“Enough, Xic; I’ve had a trying evening-”

“What did you manage in the way of truce terms? I suppose they’re demanding outrageous reparations for those few trivial villages that accidentally caught on fire-”

“On the contrary, they demand nothing. I left them to their own devices. Now-”

“What about our troops? Those rabble are holding an entire brigade of highly polished soldiers immobilized out there! Why, the cost of inlays alone-”

“The fortunes of war, my dear Major. Now, if you please, I have important matters to discuss-”

“What’s more important than salvaging my brigade?” the outraged officer shrilled. “How can I be adjutant of an organization that’s been scrapped by the enemy?”

“A neat problem in administration, sir. Possibly if you carry them on your morning report as ‘Missing in action’ . . .”

“Hmmm. That might work-at least until next payday. Meanwhile, why not disassemble this Stilter and get on with planning our next victory?”

“This Stilter will play an important part in that happy event, Xic. He happens to be the rebel commander.”

“Him?” Xic canted his oculars alertly at Retief. “How in Quopp did you manage to capture him?”

“I have a certain skill in these matters. Bring him along now to my tent-”

“Not until the prisoners are released,” Retief said. “I want to see them put aboard a couple of helis and on their way.”

“What’s this? A prisoner dictating terms?” Xic keened.

“No matter; the wenches have served their purpose. I had in mind ransoming them off for concessions from the Terry ambassador, but the present arrangement has a certain euphony. Go along to the stockade and see that they’re released at once.”

“I’ll go with you,” Retief said.

“You’ll do as you’re ordered!” Major Xic snapped. “Or I’ll shorten those stilts of yours by a joint to bring you down to a more manageable size!”

“No, you won’t. You’ll carefully keep me intact and reasonably well pleased with things. Hish-hish would like it that way.”

“We’ll indulge his fancy for the moment, Major,” the Groaci hissed. “Kindly lead the way.”

The Voion clacked his palps angrily and rolled off toward a stoutly palisaded enclosure looming above the lines of low tents along the company streets. At a heavy gate made of stout logs welded together, a guard produced a foot-long key, opened a huge padlock, hauled the portal wide, then shouted to a compatriot above. Lights sprang on at the corner towers. Xic motioned a squad of Voion through, then followed, Hish close on his heels, Retief and an additional squad behind him.

There was an outcry ahead. Four Voion shrilled simultaneously, an effect not unlike the vocalizations of mating cats, though magnified. The Voion around Retief jerked up their clubs. Hish darted ahead. Retief pushed after him, came up beside the Voion officer who was waving all four arms and swiveling his oculars excitedly while the soldiers peered about the thirty-yard square enclosure, all explaining at once.

“Where are the Terrans?” Hish whispered. “What have you done with my prisoners?”

“Quiet!” the major shrieked. He turned to Hish, assuming a nonchalant angle of the antennae.

“Too bad, Hish-hish,” he said airily. “It appears they’ve excavated a tunnel and departed.”

“It was the one with the copper-colored cranial filaments!” a guard explained. “It demanded digging tools so that it and its fellows could eplivate the ratesifrans . . .”

“What’s that?” Hish demanded.

“I don’t know!” the major yelled. “Something to do with a tribal taboo; and if you think my boys are going to call down the wrath of the Worm-"

“Beware . . . lest you call down a more immediate ill temper,” Hish snarled. He calmed himself with a visible effort, turned on Retief. “An unexpected development-but the females appear to be free, just as you desired-”

“Not exactly,” Retief cut him off. “I desired to see them turned loose with a fighting chance of getting across a hundred miles of jungle and back to Ixix.”

“Ah, well, life is filled with these trifling disappointments, my dear Retief. Suppose we go along to my tent now and proceed with business . . .”

“Thanks, but I won’t be able to make it,” Retief said affably. “I have to be getting back to the wars.”

“Be realistic, Retief,” Hish urged. “My end of the bargain was fulfilled in a rather informal manner, true, but surely you are not so naïve as to imagine that detail nullifies the spirit of our agreement . . . ?”

Retief glanced at the looming stockade walls, the Voion ringing him in.

“What spirit would that be?”

“One of cooperation,” Hish purred. “I suggest we move along from these depressing surroundings now and conduct our little chat in more comfortable circumstances-”

“I’m afraid you’ve gotten a couple of false impressions along the line somewhere,” Retief said. “I just agreed to come with you; I didn’t promise to do your homework for you.”

“Surely the supplying of certain information was implicit in your surrender!”

“Why natter with the scoundrel?” the Voion major put in. “I have specialists on my staff who’ll put him into a talking mood!”

“Don’t be tiresome, Retief,” Hish whispered. “I can squeeze the truth out of you; but why force me to these uncouth tactics?”

“Oh, maybe I have an idea you don’t know just where I stand, and that you’re a little reluctant to damage CDT property-”

“What’s he talking about?” the Voion demanded. “What has this to do with interloping Terries?”

“Silence!” Hish snapped. “Go busy yourself with executing the slackers responsible for the escape, or some other routine task-”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” the major keened. “Some headquarters goldbrick sent you out here to poke around and count paper clips, but if you think you can talk that way to me and get away with it-”

“Calm yourself, Major! I should dislike to employ my influence with Prime Minister Ikk to have you transferred to duty on-certain other fronts . . .”

Hish turned back to Retief. “You will now give me full particulars on rebel troop concentrations, or suffer the consequences!”

“Suppose we just jump directly along to the consequences,” Retief proposed. “It will save time all around.”

“As you will, then.” Hish turned back to Xic. “Since your stockade has proven inadequate to requirements, what other facilities can you offer for the restraint of the prisoner?”

“Well-there’s a nice little room behind post headquarters, specially built to house the officers’ stimulant supply-if we ever get any. If it’s good enough to keep my klepto--maniacs out of the Hellrose, it ought to keep this Stilter in.”

“Very well,” Hish snapped. “Take him there and chain him to the wall.”

The cell was a cramped, low-ceilinged chamber with damp mud walls retained by log pilings only the upper foot of which were above ground level; through the narrow openings between uprights, Retief could see the muddy polyarc-lit acres of the camp stretching a hundred yards to the nearest jungle perimeter. The crowd of Voion who had escorted him there crowded in, watching as the head jailer shook out a length of tough chain, welded one end to a projecting stub on an ironwood corner post, then approached Retief.

“Just sit quiet now, Stilter,” he ordered, “while I throw a loop around your neck-and no backchat, or I’ll weld your mandibles shut.”

“How about putting it on my left stilt instead,” Retief proposed. “That way it won’t interfere with my thinking nice thoughts about you, just in case my side wins.”

“Confidentially,” the welder said in a low voice. “Just how strong are you boys?”

“Well, let’s see,” Retief considered. “There are five billion Quoppina on Quopp; subtract two million Voion, and that leaves-”

“Wow!” a gaping guard said. “That’s better’n two to one, pretty near-”

“Shut up, Vop!” the warder buzzed. “Stick out that stilt, Stilter!” Retief complied, watched as the Voion threw two loops of stout chain around his ankle, welded the links -together.

“That ought to hold you until Hish-hish gets through arguing with the major and comes down to work you over.” The Voion snapped off his portable welder. “If you need anything, just yell. The exercise’ll do you good.”

“What time is breakfast served?” Retief inquired.

“Oh, I’ll throw a couple slabs of over-aged Dink in to you after a while-if I think of it.” The guards filed from the cell, taking their torches with them, the warder bringing up the rear. He looked back from the door.

“That bad?” he queried. “Five billion of youse?”

“Worse,” Retief agreed solemnly. “Some of us vote twice.”

There was silence after the door clanked shut. Along the narrow gap between the top of the excavation and the sagging log ceiling half a dozen inquisitive Voion faces were ducked down, staring in at the dark pit; they saw nothing, tired of the sport, rolled off to other pastimes. Retief picked a relatively dry spot, sat down, quickly unsnapped the leather soled foot-covering from his chained leg, pulled off the shoe, then unbuckled the greavelike shin armor, worked it out from under the loops. A moment later his leg was free. He resumed the leg-and foot-pieces, shook out the chain and arranged a slip noose for use in the event of sudden callers, then scouted the small room. The metallo-wood posts were deep-set, six inches apart. He chipped at one with the clawed gauntlet on his right hand; it was like scratching at a fireplug. The air space above the wall was hardly more promising; the clearance under the ceiling was no more than eight inches, and the gap between verticals hardly a foot . . .

A movement beyond the barrier caught Retief’s eye; a pattern of glowing, greenish dots danced in the air a few yards distant, bobbed, came closer.

“Tief-tief!” a tiny voice peeped. “Tief-tief caught-caught!”

“Well-you know my name.” Something small and bright green buzzed through the opening, hovering on three-inch rotors.

“Save-save George-George,” the tiny flyer said. “Tief-tief pal-pal!”

Retief held out his hand. The six-inch Quoppina-a Phip-settled on it, perched like a jeweled ornament, its head a deep green, its short body a brilliant chartreuse with forest green stripes, its four straw-thin legs a bright sunshine yellow.

“Phip-phip help-help,” it stated in its tiny voice.

“That’s a very friendly offer,” Retief said. “There might be something you could do, at that. How about rounding up a couple of your friends and see if you can find a few things for me . . .”

Retief studied the six-foot-long, two-foot-deep trench he had scooped in the stiff clay of the cell floor, rimmed on one side by a low parapet heaped up from the excavated material.

“That will have to do,” he said to the half dozen Phips who perched along the sill, watching the proceedings. “Old Hish will be hotfooting it down here any time now to see if durance vile has softened me up.”

A last flight of Phips buzzed in through the wall opening, deposited their bean-sized contributions in the small heaps laid out on a mat of leaves flown in for the purpose.

“All-all,” one hummed. “Gone-gone.”

“That’s all right,” Retief assured the small creature. “I’ve got enough now.”

He lifted a wide leaf heaped with shredded bark selected by the Phips for its high cellulose content, placed it atop the heaped-earth revetment beside the foxhole. “Somebody give me a light,” he called. A Phip settled in, struck its rear legs together with a sound like a file on glass. At the third try a spark jumped. Retief blew gently on it, watched as the fuel glowed, burst into a bright green flame. He covered the small blaze with another broad leaf; yellowish smoke boiled out. He held the damper in place until the low-oxygen combustion was complete, then lifted it to reveal a double handful of black residue.

“That ought to do the job; now let’s prepare the rest of the ingredients.”

He picked up a rough-surfaced slab of ironwood previously split off a post, began grating sourballs into a fine powder.

Half an hour later, Retief packed the last pinch of the finely divided mixture into the container he had improvised from nicklewood leaves, carefully wrapped with lengths of tough wire-vine. He crimped down the top, inserted a fuse made from a strip of shirt-sleeve impregnated with the home-made gunpowder.

“Now, when I give the word, light it off,” he instructed the hovering Phips.

“Just one of you; the rest will have to stand back at a good distance. And as soon as it’s lit-head for the tall timber, fast! Don’t wait around to see what happens.”

“Kay-kay, Tief-tief,” a Phip chirped. “Now-now?”

“In just a minute . . .” He hefted the bomb. “A good point and a half; that ought to have a salutary effect.” He placed the rude package on the ledge against an upright, pressed it firmly in position, then packed clay around it, leaving the fuse clear.

“That’s it,” he said. He stepped into the trench, settled himself face-down.

“Light it off, fellows-and don’t forget to hightail it . . .”

