish haze as they rushed to form up a defensive line against the thunder of approaching attackers.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Fufu panted. “I can see them ever so much better now!”

The Voion ahead were dashing hither and thither, each seemingly reluctant to hog the glory of placing himself in the path of the oncoming enemy.

“Swing to the left now,” Retief called. A Voion shot across the path ahead, whirled, brought a handgun up as Fufu veered to slam the gunner under his wheels. Two more Voion popped up, leaped aside, gave despairing yelps as Fufu’s flankers steamrollered them. Fufu was running parallel to the Voion front now, fifty feet inside the besieg-ing line, half a dozen yards behind a tribesfellow. Voion were racing alongside the turf-pounding line now, loosing off arrows which clacked harmlessly off Jackoo armor. One shot in close, fired at Retief, who ducked, thrust with the sword, saw the Voion wobble wildly, go over, bounce high, and slam into a tree. The crashing of metallo-chitin under horny wheels was like the thundering of a heavy surf, punctuated by belated screeches of alarm as the Voion rear ranks caught glimpses of the doom rushing down at them. Spears arced up, falling as often among the Voion as among the rebellious tribesmen; blasters fired wildly, and here and there a club swung in a vain blow at a racing Quoppina. Then suddenly Fufu was through the main body, slamming past astonished rear-guardsmen who gaped, dithered, fired too late.

“Swing left!” Retief called. “Maybe we can isolate this bunch!”

Now the Jackoo raced parallel to the outer fringes of a sizable detachment of the foe, cut off from the main body. Behind them, the Ween and Zilk who had made their dash trailing close along the lanes opened up by the heavyweights charged on, disappeared into the surrounding forest in hot pursuit of the demoralized main body. Locked in a solid mass of entangled wheels, the entrapped herd cut off by the rebels battled hopelessly to retreat. Those who eluded the freight-train column and fled to the shelter of the woods seemed to disappear abruptly as soon as they reached cover. The Voion captives were now compressed to the consistency of a single interlocked traffic jam, screeching mournfully and huddling back from the patrolling heavyweights.

“Hold it up, Fufu,” Retief called. The Jackoo puffed to a halt, wheezing heavily. His tribesmates, following his lead, closed ranks, buzzing and humming, radiating heat like big purple boilers. The ensnarled Voion squalled, drew ever closer together as the mighty creatures stared at them, their sides heaving from the run. The few Planetary Police still mobile darted to and fro, then threw down their weapons and huddled against their embattled fellows. Behind Retief, the concealed combat teams emerged from the brush, snappers snapping, scythes waving.

“Fall out for a ten-minute break, gentlemen,” Retief addressed his fighters.

“They’ll be back in a few minutes; but with about three hundred cops in our custody, we may find the opposition in a mood to talk terms.”

“Tief-tief, I is got to hand it to you,” Jik-jik stated. “Our plan work out pretty good! Us leave a trail of wide, skinny policemens all the way back to where Jackooburg use to be!”

“Used to be?” Jackoo heads turned.

“Sure; what you think that smoke is?”

“Why-they wouldn’t dare . . . !”

“Never mind,” Jik-jik said. “It wasn’t much of a place anyhow. But Tief-tief-like I says, you is a credit to honorary Weenhood; only thing I don’t see is, how come you won’t let us get on with breaking them Voion down into bite-size? Way they jumbled up, it take ’em six months to figure out whose wheels belongs to which!”

“This bunch we’ve rounded up is just a small part of the Voion army,” Retief pointed out. “We’ll get the maximum use from them as negotiating material-but not if they’re disassembled.”

“Hey, Tief-tief . . . !” A Ween who had been posted as lookout hurried up, pointing skyward. “Some kind of flying wagon coming.”

Retief and the others watched as a foreign-made heli settled in nearby. A small, undernourished-looking Voion with an oversized head lowered himself from the cockpit, unfurled a white flag, and approached, moving unsteadily on wheels several spokes of which were flapping loose.

“All right, let him come-and try to remember not to remove his head before he gets here,” Retief cautioned.

“You are Tief-tief, the rebel commander?” the newcomer called in a curiously weak voice.

Retief looked the envoy over carefully, nodded.

“We, ah, admire your spirit,” the Voion went on. “For that reason we are considering offering you a general amnesty . . .”

Retief waited.

“If, er, we could discuss the details in private . . . ?” the emissary proposed in a hoarse whisper.

Retief nodded to Jik-jik and Tupper. “Would you fellows mind stepping aside for a minute or two?”

“Ok, Tief-tief-but keep both oculars on that customer; he look to me like a slick one.” They moved off a few yards.

“Go ahead,” Retief said. “What’s your proposition?”