There was the busy humming of small rotors, then a harsh rasping as the selected Phip struck a spark. A brief sputtering followed, accompanied by the hasty whine of the departing Phil, then silence. Retief waited. He sniffed. Was there a faint odor of burning rag . . . ?

The boom! lifted Retief bodily, slammed him back against the floor of his retreat under an avalanche of mud and screaming wood fragments. He thrust himself clear, spat dirt, his head ringing like a giant gong. There was a harsh stink of chemicals, a taste in his mouth like charred sneakers. Cool air blew from a gaping cavern where the wall had been. A timber sagged from above; beyond it he could see smoke swirling in a room littered with shattered lumber.

A Phip buzzed close. “Fun-fun,” it shrilled. “Gain-gain!”

“Some other time,” Retief said blurrily. “And remind me to use smaller amounts . . .” He ducked under the fallen ceiling beams, went up the blast-gouged slope, emerged into the open. Voion shot past him, inaudible in the shrill ringing in Retief’s ears. Out of the smoke haze, the slight figure of General Hish appeared, arms waving. Retief straight-armed the Groaci, saw him go end over end, one artificial wheel bouncing free to go rolling off into the brush. He sprinted, dodged a pair of Voion who belatedly skittered into his path, plunged into the dark wall of the jungle. Seven

The trail left by the fleeing prisoners was not difficult to follow; bits of lacy cloth, dropped hankies, candy wrappers, and the deep prints of spike heels served to indicate their direction of flight as plainly as a set of hand-painted signposts. The girls had pushed through dense thickets for a hundred yards, then encountered a well-defined trail leading in an approximately westward direction. It was now after Second Jooprise, and Retief moved along in multicolored gloom beneath towering trees of a thousand varieties, each bearing metal-bright leaves in gay tones, which rustled and tinkled, clashing with soft musical notes as the arching branches stirred to the wind.

Half an hour’s walk brought him to a stream of clear water bubbling over a shallow, sandy bottom bright with vivid-colored pebbles. Small aquatic Quoppina the size of Phips darted to and fro in the sun-dappled water, propelled by rotating members modified by evolutionary processes into twin screws astern.

The water looked tempting. Retief hung his sword on a convenient branch, lifted off the helmet he had been wearing for the past eighteen hours, unstrapped the leather side-buckles and shed the chest and back armor, then splashed into the stream and dashed cold water over his face and arms. Back on shore, he settled himself under a mauve-barked tree, took out one of the concentrated food bars Ibbl had provided. From above, a plaintive keening sounded. Retief looked up into the tree, saw something move in the Jooplight, striking down through branches and glittering dark foliage-a flash of vivid purple among the blackish-red leaves. There was a second movement, lower down. Retief made out the almost invisible form of a wiry, slender Quoppina, gorgeous violet where the light struck him, decorated with white-edged purple rosettes, a perfect camouflage in the light-mottled foliage. The creature hung motionless, wailing softly.

Retief jumped, caught a branch, pulled himself up, then climbed higher, avoiding the knife-edged leaves. From a position astride a stout limb twenty feet up, he could make out the cleverly concealed lines of a narrow-mesh net in which the captive-a Flink, Retief saw-hung, a tangle of purple limbs, twisted ropes, and anxiously canted oculars.

“What happened, fellow? Pull the wrong string and catch yourself?”

“I’m laughing,” the Flink said glumly, in a high, thin voice.

“So go ahead, gloat,” a second Flink voice called from above. “Rub it in.”

“Just a minute and I’ll cut you down,” Retief offered.

“Hey, me first,” the upper Flink called. “It was him started the trouble, remember? Me, I’m a peaceful Flink, bothering nobody-”

“It’s a different Stilter, you lowlife,” the nearer Flink called hastily. “This ain’t the one from before.”

“Oh, you’ve seen other Stilters around?” Retief inquired interestedly.

“Maybe; you know how it is. You meet all kinds of people.”

“You’re not being completely candid, I’m afraid. Come on-give.”

“Look,” the Flink said. “Such a crick I’ve got: How about cutting me down first and we’ll chat after?”

“He’s got a crick,” the other Flink shrilled hoarsely. “Ha! In his lousy net I’m hanging! Six cricks I’ve got, all worse than his!”

“You think this noose is maybe comfortable?” the first came back hotly.

“Rope burns I’m getting-”

“Let’s compare notes later,” Retief interrupted. “Which way did the Stilters go?”

“You look like a nice, kind sort of Stilter,” the nearest Flink said, holding his oculars on Retief as he swung in a gentle arc past him. “Let me down and I’ll try to help you out with your problem. I mean, in such a position, who could talk?”

“Cut him down, and he’s gone like a flash,” the other called. “Now, I happen to like your looks, so I’ll tell you what I’ll do-”

“Don’t listen,” the roped Flink said in a confidential tone. “Look at him-and he claims to be number one tribal woodsman, yet. Some woodsman!”

“A woodsman like you I shouldn’t be, even without you was hanging in my noose,” the other countered. “Take it from me, Stilter, Ozzl’s the biggest liar in the tribe, and believe me, competition he’s got!”

“Fellows, I’m afraid I can’t stay for a conference after all,” Retief cut in.

“Sorry to leave you hanging around in bad company, but-”

“Hold it!” the Flink called Ozzl screeched. “I’ve thought it over and I’ve decided: A nice fellow like you I want my family to meet-”

“Don’t trust him! I’ll tell you what: Get me out of this lousy rope, and I’m your Flink-”

“You expect this Stilter-such a fine-looking Quopp-he should believe that?

As soon as I’m loose, everything I own is his!”

“So what’ll he do with a pile of empties? My deal is better, believe me, Mister; you and me, such a talk we’ll have, you wouldn’t believe-”

“You’re right; he wouldn’t. Him and me, together a long chat we’ll have-”

There was a flash of green, a sharp humming; the Phip was back, hovering before Retief’s face.

“Tief-tief, flip-flip,” it churped. “Flip-flip Flink-flink!”

“Don’t listen!” Ozzl screeched. “What does this midget know?”

“Flip-flip Flink-flink!” the Phip repeated.

“Hmmm. I seem to remember hearing somewhere that a Flink’s word is good as long as he’s standing on his head,” Retief mused. “Thanks, partner.” He gripped Ozzl’s lower arms-in his species specialized as landing gear-and inverted the captive tree-dweller.

“If I cut you down, will you tell me where the Stilters are?”

“OK, OK, you got me,” the Flink chirped glumly. “Cut me down and the whole miserable story I’ll give you.”

Retief extracted a similar promise from the second Flink.

“Look out, now,” the latter cautioned. “All around is nets.”

Retief made out the cleverly concealed lines of other nets and nooses, some small, some large enough to gather in a fair-sized Quoppina.

“Thanks for the warning,” Retief said. “I might have walked right in to one of those.”

Five minutes later both captives had been lowered to the ground and cut free. They sprawled, groaning, working their arms and experimentally revving up their rotation members: small pulleylike wheels which they cus-tomarily hooked over vines or branches for fast travel.

“Well,” Ozzl sighed. “Me and Nopl, first class trappers we’re supposed to be. Such a picture, the two of us in our own ropes hung up!”

“Nothing’s busted,” Nopl said. “Boy, such a experience!”

“Don’t stall, gentlemen,” Retief said. “The time has come to tell all: Where did you see the Stilters, how long ago, and which way did they go when they left?”

“A promise is a promise-but listen-you won’t tell, OK?”

“I won’t tell.”

Ozzl sighed. “All right. It was this way . . .”

“ . . . so I turned around, and zzzskttt! The Stilter with the copper-colored head filaments-the one the others called Fi-fi-pulls the trip wire-such a dummy I was to explain it-and there I am, downside up. It was humiliating!”

“Under the circumstances, a little humility seems appro-priate,” Retief suggested. “And after the Stilter tricked you into your own net, what then?”

“Then the two-timer cuts down the rest of the Stilters, and off they go-thataway.” Ozzl pointed.

“Yeah,” the other Flink said aggrievedly. “So there we hung until you come along-and all because we try to be polite and show that Stilter how the nets work, such an interest it was expressing.”

Retief nodded sympathetically. “We Stilters are a tricky lot, especially when anybody tries to violate our tribal taboo against being eaten. And on that note I must leave you-”

“What’s the rush?” Ozzl demanded. “Stick around awhile; a little philosophy we’ll kick around.”

“What about a drink, fellows?” Ozzl proposed. He took a hip flask from the flat pouch strapped to his lean flank, quaffed deeply, rose to his full three foot six, flexed his arms. “A new Quopp that’ll make out of you,” he

-announced and passed the bottle to Retief. He took a swallow; like all Quoppina liquors, it was thin, delicately flavored, resembling dilute honey. He passed the flask to Nopl, who drank, offered sulphurous sourballs which Retief declined.

“They’re a good two hours ahead of me,” he said. “I have to make up some time-”

The Phip was back, buzzing around Retief’s head.

“Tief-tief,” the Phip hummed. “Nip-nip!”

“Sure, give the little stool pigeon a shot,” Nopl offered. “Whoopee! Life is just a bowl of snik-berries!”

“My pal, Tief-tief!” Ozzl slung one long, pulley-wheeled member across the lower portion of Retief’s back in comradely fashion. “You’re a shrewd dealer for a . . . a . . . whatever kind of Quoppina you are!”

Nopl took another pull at the flask. “Tief-tief, you should meet the crowd,”

he shrilled cheerfully. “A swell bunch, am I right, Ozzl?”

“Such a swell bunch, I’m crying,” the Flink replied. “When I think what a swell bunch they are I wonder, what did I do to deserve it?”

“They’re a lousy crowd teetotaling small-timers, but so what?” Nopl caroled.

“Tief-tief they should meet.”

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

Ozzl made a noise like a broken connecting rod, the Flink expression of suppressed merriment. “Guess again, Tief-tief,” he caroled, and waved a wheeled member in an all-encompassing gesture. “Meet the boys!”

Retief glanced upward. From behind every leafy branch and vine-shrouded shrub, a purple Quoppina materialized, a rope or net in hand, a few nocking arrows to small bows, one or two armed with long, flexible tridents.

“About time,” Nopl said and hiccuped. “I thought you boys would never show.”

Retief stood in the center of the patch of open, Jooplit sward beneath the big tree from which a hundred silent Flink hung like grotesque fruits. An overweight Flink with the wine-purple carapace of mature age tilted myopic oculars at him. “These two loafers I send out, they should check the traps and with a drinking buddy they come reeling back,” he commented bitterly.

“Who’s reeling? Am I reeling? Look at me,” Ozzl invited.

“What about the Stilter?” someone called. “He looks like prime stock-with a cheese sauce, maybe he should be served-”

“My pal, Tief-tief, nobody cuts up! First I’ll drop dead!”

“This I could arrange,” the oldster cut him off. “Now, if we slice up this Stilter, a snack for everybody he’ll make-”

“Stop right there,” Nopl shrilled. “A businessman like Tief-tief we couldn’t eat! Cannibalism, yet, it would be! Instead, we’ll truss him up and sell him-or maybe disassemble him for spares . . .”

Cries rang back and forth as the Flink discussed the various proposals.

“Such a head I’ve got,” Nopl groaned during a momentary lull. “I think I need another little snort.”

“That booze of yours works fast,” Retief commented. “You got through the buzz and into the hangover stage in record time.”

“Hung over or no, Ozzl and me will stick by you, Tief-tief. If they vote to sell you, I’ll put in a good word we should hold out for top price.”

“Marked down you’ll not be while I’m around,” Ozzl agreed. The elderly Flink emitted a shrill cry for silence. “The pros and cons we’ve discussed,” they announced. “It looks like the cons have it.” A rustle ran through the Flink ranks. The encircling tribesmen moved in closer, shaking out nets and ropes as they maneuvered for favorable positions, Retief drew his sword, stepped back against the nearest tree trunk.

“Hey,” the oldster called. “What’s that sharp thing? It looks dangerous! Put it away like a nice piece of merchandise before somebody gets hurt.”

“It’s an old tribal custom among us Stilters that we make owning us as expensive as possible,” Retief explained. “Who’s going to be first to open an account?”

“It figures,” the elder said judiciously. “Price supports, yet.”

“Still, we try to be reasonable,” Retief amplified. “I doubt if I’ll disassemble more than a dozen Flink before you get a rope on me.”

“Six,” the Flink said flatly. “That’s my top offer.”

“I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to get together,” Retief said. “Maybe we’d better call off the whole deal.”

“He’s right,” someone stated. “Worth twelve Flink, includ-ing maybe me, he’s not.”

Retief started forward, swinging the sword loosely. “Just step back, gentlemen,” he suggested. “I have important business to transact, and no time to continue this delightful discussion-”

A noose whirled at him; he spun, slashed; the severed line dropped to the ground.

“Hey! That’s expensive rope you’re cutting,” someone protested, hauling in the damaged lariat.

“Let him go,” another suggested. “My rope I ain’t -risking.”

“What’s that?” the elder shrilled. “You want I should let valuable merchandise go stilting right out of sight?”

“Listen, Tief-tief,” Ozzl called. “There’s only the one trail, and it leads straight to the rock spire. Now, with us, you get sold for parts, so OK, there you are. But you climb up there and a Rhoon picks you up and flies off-I’m asking: Where are you?”

“Did you say Rhoon?” Retief inquired.

“On top of the rock spire they’re thick like Phips on a jelly flower. A chance you haven’t got!”

“Still, I think I’ll risk it,” Retief said. He moved toward the trail and two Flink rushed in, nets ready; he knocked them spinning, dodged two nets and a lasso, leaped for the dark tunnel of the trail and ran for it with a horde of Flink baying in hot pursuit.

Later, on a rocky slope a hundred yards above the tops of the thick jungle growth below, Retief pulled himself up onto a flat boulder, turned and looked down at the Flink tribe clustered below, staring up and shaking fists.

“Dirty pool, Tief-tief,” Ozzl yelled. “This kind terrain, our wheels ain’t meant for.”

“Thanks for escorting me this far,” Retief called. “I’ll find my way from here.”

“Sure.” The Flink waved a member at the steep escarpments rising above.

“Just keep climbing. The Rhoon roost is only about a mile-straight up. If you don’t fall off and get killed, the Rhoon you’ll find after a while-or they’ll find you.” He clicked his antennae in the Gesture of Sentimental Farewell.

“You were a good drinking buddy, Tief-tief. Hang loose.”

Retief scanned the slope above; he had a stiff climb ahead. He lifted off his helmet, pulled off the gauntlets, slung them by a thong to his belt. He shook his canteen; nearly empty. He took a last look at the valley and started up the almost vertical slope.

It was an hour after dawn when Retief reached a narrow ledge a thousand feet above the jungle valley below. The wind whistled here, unimpeded by Quoppian flora; in the distance, a pair of white flyers of medium size wheeled and dipped under the ominous sky of approaching First Eclipse, where the fire-edged disk of Joop rushed to its rendezvous with the glaring Quopp sun. Far above, a mere spec in the dark blue sky, a lone Rhoon circled the towering peak where the giant flyers nested. Retief studied the rock face above; it was a smooth expanse of black slatelike stone rising sheer from the ledge. The route upward, it appeared, ended here.

One of the white aerialists was dropping lower, coming in to look over the intruder. Retief donned his headpiece, shifted his sword hilt to a convenient angle, waited for the visitor. He could hear the beat of its rotors now, see the pale coral markings along the underside of the body, the black legs folded against the chest region, the inquisitive oculars canted to look him over.

“What seek you here upon the wind slopes, groundling?” a thin voice called down to him, tattered by the gusty breeze. “There’s naught for your kind here but unforgiving rock spires and the deep, cold air.”

“They say the Rhoon have their nests up there,” Retief called.

“That do they-up a-high, where low clouds scrape their bellies and death blooms grow amid the moss as black as night.” The flying creature dropped closer; the slipstream from its ten-foot rotors battered at Retief, whirling dust into his face. He gripped the rock, braced his feet apart.

“Aiiii!” the flyer called. “If a zephyr from my passing can come nigh to spill you from your perch, how will you fare when some great lordling of the Rhoon comes like a cyclone to attend you here?”

“I’ll work on that one when I get to it,” Retief shouted over the tumult.

“If you’ve come to steal my eggs, you’ve picked a lonely death.”

“Is there any other kind?”

The flyer settled lower, reached out and gripped a buttress of rock with black talons; its rotors whined to a stop.

“Perhaps you’ve tired of life, chained to the world, and you’ve come here to launch yourself into one glorious taste of flight,” it hazarded.

“Just paying a social call,” Retief assured the creature. “But I seem to have run out of highway. You wouldn’t happen to know an easier route up?”

“A social call? I see you wish a braver death than a mere tumble to the rocks.”

“I’d like to sample the view from the top; I hear it’s very impressive.”

“The view of raging Rhoonhood stooping to defend a nest is said to be the fearsomest on Quopp,” the flyer agreed. “However, few eyewitness tales of the experience are told.”

Retief studied the creature’s rotors, spinning slowly as the wind sighed over the thin, curved blades.

“How much weight can you lift?” he inquired.

“I once plucked up a full-grown Flink and dropped him in the river, yonder,”

the flyer motioned with one limber arm. “I doubt if he’ll come thieving

’round my nest again.”

“I weigh more than a Flink,” Retief pointed out.

“No matter that: You’d fall as fast as any Flink, and make a better splash.”

“I’ll bet you can’t lift me,” Retief challenged. The flyer revved its rotors, shifting its grip on its perch.

“Most groundlings plead for life when once I catch them on the rock spires. Now you invite my wrath.”

“Oh no, I’m just talking about flying me up there.” Retief pointed to the peaks towering above.

“Fly you . . . ?”

“Sure. I can’t walk up a vertical wall, and it wouldn’t be convenient to go down and look for another route.”

“Can you be serious, poor earthbound grub? Would you indeed trust life and limb to me?”

“Most Quoppina will keep their word to a harmless stranger. Why should you be any different?”

“A curious rationale,” the flyer said, “and yet, withal, a most refreshing one. I’d come to think of crawlers all as timid things, who cling and whimper out their fear when I come on them here among the lonely peaks. And now here’s one who speaks as boldly as a flyer born!”

“Just put me down anywhere in climbing range of Rhoon country,” Retief suggested.

“A strange anomaly is this: A wingless one who dares to come among the masters of the sky!” The flyer whirled its rotors, lifted, drifted, hovering, toward Retief. “I’ll put you to the test then, groundling! Perhaps you’ll weight me down, and then together we’ll go tumbling toward our death

-below. But if my rotors hold, I’ll bear you up, my life upon it!”

“Fair enough.” Retief sheathed his sword, squinting against the down-blast of air. He reached for the steel-hard grapples of the flyer, gripped, held on. Air screamed as the whirling blades raced, biting for purchase; then he was lifting, floating up, wind screaming past his face, the mountainside dwindling away below.

* * *

The flying creature rose swiftly for a hundred feet; then it slowed, gained another fifty feet, inched upward, its rotors laboring now. A gust of wind tilted it, and it dropped, then righted itself, struggled upward again, paralleling the smooth face of rock at a distance of thirty feet, Retief estimated. A small white flower growing from a crevice caught his eye; slowly it dropped below him as the flyer gained altitude foot by foot. Above, Retief could see a tiny ledge where the vertical face ended, and above it a long sweep, only slightly less steep, to a lone spire thrusting up another five hundred feet against the darkening sky.

“How say you, groundling?” the laboring flyer’s voice rang out, “will you trust me to press on, or shall I give it up and place you safe below?”

“Just a little way now,” Retief called. “You can do it, old timer.”

“I like the groundling’s spirit, wings or no!” the Quoppina shouted into the wind. “We’ll hazard all . . . and win or die . . . and none can say we quailed before the test!”

“You’d better save your wind for flying,” Retief called. “We’ll stage a self-congratulation session after we get there.”

The wind whipped, buffeting. The cliff face moved past with agonizing sloth. Retief’s hands were numb from the strain; the ledge was still twenty feet above, inching closer. The Quoppina’s breathing was loud, wheezing; the sound of the rotors had changed timbre. They seemed to flutter now, as though the blades were loose. Then another sound was audible-a sharp whirring, coming closer . . .

Retief twisted his head. A second flying Quoppina had come up from the port beam; it hovered, studying the situation with alert oculars.

“That one’s too big to eat, Gulinda!” it called. “I’ll wager he’s as tough as Wumblum wheel rim!”

“I’ll place him . . . safe above . . . or die . . .” Retief’s flyer got out.

“Ah-then it’s a wager! Well, I suggest you waste no time. A Rhoon has seen you now, and half a minute hence he’ll be here.”

Retief’s flyer grunted a reply, settled down to steady pulling. Ten feet more, five, three . . .

There was a deep thrumming, a beat of wind that bounced the flyer closer to the cliff face. Retief craned, saw the huge-bodied shape of a fast-descending Rhoon silhouetted against the vast, glittering disks of its spinning rotors. With a final, gear-screeching effort, the smaller flyer surged upward the final yard, banked -toward the ledge. “Farewell!” it screamed. Retief dropped, slammed stony ground, fetched up against the rising wall above as the Rhoon pounced, hissing, its fanged eating jaws wide. Retief rolled away as the Rhoon struck out with a barbed hind leg, missed and struck again, sent stone chips flying. A narrow crevice split the rock a yard distant; Retief dived for it, wedged himself in just as the disk of Joop cut off the blackish sunlight like a snapped switch. Long Rhoon talons raked against the rock, sending a shower of bright sparks glimmering against the sudden dark. Then, with a hoarse scream, the Rhoon lifted away; the beat of its rotors faded. Retief leaned back in his cramped refuge, let out his breath with a long sigh, alone now with the stars that twinkled in the false night of the eclipse and the moaning wind that searched among the rock crannies.

Retief rested while Joop edged across the bright corona of the distant sun; the glowing halo bulged, then burst into full light as the transit was completed. He scanned the sky; a pair of Rhoon circled far above, light flicking from their rotors. He squeezed out of his hideaway, looked over the edge of the two-foot shelf on which he stood. Far below, the ledge from which he had hitched the ride to his present position showed as a thin line against vertical rock-and far below that, the jungle stretched like a varicolored carpet across low hills to distant haze. He looked up; striated rock loomed, topped by a rock spire that thrust up like a knife blade a final hundred feet. Retief turned back to the cranny in which he had hidden. It narrowed sharply into darkness-but a steady flow of cold air funneled from it. He went to hands and knees, pushed through the first narrowing, found that the passage widened slightly. Above, the sky was a bright blue line between the rising walls of rock. He rose, crunching brittle debris underfoot, braced his back against one face of the chimney, started upward.

Halfway up, Retief found an outthrust shoulder of rock on which to rest. He ate half a food bar, took a swallow of water-the last in his canteen. Then he went on.