The Voion was staring at him; he made a dry rasping sound. “Forgive my mirth,” he hissed. “I confess I came here to salvage what I could from a debacle-but that voice-those legs . . .” The Voion’s tone changed to a confident rasp: “I have just revised my terms. You will relinquish command of this rabble at once and accompany me as a prisoner to Planetary Field HQ!”

“Why,” Retief inquired interestedly, “would I do that?”

“For an excellent reason. In fact, for ten excellent reasons, my dear Retief!”

The Voion reached to its head, fumbled-then lifted off a hollow headpiece to reveal a pale gray face and five inquisitive eye stalks.

“Well, General Hish of the Groaci Legation,” Retief said. “You’re out of your territory.”

Hish fixed two pairs of eyes on Retief. “We have in our custody the person of ten Terry females, removed from a disabled vessel illegally on Voion soil,” he said coldly. “They are scheduled to be shot at dawn. I offer you their lives in return for the surrender of yourself!”

Six

“When you coming back, Tief-tief?” Jik-jik inquired worriedly. “How come you going off with this here policeman in this here apparatus?”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Retief said. “Keep up the hit and run tactics-and recruit every tribe you meet.”

“To get aboard,” the disguised alien said in Groaci. “To make haste to arrive before the executions.”

Retief stepped into the two-man heli in which the emissary had arrived. The latter strapped in, started up, lifted from the wheel-scarred field, then turned in the seat and cocked three unoccupied eyes at Retief. “I congratulate you on your wisdom in coming along quietly,” he whispered in excellent Terran. “I of course disapprove of bloodshed, but without the compelling argument which your presence at Planetary HQ will present, I fear my protests would never have availed to preserve intact the prisoners.”

“You still haven’t told me what a Groaci military man is doing out here in the brush, General-”

“Please-address me merely as Hish. My Voion associates know me only as a helpful adviser. If my voice is to be effective in securing clemency for the captives, no complicating new elements must be introduced into the present rather fragile equation.”

“For a group enjoying the services of a high-powered military adviser,”

Retief said, “the Planetary Army shows a surprising ignorance of the elements of warfare.”

“I’ve only just arrived in the field today,” Hish said. “As for these native levies-hopeless. But no matter. In the absence of your restraining presence your irregulars will doubtless devise a suitable disposition for them. The survivors, if any, will perhaps have learned a lesson or two from the experience which will stand them in good stead during coming campaigns under my tutelage.”

There was a heavy satchel on the floor by Retief’s feet, its top gaping open. “I see you’re taking a practical view of matters,” Retief commented. He studied a dull-glinting shape inside the bag. “I confess I’m curious as to just what it is you Groaci expect to net from the operation.” As he spoke, he reached casually, lifted out the inert form of a two-inch Quoppina, a harsh yellow in color, remarkably heavy. Beneath it, he saw another, similar trophy, this one a soft silvery color. He replaced the dead specimens.

“Shall we say-new customers . . . ?” Hish whispered, staring ahead at the jungle below.

“The prospect of opening up a new market for your usual line of hardware isn’t sufficient inducement to launch a hardheaded group like yourselves on a risky adventure under the collective CDT nose.”

“Ah, but perhaps the new Planetary Government, sensible of the close ties binding them to the Groaci state, will spurn continued intervention in internal affairs by reactionary Terran influences . . .”

“Booting the Terries is part of the deal, eh? There’s still something you’re not being perfectly candid about, Hish. What’s in it for the Groaci?”

“One must keep a few little secrets,” Hish chided. “And now I must give my attention to landing; such an awkward business, laboring under the weight of this bulky disguise. Still, it’s necessary; the rank and file of my associates seem to suffer from the sort of anti-foreign animus so typical of bucolics.”

There were lights below, the dark rectangle of tents, the raw scars of hastily scraped camp streets, packed with the hurrying ant-shapes of Voion. To one side of the field headquarters, Retief saw a rank of parked Rhoon, unnaturally still as technicians crawled over them under the glare of portable polyarcs. The heli dropped in to a bumpy landing, was at once surrounded by Voion, nervously fingering weapons. Hish replaced his headpiece, opened the hatch and scrambled out. An officious-looking Voion staff officer bustled up, gave Retief a hostile look.

“Who’s this, Hish-hish?” he demanded. “Their truce representative, I suppose?”

“By no means, Xic,” Hish whispered in his weak Groaci voice. “Instruct your chaps to keep a sharp eye on this fellow; he’s my prisoner.”

“What do we want with more prisoners-and a Stilter at that? I’ve already suffered a number of nasty dents from the legs of those Terry cows you insisted we bring in-”