Once the cleft narrowed, then widened out into a near-cave, from which a cloud of tiny gray-black Quoppina no bigger than hummingbirds swarmed in alarm, battering at his face, uttering supersonic cries. Again, the black shadow of a Rhoon swept across the strip of sky above, momentarily blacking out the meager light. The armor chafed, cutting into his back; his hands were cut in a dozen places from the sharp-edged rock. The crevasse widened again ten feet from the top. Retief made the last few yards in a scramble up a deeply scored slope half-choked with weathered and faded fragments of Quoppina exoskeleton and sun-bleached organic gears looped by tangles of corroded internal wiring. The Rhoon, it appeared, were messy eaters.

Keeping in black shadow, Retief studied the open sky; a thousand feet above, two Rhoon wheeled lazily, unaware of the intruder in their domain. He stood, dusted himself off, looked around at an oval platform fifteen by twenty feet, backed at one side by a spear of rock that rose ten feet to a needle point, edged on the remainder of its periphery by a void that yawned across to a stupendous view of high, lonely peaks, only a few of which topped his present vantage point. Closer at hand, a heap of round boulders caught his eye: Butter-yellow spheres eighteen inches in diameter. He went to them, tapped the smooth surface of one; it gave off a hollow, metallic bong. There were six of them-Rhoon eggs, piled here to hatch in the sun.

Retief glanced toward the monster parents circling above, still apparently serenely ignorant of his presence.

The big eggs were heavy, unwieldy in their lopsidedness. He lifted down the topmost spheroid, rolled it across to the cliff’s edge, propped it, delicately poised, just above the brink. The next two eggs he ranged beside the first. Two more eggs formed a short second rank, with the final orb positioned atop the others. Retief dusted his hands, resumed the helmet and gauntlets he had laid aside earlier, then posted himself squarely before the gargantuan Easter display and settled down to wait. Eight

A cold wind whipped down from the deep blue sky. Retief watched the mighty Rhoon elders wheeling in the distance, tireless as the wind-a description which, he reflected, did not apply equally to himself. Half an hour passed. Retief watched the high white clouds that marched past like gunboats hurrying to distant battles. He shifted to a more comfortable position leaning against a convenient boulder, closed his eyes against the brightness of the sky . . .

A rhythmic, thudding whistle brought him suddenly wide awake. A hundred feet above, an immense Rhoon swelled visibly as it dropped to the attack, its giant rotors hammering a tornado of air down at him, swirling up dust in a choking cloud. The Rhoon’s four legs were extended, the three-foot-long slashing talons glinting like blue steel in the sunlight, the open biting jaws looking wide enough to swallow an ambassador at one gulp. Retief braced himself, both hands on the topmost of the pyramid of eggs as the flying behemoth darkened the sunAt the last possible instant the Rhoon veered off, shot past the peak like a runaway airliner, leaving a thin shriek trailing in the air behind it. Retief turned, saw it mount up into view again, its thirty-foot propellers flexing under the massive acceleration pressures. It swung in to hover scant yards away.

“Who comes to steal Gerthudion’s eggs?” the great creature screamed.

“I want a word with you,” Retief called. “The egg arrange-ment is just a conversation piece.”

“High have you crept to reach my nest, and slow was your progress,” the Rhoon steam-whistled. “I promise you a quicker return passage!” It edged closer, rocking in the gusty wind.

“Careful with that draft,” Retief cautioned. “I feel a sneeze coming on; I’d hate to accidentally nudge your future family over the edge.”

“Stand back, egg-napper! If even one of my darlings falls, I’ll impale you on a rock spike to dry in the sun!”

“I propose a truce; you restrain your violent impulses and I’ll see to it no accidents happen to your eggs.”

“You threaten me, impudent mite? You’d bribe me with my own precious Rhoonlets?”

“I sincerely hope so. If you’ll just perch somewhere, I’ll tell you what it’s all about.”

“Some reason must there be for such madness under the morning sun! To hear the why of it, I confess I’m curious!” The Rhoon mother swung across the platform, settled in at the far edge in a flurry of dust, clinging to the rock with four jointed legs like lengths of polished gray pipe. Her yard-long head reared up a full fifteen feet to stare down at Retief, the shadows of her rotors flicking across her horny features as the blades slowed to a leisurely wind-driven twirl.

“Mind you don’t twitch, now, and send what remains of your short future tumbling down into the abyss,” the huge flyer admonished in a voice that boomed like a pipe organ. “Now, tell me: Why chose you this peculiar means of dying?”

“Dying isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Retief corrected. “I’m looking for a party of Terrans-Stilters, somewhat like me, you know-and-”

“And you think to find them here?”

“Not exactly; but I have an idea you can help me find them.”

“I, Gerthudion, lend aid to the trivial enterprises of a planet-bound mite?

The thin air of the steps has addled your wits!”

“Still, I predict you’ll take an interest before long.”

The Rhoon edged closer, stretching its neck. “Your time grows short, daft groundling,” she rumbled. “Now tell me what prompts you to dare such insolence!”

“I don’t suppose you’ve been following recent political developments down below?” Retief hazarded.

“What cares Gerthudion for such?” the Rhoon boomed. “Wide are the skies and long the thoughts of the Rhoon-folk-”

“Uh-huh. I’m a long-thought fan myself,” Retief put in. “However, a brand of mite called the Voion have been cutting a lot of people’s thinking short lately-”

“How could any petty dirt-creeper cut short the thoughts of a free-born Rhoon?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute,” Retief promised. “Is it true that you Rhoon have keen eyesight . . . ?”

“Keen is our vision, and long our gaze-”

“And your wind’s not bad, either. Too bad you’re too big for a career in diplomacy; you could keep a round of peace talks going for a record run. Now, tell me, Gertie, have you noticed the smoke columns rising from the forest over there to the north?”

“That I have,” the Rhoon snapped. “And lucky for you my eggs you’re embracing, else I’d tumble you over the edge for your impertinence!”

“Those are tribal villages burning. The Voion are setting out to take over the planet. They have very specific ideas of what constitutes a desirable citizen: no Quoppina who isn’t a Voion seems to qualify-”

“Get to the point!”

“You Rhoon, not being Voion, are going to have to join the fight-”

“A curious fancy, that!” the Rhoon bassooned. “As though the lofty Rhoon-folk would stoop to such petty enterprise!”

“I wonder if that keen vision of yours has detected the presence of a number of Rhoon cruising around at treetop level over the jungle in the last few days?”

“Those did I note, and wondered at it,” the Rhoon conceded. “But a Rhoon flies where he will-”

“Does he?” Retief countered. “Those particular Rhoon are flying where the Voion will.”

“Nonsense! A Rhoon, servant to a creeping mite who’d not a goodly swallow make?”

“They have at least two squadrons of Rhoon in service now, and unless someone changes their plans for them, there’ll be more recruits in the very near future. You, for example-”

“Gerthudion, slave to a verminous crawler on the floor of the world?” The Rhoon spun its wide rotors with an ominous buzzing sound. “Not while I live!”

“Exactly,” Retief agreed.

“What mean you?” the Rhoon croaked. “What mad talk is this . . . ?”

“Those Rhoon the Voion are using are all dead,” Retief said flatly. “The Voion killed them and they’re riding around on their corpses.”

Gerthudion sat squatted on folded legs, her stilled rotors canted at non-aeronautical angles.

“This talk, it makes no sense,” she tubaed. “Dead Rhoon, their innards to replace with wires imported from a factory on another world? Power cells instead of stomachs? Usurping Voion strapped into saddles in place of honest Rhoonish brains?”

“That’s about it. You Quoppina all have organo-electronic interiors, and there’s enough metal in your makeup to simplify spot welding the necessary replacement components in position. A nuclear pack the size of a fat man’s lunch will supply enough power to run even those king-sized rotors of yours for a year. I didn’t have time to examine the dead Rhoon I saw in detail, but I’d guess they’ve even rigged the oculars to a cockpit display screen to take advantage of your natural vision. Riding their zombies, the Voion can probably fly higher and faster than you can-”

“They’d dare?” the Rhoon burst out, vibrating her posterior antennae in the universal Gesture of Propriety Outraged. “Our airy realm to usurp-our very members to employ? Aunt Vulugulei-for a week her dainty tonnage I’ve not seen; could it be . . . ?”

“Quite possibly she’s been fitted out with a windshield and rudder pedals,”

Retief nodded. “And some shined-up Voion’s probably sitting where her main reactor used to be, carving his initials on her side and revving her rotors-”

“Enough! No more!” The Rhoon waggled her oculars in a dizzying pattern. She rose, creaking, on legs quivering with emotion, started her rotors up.

“I’m off, my fellow Rhoon to consult,” she called over the rising tumult of air. “If what you say is true-and I’ve a horrid feeling it is-we’ll join in, these ghouls to destroy!”

“I had an idea you’d see it that way, Gertie. And don’t forget to ask if any of them have seen a party of Stilters in the jungle.”

“Inquire I will; meanwhile, my eggs from that precarious edge withdraw. If one should slip, your ragtag horde will lack a leader!” In a hailstorm of blown pebbles, the Rhoon leaped off, beating her way eastward toward a cluster of tall peaks.

Retief turned at a sound-a loud scrongg! like a sheet-metal roof being lifted off a shed by a high wind. The heap of eggs which he had stacked safely back where he had found them quivered. The ripping noise came again; a gleaming spike poked out through the polished curve of the center spheroid in the bottom row, ripped a foot-long tear. An ungainly shape thrust through the opening-a head like a chromalloy pickax equipped with a pair of alert eyes which fixed on Retief. The beak opened.

“Quopp!” the fledgling Rhoon squalled. “Quopppp!” It struggled frantically, snapping the impressive jaws, lined, Retief noted, with a row of triangular razors. A clawed leg appeared, gained the newcomer another six inches of freedom. As the broached egg rocked, those above trembled, then toppled with a crash like spilled milk cans. One, badly dented, bounced to a stop at Retief’s feet. A six-inch split opened to reveal a second baby face, complete with meat shredders. The first Rhoonlet gave a final kick, sprawled free of the shell, which skidded across the platform, driven by the wind, disappeared over the side. A third egg gave a jump; a bright needle point punctured its side.

The first of the newborn Rhoon was unsteadily on its feet now, trying out six short, unspecialized limbs, claw-tipped, the rear pair showing only knobby buds where later the rotating members would develop-a form not unlike the ten-million-year remote ancestor of all the Quopp tribes. The hatchling wobbled, steadied, then charged, jaws gaping. Retief sidestepped, noting that infant number two was now half clear of his prison, while number three was surveying the scene with interested eyes. Dull clunks and clangs attested to activity within the other three eggs. The eldest infant managed to halt its rush just short of the cliff edge, teetered for a moment staring down into the awesome depths over which it would soar later in life, backed away, hissing, then remembered lunch and rushed Retief again in time to collide with younger brother, freshly on the scene. While the two tangled, squalling, Retief hastily maneuvered half a dozen scattered rocks in place to form a rude barricade, stationed himself behind it. The argument ended as a third young appetite shot past the combatants, zeroing in on the free lunch. The trio hit the barrier with a metallic crash, rebounded, came on again-and now there were four. The beat of heavy rotors sounded above. Gerthudion, flanked by two immense males distinguished by gold and red cranial plumes, dropped in with a tornado of air that sent her young slithering and squawking across the rocky platform-and over the edge.

“Hey!” Retief called. “Your kids . . .”

The Rhoon settled in. “That’s all right; obnoxious creatures, those. It’s only the eggs I’m concerned about, their hatching to ensure. Anyway, they’ll be all right. It’s good experience. As for the call to war, we’re with you-”

A small head appeared over the edge; scrabbling claws pulled a hungry Rhoonlet up, the others close behind. Retief stepped to the giant parent, scaled the massive side and straddled the back just behind the head. “Let’s get moving,” he called over the pound of idling rotors. “I’m beginning to share your view of the younger generation.”

“As for your Terries,” Gerthudion honked, “Lundelia reports he’s seen such a group as you described near the village of the Herpp, a few miles west.”

“Then just drop me off there, if you don’t mind.”

The Rhoon leaped into the air, the backwash from her pounding rotors a howling typhoon.

“I’ll take you there,” she boomed over the uproar. “Then thereafter you’ll guide me to these ghoulish Voion, my vengeance to wreak.”

It was a swift flight from the chill altitudes of the rock spires down across rolling jungle to the bend of the river where the pinkish copperwood huts of the Herpp nestled in the shelter of the trees. Gerthudion settled in to a bouncy landing on a sand spit where there was clearance for her rotors, and Retief slid down, settled his sword belt into position for a quick draw, scanning the silent village with its neat wheelways, orderly flower beds, and colorful awnings.

“Nobody in sight, Gertie; I think the inhabitants beat a hasty retreat when they saw you coming.”

“Or mayhap they crouch behind their doorposts with drawn bows,” the flyer suggested.

“Yeah-mayhap. I guess there’s just one way to find out.” He walked across the sand, climbed a grassy bank, stood at the end of the village street beside a long table heaped with bright-colored fruits and fragments of husk-a task apparently hastily abandoned.

“I am Tief-tief,” he called. “And I dance the Dance of Friendly Intentions.”

There was a flicker of motion at a window. The polished tip of an arrow poked into view, followed by a pale blue head.

“I am Nop-Nee, and I dance the Dance of Fair Warning,” a squeaky-chalk voice piped.

“I’m looking for some friends of mine,” Retief called. “Don’t let Gerthudion bother you. She’s tame-”

The Rhoon snorted loudly behind Retief.

“ . . . and she won’t eliminate your village unless you carelessly initiate hostilities by letting fly with that arrow.”

The aimed weapon disappeared. The Herpp rose, emerged cautiously from the door, the arrow still nocked but aimed off-side now.

“What makes you think your friends are here?” he chirped.

“Oh, word gets around. There are ten of them-Stilters, you know. Where are they?”

“Never saw them,” the Herpp snapped. “Now you better get back on that monster of yours and dust back off where you came from, before we clobber the both of you.”

“Don’t do anything hasty, Nop-Nee,” Retief cautioned. “Gerthudion is a patient Rhoon, but you might annoy her with that kind of talk-”

“Bah, we’ve seen enough Rhoon in the last twelve hours to last us,” the Herpp snapped. “A round dozen of the devils flew over and dropped stones on us last night; told us to surrender, before they set the whole place on fire!”

“That’s unfortunate,” Retief agreed. “But those were outlaw Rhoon. Gerthudion’s on her way to hunt them down right now-”

“Then she’d better get started. We’ve got catapults and ballistae rigged, and by now they’re zeroed in and ready to fire. So . . .” he raised the bow.

“Scat!”

“I admire your spirit,” Retief said. “But first I want the ten Terrans.”

Nop-Nee drew the bowstring farther back. “Not on your life! I’m not turning harmless foreigners over to the likes of you and your oversized cronies!

They’re guests of Quopp, and they’ll receive hospitable treatment. I am Nop-Nee and I dance the Dance of Ferocious Defiance!”

“And I’m Retief and I dance the Dance of Mounting Impatience-”

“You can dance the Dance of Apoplexy for all I care,” Nop-Nee yelped. “Git!”

Retief cupped a hand beside his mouth.

“Girls, if you’re in there, come on out!” He called in Terran. “I’m here on behalf of the Terry Embassy at Ixix . . .”

The Herpp jumped back in alarm. “Here, I’m Nop-Nee and I dance the Dance of Confusion! That sounded like Terry talk . . .”

A door banged wide on the third hut in line, and a slim brunette Terry female in torn flying togs appeared. She shaded her eyes at Retief, while other girls crowded out behind her. Retief executed a sweeping bow.

“Ladies, I’m enchanted to find you,” he said. “I hope none of you were hurt in the crash.”

“Who are you?” the brunette asked. She had a snub nose and blue eyes and was not over nineteen. “I thought I heard a Terran voice . . .”

“That was me, I’m afraid. I’m known as Tief-tief. I’m here to help you.”

Nop-Nee was jittering restlessly, keeping the drawn bow aimed at Retief’s chest.

“You’re not from that nasty little Voion who locked us up in a corral?” the girl asked.

“By no means. He and I are confirmed antagonists, ever since I blew up his liquor vault.”

The girls were in a huddle now, whispering together. A small blonde with green eyes spoke urgently, with emphatic gestures.

“Well,” the brunette said. “I guess we may as well take a chance; Aphrodisia likes your voice.” She smiled and came forward. “I’m Rene. It’s very nice of you to trouble about us, Mr. Tief-tief.”

Nop-Nee lowered his bow. “I dance the Dance of -Utter Bafflement,” he complained. “What’s going on?”

“Girls, now that I’ve located you, I can make arrangements to fly you out. I’m afraid Ixix isn’t a healthy place for Terries right now, but there’s a trading post at Rum Jungle where you’ll be reasonably safe for the present.”

Retief looked over the little group, all young, all pretty, all showing signs of a difficult day and night in the jungle.

“Which one of you is Fifi?” he inquired.

The girls looked at each other. Rene bit her lip. “She’s not here, I’m afraid. We heard that a rebel army was organizing to fight the Voion, and she started out early this morning alone to try to reach them.”

“You ladies just sit tight until you hear from me,” Retief called down from his perch on Gerthudion’s back. “I’ll round up a few Rhoon and be back for you as soon as I can.”

“I am Nop-Nee and I dance the Dance of Apology,” the Herpp keened. “Who would have thought that a Stilter on Rhoonback would mean anything but trouble?”

“You did just the right thing, Nop-Nee,” Retief assured the agitated Herpp.

“Take good care of the girls until I get back, and we’ll all dance the Dance of Mutual Congratulation.”

“She wouldn’t let any of us go with her,” Aphrodisia wailed. “She said we’d slow her down . . .”

“Don’t worry. We should be able to spot her from the air.” Retief waved; Gerthudion lifted off with a great -battering of air, climbed to three hundred feet, headed south. It was high noon now; the sun glared down from a cloudless pale sky. Retief watched the trail below, saw a scurry of small Quoppina fleeing the shadow of the giant flyer passing overhead-but no sign of the missing girl.

It was a twenty-minute flight to the spot where the victorious troops of the Federated Tribes had been encamped eight hours earlier. Gerthudion settled in to a landing on the wheel-trampled ground, deserted now and littered with the debris of battle-and of hasty evacuation.

“Looks like our prisoners sneaked off when nobody was looking,” Retief observed. He studied the maze of trails leading off in all directions. “Which way did our lads go?” he inquired of a pair of Phips, hovering nearby.

“Here-here, there-there,” the nearest cheeped. “Run-run, quick-quick!”

“Don’t tell me,” Retief said. “Some of our more impulsive members started in on the chore of sawing the Voion up into convenient lengths, thereby panicking them into breaking out of the jam.”

“Check-check!” a Phip agreed. “All-all scat-scat!”

“And by now they’re scattered over a hundred square miles of jungle, with several thousand highly irritated Voion in pursuit. So much for the grass-roots movement-”

“Tief-tief!” a Phip buzzed in excitedly from a reconnoiter of the nearby cover. “Thing-thing, there-there!”

Retief drew his sword. “What kind of thing, small stuff? A Voion left over from the party?”

“Big-big, long-long, stilt-stilt!”

“A Stilter? Like me? Gertie, wait here!” Retief followed the Phip for a hundred yards, then paused, listening.

There was a crackling in the underbrush. A heavy--shouldered biped stalked into view-an unshaven Terran in a tattered coverall and scuffed boots, holding a heavy old-style power pistol gripped in one immense fist.

“Hold it right there, Bug,” Big Leon growled in tribal dialect. “I got a couple bones to pick with you.”

Retief smiled behind the mask, put a hand up to lift the disguising headpiece“Keep the flippers out from the sides,” Leon growled in dialect. “And drop the sticker. Maybe you never saw one of these before-” he gestured with the gun “-but it’ll blow a hole through you, tree and all.”

Retief tossed the sword aside. Leon nodded. “Smart Bug. Now, there’s just one thing I want out of you, wiggly-eyes: I hear there’s a native leader that’s popped up out here in the brush, organizing the yokels.” He motioned at the spare-parts littered ground. “It looks like there was a little action here, not too many hours back. I don’t know which side you were on, and I don’t care-just tell me where to find that Bug leader-fast.”

“Why?” Retief demanded.

Leon frowned at him. “For a Bug, you’ve got kind of a funny voice-but to hell with it. I want to ask him for help.”

“What kind of help?”

Leon drew a finger across his forehead like a wind-shield wiper, slung sweat from it. “Help in staying alive,” he said. “There’s forty-six of us Terries over at Rum Jungle. Ikk’s got us surrounded with about half a million troops and he swears he’s going to eat us for breakfast.”

“I see,” Retief nodded. “And you’d ask a Bug for help?”

“We’ll take any help we can get,” Leon stated flatly.

“What makes you think you can get it?”

Leon grunted. “You got a point there-but let’s can the chatter. Where’ll I find this Tief-tief character?”

Retief folded his arms. “That’s what they call me,” he said.

“Huh?” Leon’s mouth closed slowly. “Uh-huh,” he nodded. “It figures. The only Quopp on the planet I want to make pals with, and I stick a gun in his chest-plates.” He holstered the weapon. “Well, how about it?”

“I’d like to help you-” Retief said.

“Great. That’s settled, then. Call your army out of the bushes and let’s get rolling. Something tells me the Voion will hit us at dawn-”

“As I was saying,” Retief interrupted, “I’d like to help you Terries, but unfortunately I seem to have misplaced my army.”

Leon’s hand went to his gun. “What kind of a stall is this?” he grated.

“My hundred seasoned veterans wandered off while I wasn’t looking,” Retief explained.

“A hundred!” the big Terran burst out. “I heard you had half the Bugs on Quopp with you! I heard you were cutting Ikk’s troops into Christmas tree ornaments! I heard-”

“You heard wrong. The Federated Tribes were a spark glimmering in the night. Now they’re not even that.”

Big Leon let out a long breath. “So I had a little walk for nothing. OK. I should have known better. Now all I’ve got to do is get back through the Voion lines so I can help the boys pick off as many of those Jaspers as we can before they ride over us.” He half turned away, then faced Retief again.

“A hundred against an army, huh? Maybe you Bugs are all right-some of you.” He turned and was gone.

Retief motioned a hovering Phip over.

“No sign of any other Stilters in the neighborhood?”

“Not-not,” the Phip stated.

“How each one of you fellows knows what all the other ones know beats me,” Retief said. “But that’s a mystery I’ll have to investigate later. Keep looking for her; she can’t have gotten far through this growth in the dark with a Voion behind every third clump of brush.”

“Sure-sure, Tief-tief! Look-look!” the Phip squeaked and darted off. Retief pulled off his helmet, unbuckled the chest and back armor, laid it aside with a sigh of relief. He removed the leg coverings gingerly; there was a nasty blister above the ankle where the Voion jailer had plied his torch carelessly. Clad in the narrow-cut trousers and shirt he had retained when donning his disguise in Sopp’s shop, he stacked the armor together, tied it with a loop of wire vine, concealed it behind a bush, then made his way back to the place where he had left Gerthudion.

“All right, let’s go, Gertie,” he called, coming up her port quarter. The Rhoon started nervously, tilted a foot-long ocular over her dorsal plates, then gave a rumbling growl.

“It’s all right,” Retief soothed. “I’m wearing a disguise.”

“You look like a Terry,” Gerthudion accused.

“That’s right; it’s all part of an elaborate scheme I’m rapidly getting wrapped up in like King Tut.”

“Kink Tut? Who’s he? Sounds like a Voion. Now royal they’ll declare themselves-”

“Steady, girl. Just a literary allusion.”

“But now, Tief-tief, what of dear Aunt Vulugulei, I long to seek her out, or her destroyers to rend!”

“I’m afraid you Rhoon are on your own, Gertie. Those fighting tribes I told you about won’t be available to carry out their end of the war after all.”

“No matter; even now the tribal host circles far to the west in a wide sweep, our enemies to spy. Then retribution will me take in full measure-allies or no.”

“How long would it take them to get here?”

“Many hours, Tief-tief-if their search they’d abandon to heed a call.”

“Do you know where Rum Jungle is?”

“Certainly-if by that you mean that clustering of huts yonder to the south, whence emanate curious odors of alien cookery with a disfavorable wind-”

“That’s the place. I need a lift in there. And there’s another Stilter up ahead; he’s wearing the same kind of disguise I am. We can gather him in on the way.”

“As you wish, Tief-tief.”

“Gertie, now that the Federated Tribes are dispersed, I can’t hold you to our agreement. This is a dangerous trip I’m asking you to make. You might run into the whole Voion Air Force.”

“Why then, I’ll know where to find the ghouls!” Gerthudion honked. “Mount up, Retief! Fly where I will, that will I-and let the villains beware!”

“That’s the way to talk, Gertie.”

Retief climbed into position on the Rhoon’s back. “Now let’s go see if things at Rum Jungle are as bad as reported-or worse.”

Nine

“I don’t get it,” Big Leon said between clenched teeth from his position just behind Retief atop Gerthudion’s ribbed shoulder-plates. “How’d you get out here in the woods? How’d you spot me? And how in the name of the Big Worm did you tame this man-eater? In forty years in the jungle I never-”

“You never tried,” Retief finished for him.

“I guess I didn’t,” Leon sounded surprised. “Why would I?”

“We’re sitting on one reason. I’ll go into the other answers later, when things quiet down.”

Gerthudion’s rotors thumped rhythmically; wind whistled past Retief’s head. A thousand feet below, the jungle was a gray-green blanket, touched with yellow light here and there where the afternoon sun reached a tall treetop.

“Hey, Retief!” Leon called above the whine of the slipstream. “Has your friend here got a friend?”

Retief looked back, following Big Leon’s pointing arm. Half a mile behind, a Rhoon was rapidly overhauling the laden Gerthudion.

“Goblin at seven o’clock,” Retief called to her. “Anyone you know, Gertie?”

The Rhoon lifted her massive head, then swung her body sideways-a trick she performed with only a slight lagging of forward motion.

“That’s-but it couldn’t be! Not Aunt Vulugulei!” the great creature honked. At once, she banked, swept in a tight curve back toward the trailing Rhoon, now closing fast.

“Aunt Vulgy!” she trumpeted. “Where in Quopp have you been? I’ve been worrying myself into a premature molt-”

The other Rhoon, a scant five hundred yards distant now, banked up suddenly, shot away, rising fast, its rotors whick-whicking loudly. Gerthudion swerved, causing her riders to grab for better holds, gave chase.

“Auntie! It’s me, Gerthudion! Wait . . . !” The agitated flyer was beating her rotors frantically as she fell behind the unladen Rhoon, a quarter of a mile ahead now and two hundred feet higher. Sunlight glinted on spinning rotors as the strange Rhoon tilted, swung in a tight curve, swept down at top speed on its pursuer.

“Duck!” Retief called. “It’s a zombie!”

Yellow light winked from a point behind the pouncing Rhoon’s head. The buzz of a power gun cut through the tumult of rushing air. There was a harsh rattle of sound from behind Retief; blue light glared and danced at close hand as a pencil-thin beam lanced out, picked out the attacking Rhoon’s left rotor, held on it as Gerthudion wheeled to the left, dropped like a stone, rocking violently in the air blast as the enemy flyer shot past.

“I nicked him,” Leon growled. “The range is too long for a handgun to do much damage.”

“He’s got the same problem.” Retief leaned forward. “Gertie, I’m sorry about Aunt Vulugulei, but you see how it is. Try to get above him; he can’t fire through his rotors.”

“I’ll try, Tief-tief,” Gerthudion wailed. “To think that my own auntie-”

“It’s not your aunt anymore, Gertie; just a sneaky little Voion getting a free ride.”

Gerthudion’s rotors labored. “I can’t gain on her-or it,” she bawled. “Not with this burden . . .”

“Tell her not to try dumping us off,” Leon barked. “My gun is the only thing that’ll nail that Jasper! Just get me in position!”

The Voion-controlled Rhoon cadaver was far above now, still climbing. Gerthudion, her rotors thumping hard, was losing ground.

“He’ll drop on us again in a minute,” Retief said. “Gertie, as he gets within range, you’re going to have to go into a vertical bank to give Leon a clear shot . . .”

“Vertical? I’ll fall like a stone from a frost-shattered peak!”

“That’s the way it’s got to be, I’m afraid. Lead him down-and don’t flare out until we’re at treetop level. If we give him time to think, it will dawn on him all he has to do is stay right over us and pour in the fire!”

“I’ll try . . .” The Rhoon was in position now, above and slightly off-side to the right. It stooped then, moving in for an easy kill. Gerthudion held her course; abruptly the enemy gun fired, a wide-angle beam at extreme range that flicked across Retief’s exposed face like a breath from a blast furnace.

“Now,” Retief called. Instantly, Gerthudion whipped up on her left side, her rotors screaming in the sudden release of load, and in the same moment Leon, his left arm clamped around Retief, lanced out with his narrow-beam weapon. A spot of actinic light darted across the gray belly-plates of the zombie, then found and held steady on the left rotor. The fire from above was back on target now, playing over Gerthudion’s exposed side-plates with an odor like hot iron.

“Stay with that wide beam another ten seconds, and you’re a gone Bug,”

Leon grated out. The Rhoon above dipped to one side now, feeling the sting of the blaster, but Leon followed, held the rotor in the beam while air shrieked up past him like a tornado.

“Right myself now I must, or perish!” Gerthudion honked. “Which is it to be, Tief-tief?”

“Pull out!” Retief grabbed for handholds as the great body shifted under him, surging upward with a crushing pressure. The whirling vanes bit into air, hammering; Leon broke off his fire“Hey, look!” The attacking Rhoon had veered off at the last possible instant, gun still firing; now lazily it rolled over, went into a violent tumble. Pieces flew; then the zombie was gone against the darkness below.

“I think you burned through his wiring,” Retief called. “Gertie, stay low now; it’s only another couple of miles.”

“Low shall I stay, like it or no,” the Rhoon called. “I thought my main armature, its windings I would melt!”

Retief felt the heat of the overworked body scorching his legs. “If we meet another one in the air we’ve had it.”

“If far it is, we’re lost,” she wheezed. “I’m all but spent . . .”

“There it is!” Leon pointed to a tiny cluster of buildings against the sweep of jungle ahead, ringed by tilled fields.

Gerthudion flew on, dropping even lower, until she labored just above the high crowns of trees whose leaves glittered in her backwash like rippling water. The forest ended abruptly, and she was swooping across the fields that surrounded the trading town, packed solid now with Voion soldiery.

“Look at ’em,” Leon called. “Jammed in so tight they can’t even maneuver!

If those Bugs knew anything about siege tactics, they’d have wiped us out the first night!”

“Better try some evasive action,” Retief called. “They may have some big stuff down there.”

Gerthudion groaned, complied sluggishly.

“If they have, they’re holding it back,” Leon yelled behind him. “All they hit us with so far is a lot of talk, plenty of rocks and arrows, and a few handguns.”

Blasters winked below now, searching after the Rhoon as she threw her massive weight from one side to another, flying a twisting course toward the squatty palisade ahead and the cluster of low buildings behind it. Leon took careful aim, poured a long burst from his power gun into a Voion gun crew. There was a flicker, then a violent burst of pale yellow light that puffed outward in a dingy smoke cloud, faded quickly as fragments whistled past Gerthudion’s head and clattered against her rotors. Then the giant flyer staggered over the wall in a billow of dust, slammed the ground at the center of the wide central plaza of the town. Men appeared, running toward the Rhoon.

“Hold your fire!” Big Leon bellowed. “It’s me-and Retief! This Rhoon’s a tame one! The first bushwhacker lays a hand on her’s got me to answer to!”

The embattled Terrans were all around now, gaping as Retief and Leon slid down from their places.

“Jumping jinkberries, Leon-how’d you catch that -critter?”

“You sure it don’t bite?”

“ . . . thought you was one of them that been buzzing us all day-”

“Quiet, the lot of you!” Leon held up his hands. “The bug rebels are out of the picture. We’re on our own.” He motioned to Retief. “I picked up a recruit, name’s Retief.”

“Well, you’re just in time for the massacre, Mister,” someone greeted.

“Hey, Leon-what about this Rhoon of yours? Maybe it could airlift us out of here-”

“I’ll carry no burden . . . this day,” the Rhoon gasped out. Her rotors sagged as she squatted, her massive keel against the ground. “Grave damage . . . to my windings . . . I fear I’ve done . . . such burdens to bear up . . . the while I gamboled like a Phip . . .”

“You did OK, Gertie,” Leon said. “Just take it easy, girl.” He faced the crowd of some forty unshaven, unwashed frontiersmen. “What’s been going on while I was gone?”

“They hit us again just after First Eclipse,” a wide, swarthy man with a low-slung pistol belt said. “Same old business: Come at us in a straight frontal assault, whopping it up and shooting arrows; a couple Rhoon making passes, dropping leaflets and stones; our guns-we still got three working-kept ’em at a safe altitude. We kept our heads down and peppered

’em and they pulled back before they hit the stockade. They been quiet since noon-but they’re up to something. Been working since before dawn on something.”

Leon grunted. “After a while those Bugs are going to figure out all they have to do is hit us from four sides at once, get a couple magnesium fires going against the walls, and we’ve had it.”

“Their tactics are likely to improve suddenly,” Retief said. “There’s a Groaci military adviser in the area. I imagine he’ll take the troops in hand before many hours pass. In the meantime, we’d better start making some plans-”

“Some wills, you mean,” someone corrected. “They’ll flatten us like a tidal wave once they get rolling.”

“Still, we don’t want to make it too easy for them. Leon, what have you got in the way of armaments, other than those three guns I heard mentioned?”

“My iron makes four; it’s got about half a charge left. There’s a couple dozen heavy-duty hunting bows; some of the boys are pretty good with

’em-and I had Jerry trying to tinker up a rig to drop a few thousand volts to the perimeter wall-”

“I have it going, Leon,” Jerry called. “Don’t know how long it will last if they throw a big load on the line.”

“We finished up the ditching while you was gone, Leon,” a man called. “If they get past the stockade, they’ll hit a six-foot trench; that ought to slow

’em down some.”

“This is all just peanuts,” Leon said. “Sure, we’ll take a few hundred with us-but that won’t stop us from going.”

“It will be dusk in another few hours,” Retief said. “I think we can count on a go-for-broke attack before then, with General Hish calling the plays. Let’s see if we can’t arrange a suitable reception.”

From a top-floor room in a tower that formed one corner of the compound at Rum Jungle Retief studied the ranks of the Voion that moved restlessly all across the half-mile of cleared ground surrounding the fortress.

“Uh-huh, our Groaci military expert is on the scene,” he said. “That formation’s not exactly a parade-ground effect, but it’s a long way from the mob we flew over on the way in.”

“It’s not that that gives me the willies,” a thick-set man with a short blond beard said. “It’s them damned Rhoon circling up there.” He motioned toward floating dots far overhead that indicated the presence of a pair of the huge flyers.

“If they knew Gertie’s crowd were out looking for them, they’d be a little less carefree up there,” Retief commented. “But I’m afraid our aerial allies are combing the wrong stretch of sky.”

A man hurried in, breathing hard. “OK, Big Leon,” he said. “I guess that does it: We rigged the ropes and the tank-traps, and all the boys are posted up as high as they could get. Les’s got a good head o’ steam up on both boilers, and-”

“All right, Shorty,” Leon said. “Just tell everybody to look sharp and don’t make a move before the signal goes up.”

“Get ready,” Retief said. “I think something’s starting down there now.”

Barely visible in the dim light, the Voion were crowding back, opening narrow lanes through their ranks; bulky shapes were trundling forward along the paths thus formed.

“Oh-oh, looks like they got some kind of heavy equipment,” Shorty said.

“Nope-not equipment; friends,” Leon stated. “Those are Jackoo. I guess that cuts it. Those boys can steamroller right through the walls.”

“Correction,” Retief said. “Six, two, and even those are zombies-like the Rhoon.”

“What do you mean?” Leon and the other stared at Retief. He gave them a brief explanation of the Voion technique of installing an energy cell and a pilot in a dead Quoppina.

“The drive mechanism and circuitry are all there,” he concluded. “All they have to do is supply the power and the guidance.”

“That’s far from simple,” Jerry said. “Ye gods, the technical knowledge that implies . . . ! Maybe we’ve been under-estimating these Voion!”

“I think the Groaci have a digit in the pie,” Retief said.

“Groaci, huh,” Jerry nodded, looking worried. “It fits; they’re skillful surgeons as well as exporters of sophisticated electronic and mechanical devices-”

“How can they butt in here?” Shorty demanded. “I thought that kind of stuff was frowned on by the CDT.”

“You have to get within frowning range first,” Retief pointed out. “They’ve done a good job of keeping under cover.”

“Looks like they’re getting set to hit the wall, all right,” Leon said. “I count eight of ’em. The game’ll be over quicker’n I figured.”

Retief studied the maneuvers below, dim in the pre-dawn light. “Maybe not,” he said. “See if you can get me seven volunteers, and we’ll try to stretch it into extra innings.”

Retief waited, flattened against the wall of a one-story structure the back of which was no more than ten feet from the timber wall surrounding the compound.

“Get ready,” Shorty called from the roof above. “They’re rolling now; boy, look at ’em come! Brace yourself-he’s gonna hit right-”

There was a thunderous smash; a section of wall six feet wide bowed, burst inward; amid a hail of splinters, the dull magenta form of a two-ton Jackoo appeared, wobbling from the terrific force of the impact, but still coming on, veering past the corner of the structure half in its path, gathering speed again now as it plunged past Retief at a distance of six feetHe swung out behind the bulky shape, took three running steps, jumped, pulled himself up on the wide back-even broader than Fufu’s ponderous dimensions, he noted in passing. Directly before him, in a hollow chopped out behind the massive skull-the brain location in all Quop-pina species-the narrow back of a Voion crouched, a heavy helmet of gray armor plate protecting the head. Retief braced himself, reached forward, hauled the driver bodily from his cockpit, propelled him over the prow; there was a heavy ker-blump! as the broad wheels slammed over the unfortunate Quoppina. Clinging to the now unguided zombie, Retief reached into the cockpit, flipped up a large lever dabbed with luminescent orange paint. The groan of the drive ceased instantly; the juggernaut slowed, rolled to a stop a foot from the six-foot moat dug by the defenders. There was a confused shrilling behind; Retief turned, saw the leaders of a column of Voion pressing through the broached wall.

“Now!” someone shouted from a rooftop. At once, a brilliant cascade of electric blue sparks leaped across the packed mass of invaders struggling on high wheels across the shattered timbers; the two foremost members squalled, shot forward; those behind also squalled, but impeded by the uneven ground and the efforts of their fellows, failed to dart clear. The high voltage continued to flow-here leaping a gap to the accompaniment of miniature lightnings, there bringing adjacent patches of Voion to red heat

-before welding them together. More Voion, coming up fast from the rear, joined the press, found themselves instantly joined in the wild dance of arcing current and randomly stimulated nerves and gear trains. Retief returned to the task at hand, flipped the “back” switch, hastily maneuvered the captured ram to face in the direction from which it had come. The two Voion who had leaped clear of the confusion dashed toward him, seeking refuge. Retief grabbed up the issue club dropped by the former operator in his hasty exit in time to slam the gun from the grip of one of them, knock the other spinning with a backhanded swipe to the head. Then he pushed the “go” lever into the forward position, threw the speed control full over, and vaulted over the side.

“Cut the power,” Shorty yelled from above. At once, the showering sparks from the electrified attack column died, leaving only the dull red glow of hot spots; then the -riderless zombie was into the welded mess, slamming through the obstruction to disappear into the mob beyond.

“Get them cables back in place!” a voice yelled. Men darted out, hauled at the one-inch steel lines, stretching them across the gap three feet from ground level. Retief looked around. Across the compound, other dark gaps showed in the wall. Here and there lay the slumped form of a Voion, and one Jackoo bulked, immobile.

“Six of ’em busted through,” Big Leon’s voice said, coming up beside Retief, breathing hard. “One got stuck in his own hole; another one was damaged-couldn’t get him going again. The boys sent the others back to spread joy according to plan.”

“Any casualties?”

“Les got a busted arm; he was kind of slow knocking over a Bug that got through. Your scheme worked out neat, Retief.”

“It slowed them a little. Let’s see how Gertie’s doing.”

They walked across to where the big flyer still rested, her four legs sprawled, her eyes dull.

“Gertie, they’ll make it through on the next try,” Retief said. “How are you feeling?”

“Bad,” the Rhoon groaned. “My circuitry I’ve overloaded. A month’s nest-rest I’ll require to be myself again.”

“You’re going to have to lift off in a few minutes or you’ll wind up being somebody else,” Big Leon said. “Think you can do it?”

Gerthudion lifted an eye, gazed distastefully across at the signs of the recent fray. “If I must, I must. But I’ll wait until the last, my powers to recover.”

“Gertie, I have an important mission for you,” Retief said. He outlined the plan while Gerthudion breathed sonorously, like a pipe organ being tuned.

“ . . . that’s about it,” he concluded. “Can you do it?”

“ ’Tis no mean errand you dispatch me on, Retief; still, I’ll aloft, these dastards to forestall. Then I’ll return, your further needs to serve.”

“Thanks, Gertie. I’m sorry I got you into this.”

“I came willingly,” she honked with a show of spirit. “Sorry am I my fellow Rhoon so far afield have flown, else a goodly number of the rascals we’d have disassembled for you.” She started her rotors with a groan, lifted off, a vast dark shadow flitting upward in the gloom, tilting away toward the dark wall of the jungle.

Ten

“Hey,” Shorty shouted from his rooftop. “There’s a bunch shaping up to hit the gap over here-and looks like the same down the line at Jerry’s spot . .

.”

Other calls rang out from the spotters posted on the roofs.

“Trying to catch us off-balance,” Big Leon said. “OK,” he yelled up to Shorty. “You know the plan; don’t let yourselves get cut off!” He turned to Retief as they started for the buildings at a run. “That Groaci general’s spending Bugs like half-credit chips in an all-night Zoop Palace.”

“He’s getting them free,” Retief said. “So far they haven’t bought him much.”

“Here they come . . .” Shorty’s voice was drowned in a shrill battle cry as the lead elements of the new wave of Voion shot through the breaks in the stockade, coming fast along the paths trodden out by the Jackoo. The first in line-a big fellow with gaudy tribal inlays-saw Retief and Leon, veered toward them raising a barb-headed spear, struck the stretched cable and slammed to a stop, bent almost double-and was instantly engulfed by others charging in to collide from behind with a sound like empty garbage cans falling off a truck.

“Sock it to ’em!” Les yelled from his vantage point in the corner tower. Again a display of fireworks sprang up as ten thousand volts surged through the strung cable.

“The generators can’t take that load for long,” Big Leon yelled above the uproar of crackling current, screeching Voion, and enthusiastic human yells. There was a brief tremor underfoot, a vivid glare from the direction of the power plant. Retief and Leon threw themselves flat as a dull boom rumbled across the -com-pound accented by the whine of shrapnel passing overhead. The glow at the fence line died.

“Shorty!” Leon called.

“He’s down,” a voice rang from the next post in line. Leon swore, jumped to his feet. “Fall back on the post office,” he yelled.

“Pass the word!” He turned, ran for the building where Shorty had been posted. The Voion crowded in the gap in the wall were shrilling, fighting to free -themselves-those who had survived the overload. A large specimen broke free, shot forward to cut Leon off. Retief reached him in time to lay a solid blow across the side of his head, then spiked his wheels with his own club. Ahead, Leon jumped, caught the eaves, pulled himself up. A second Voion disentangled himself, came thumping forward on a warped wheel, gun in handThere was the crackle of a power gun from the upper window of the adjacent corner tower. The Voion’s head disappeared in a spatter of vaporized metallo-chitin as the dead chassis slammed on to crash against the wall. Leon reappeared, lowering the inert form of Shorty. Retief caught the wounded man, draped him over a shoulder as Leon dropped down beside him.

“Let’s spring,” the big man said. “They’ll cut us off . . . !”

Half a dozen Voion wheeled around the corner of the next structure in line, charged the two Terrans. Retief pivoted aside from a blaster shot, clubbed the next Voion in line as shots burped from the tower. At his side, Leon ducked under a swinging club, caught a Voion by the wheel, flipped him. Then they were through, sprinting for the plank laid across the six foot ditch. Leon spun, flipped the board into the trench. Shots scored the doorframe as they dived through it.

“Close,” Leon panted. “How’s Shorty?”

“Breathing.” Retief took the stairs three at a time, whirled into the room previously selected as a last-ditch stronghold, lowered the small man to the floor, then jumped to the window. Below, Voion were pouring into the

-compound-and stopping short at the moat barring their path, in which some dozens of their more impetuous comrades were already trapped, floundering on broken wheels and waving frantic arms. More Voion pressed from behind, crowding those in front. The rank lining the ditch was fighting now to pull back from the brink of disaster but as Retief watched, one, then three more, then half a dozen together went over, dropped with a smash as those behind pressed forward to share in the loot.

“That’s one way to bridge it,” a man said beside Retief. More men were coming into the room behind him. Across the compound, Retief saw two men drop from a roof, start across, change course as Voion blaster shots crackled near them. A power gun buzzed beside Retief, laying down a covering fire.

“Everybody’s here but Sam and Square-deal Mac,” somebody yelled.

“They’re OK-so far,” the man beside Retief called. He fired again, nailed a Voion who had struggled across the Voion-filled moat. One of the two men stumbled, spun, fell on his back. The other bent, slung him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, came on, disappeared into the door below.

“All in,” somebody called. “Button her up!”

There was a sound of heavy timbers falling as a previously prepared barricade dropped into position blocking the door below.

“Henry’s had it,” somebody said. “Steel splinter in the skull . . .”

“How many we lose?” Leon demanded.

“Henry’s dead. Shorty don’t look good. Three more with medium bad blaster burns and a couple bruised up.”

“Pretty good,” somebody called. “We must of put a couple hundred of them devils out of commission just on that last go-round!”

“Their turn comes next,” Les said from the window. “They’re across the ditch now . . .”

The compound was rapidly filling with Voion, pouring through the shattered wall and across the choked ditch. The late afternoon light was failing rapidly now.

“They’ll fire the building next,” Retief said. “Leon, let’s get the best shooters at the windows and try to discourage them from getting in close.”

Leon snapped orders. Men moved to firing positions, readying bows and power guns.

“We’re down to three guns,” Leon said, “and not enough arrows to make a fellow start any long books.”

“We’ll make ’em count,” someone said. A bowstring twanged, then another. A blaster buzzed. Below, a group of Voion who had reached the embattled post office withdrew hastily, leaving three former comrades lying on their sides, wheels spinning lazily. The enemy horde filled the compound now, formed up in a dense-packed ring around the Terran-occupied tower.

“The boys in the front rank are a little reluctant to grab the glory,” Retief commented.

“But the boys behind won’t let ’em stop,” Big Leon growled. “It’s like fighting high tide.”

The circle closed; arrows sped, slammed through armor with solid clunks! or glanced off a helmet or shoulder-plate to fly high in the air.

“Save the guns for the ones out front,” Leon called. “Watch for fire-makers.”

Beside Retief, a man made a choked sound, fell backward, an arrow quivering high in his chest. Retief caught up his bow, nocked a bolt, took aim, picked off a Voion wheeling in fast firing a blaster. The gunner veered, crashed over on his side.

“This is fun,” somebody called. “But it won’t buy us much. Look at them babies come!”

“Hey, they shot some kind of fire-arrow over here,” a man yelled from across the wide room. “It’s stuck in the wall, burning like a fused tube-lining!”

There were bright flares among the Voion ranks now, then streaks that arced up across the glowing sky, trailing white-hot embers. Most fell short, one or two among the front ranks of the attackers, but there were two solid thuds against the roof overhead. Acrid, chemical-smelling smoke was coiling in the windows from the first hit.

“How about it, men: Do we stay in here and roast, or go out and take a few of ’em with us?” Leon called.

“Let’s go get those Jaspers,” someone called. There was a shout of agreement. Men were coughing now; there were more thumps against walls and roof. A flaming arrow shot through a glassless window, elicited yells as it slammed the wall opposite, scattering burning globlets of magnesium. A man plucked it out, set it against his bowstring, let fly; there were yells as it sank home against the chest of a big Voion almost directly below. Someone had the door open now; smoke and sparks billowed in. Big Leon cupped his hands to his mouth to shout above the roar of fire and battle:

“You boys at the windows stick till the rest of us are out; keep pouring it to

’em!” He turned, plunged out through smoke.

Retief waited with his bow drawn, the feathers just under his chin. Big Leon appeared below, behind the tumbled logs of the barricade; a Voion charged to meet him, intercepted Retief’s arrow instead. Below Retief’s window the Voion were pressing close again, driven by the inexorable pressure of those behind. There were three fires burning briskly along Retief’s side of the wall now. He loosed an arrow, saw more Voion crowd in; one, hustled by his fellows, fought helplessly, fell into a flame-spouting puddle of melted wood, flared up in a bright green glaze, only to be smothered by others crushing in against him. From behind the barricade, Leon and the other Terrans fired steadily, building up a heap of casualties. Leon vaulted the barrier, climbed up on the stacked Voion, firing down into the press. Retief picked off a Voion with a gun, set another arrow, loosed it, another . . .

“That’s it,” a man called. “Out of ammo; I’m going down and see if I can’t get me a couple barehanded.” He disappeared into the smoke, coughing. At the barricade, Leon was still firing, an arrow entangled in the sleeve of his leather jacket. Retief saw him throw the gun aside, jump down into the small clear space before the tangle of downed Voion, laying about him with a Voion club.

“I guess it’s all over,” the last of Retief’s fellow archers declared. “No more arrows. Reckon I’ll go down and meet ’em in the open. Don’t much like the idea of frying up here-”

“Hold it,” Retief said. “Look there . . .”

Beyond the palisade, a disturbance had broken out on the Voion left flank. A horde of varicolored Quoppina had appeared from the jungle on that quarter, and were rapidly cutting their way through toward the palisade, led by a wedge of Jackoo, one of which, larger than its fellows, a varicolored Quoppina bestrode. Close behind, a fast-moving column of blue-green fighters followed, their -fighting claws snapping left and right; behind them, a detach--ment of yellow-orange warriors swinging bright-edged scythes mowed a path through the Voion ranks. Small purple shadows appeared among the trees, casting ropes which plucked targets from the fleeing Voion rabble to dangle, arms wind-----milling, above their -fellows.

“Hey! That must be that rebel army,” the bowman yelled. “Look at ’em come!”

Down below, the clear space before Big Leon was wider now; all across the compound breaks in the Voion ranks were opening. At the walls, Voion backs were visible as the confused attackers crowded out through the ragged gaps broached by the Jackoo zombies to confront the new threat, before which their fellows were streaming away in disorder. The Jackoo vanguard dozed onward, cutting a swathe toward the embattled stockade; the varicolored Quoppina rider whirled a flashing blade above a bright red Voion-like head. A small organized group of Voion barred their path, led by a small officer with wobbly wheels; they stood their ground for half a minute, then broke and fled. Below, Leon’s men were across the barricade now, firing at retreating backs, jumping huddled dead and wounded to get clear shots at the confused enemy.

“It’s a blooming miracle!” a man shouted.

“That must be them guerilla fighters we heard about!” someone called.

“Yippee!”

Retief left the window, went down through the churning smoke, emerged in the front entry hall where two Terrans lay on their backs behind the barricade of logs. He climbed the latter, clambered across fallen Voion, jumped down to stand beside Leon, bleeding from a cut across the cheek.

“I guess that Bug leader just didn’t like my looks,” the big man said. “Look yonder . . .”

The bright-colored Quoppina who had led the charge jumped down from the Jackoo, stepped through the nearest gap in the wall-a tall creature with posterior arms well developed for walking, shorter upper members,

-rudimentary rotors above each shoulder, a bright red-orange face

-resembling a Voion with the exception of color.

“Yep,” Leon said. “That’s Tief-tief, all right. Come on; I guess we owe that Bug some thanks . . .”

Retief studied the varicolored Stilter as it strode across the battle-littered ground, sword in hand, casually skirting the smoking bodies of electrocuted Voion, detouring around victims shot, incinerated, or crushed in the disorderly scene just concluded.

“That was good timing,” Big Leon called in the Voion tribal dialect. “Glad you changed your mind.”

The Stilter came up, halted facing Retief and Leon, sheathed the sword.

“My grasp of the Voion tongue is rather limited,” the Quoppina said in clear, accentless Terran, looking around at the shambles. “It seems you gentlemen have been busy.”

Leon grunted. “We’ll be busy again if those Bugs decide to turn around and come back. How many troops you say you’ve got?”

“I haven’t counted lately,” the Stilter said coolly. “However, they’re rallying to the colors in satisfying numbers.” One armored manipulative member waved. “Are you in command of this deathtrap?”

Leon frowned. “Me and Retief been making most of the decisions,” he said flatly. “I’m no general, if that’s what you mean.”

“Retief?” the Stilter’s oculars swiveled. “Which one is he?”

Leon jerked a thumb at him. “You called this place a deathtrap,” he started.

“What-”

“Later,” the biped said quickly, looking at Retief. “I thought-I understood he was a diplomat . . .”

“There are times when the wiliest diplomacy seems inadequate,” Retief said. “This appeared to be one of them.”

“I’d like to speak to you-in private,” the Stilter said, sounding breathless.

“Hey, Retief, better watch this character-”

“It’s all right, Leon,” Retief said. He indicated an -uncrowded spot a few feet distant. The Stilter stepped to it, then went on, paused inside the doorway to a building the roof of which was burning briskly, turned and faced Retief. The two upper arms went to the scarlet head, rumbled for a momentThe mask lifted off, to reveal an oval face with wide blue eyes, a cascade of strawberry blond hair, a brilliant smile.

“Don’t . . . don’t you know me?” the girl almost wailed as Retief studied her approvingly. “I’m Fifi!”

Retief shook his head slowly. “Sorry-and I do mean sorry-”

“It’s been quite a few years,” the girl said appealingly, “but I thought . . .”

“You couldn’t be over twenty-one,” Retief said. “It would take more than twenty-one years to forget that face.”

The girl tossed her head, her eyes sparkling. “Perhaps you’ll recall the name Fianna Glorian . . . ?”

Retief’s eyes widened. “You mean little Fifi . . . ?”

The girl clapped her gauntleted hands together, eliciting a loud clang.

“Cousin Jame-I thought I’d never find you . . . !”

Eleven

“I don’t get it,” Big Leon declared. “I turn my back for five minutes to see how the wounded are making out, and this Tief-tief character disappears back into the brush-and this little lady pops out of no place!”

“Not exactly no place, Mr. Caracki,” Fifi corrected gently. “I was with the army.”

“Yeah-and how you got there beats me; I’ve lived out here forty years and it’s the first time-”

“I told you about the yacht crashing-”

“Sure-and then you bust out of a Voion jail and a couple Phips take you in hand-”

“The little green ones? They’re cute!” Fifi said. “They led us to the Herpp village and told us about the rebel army-”

“Hey, Leon,” a bearded Terran came up, gave Fifi an admiring look. “Looks like they’re getting set for one more push before full dark-and this time they’ll make it.”

Leon growled. “The reinforcements are nice,” he said. “But not enough. Them Bugs will be all over us like army ants in a few minutes. Sorry you had to get into this, young lady. I wish there was some way to smuggle you out of here-”

“Don’t fret, Mr. Carnacki,” Fifi said coolly. “I have a weapon.” She held up an efficient-looking short-sword. “I wouldn’t dream of missing the action.”

“Hmmm . . . That looks like the one that Bug Tief-tief was carrying . . .”

“He gave it to me.”

Leon grunted, turned away to bark an order. Retief leaned close to Fifi.

“You still haven’t told me how you managed to take over my army.”

“After I got the other girls settled in the native village, the little Phip led me to your scare-suit,” Fifi whispered. “Of course, I didn’t know whose it was, but I thought it would be a good disguise. As soon as I got it on, the Phips flew off buzzing like mad. The next thing I knew, there were Quoppina arriving from every direction. They seemed to accept me as their general, and I just went along . . .”

“You seemed to be playing the role to the hilt when I first caught sight of you, Fifi.”

“I’ve listened to enough war stories to know a little tactics-which is more than can be said for the Voion.”

A sharp hubbub broke out nearby; Retief stepped out to see Jik-jik, Tupper, several other Zilk and Ween, a pair of heavy Jackoo, half a dozen Herpp and a cluster of blue and white Clute and high-wheeled Blang, striking in lemon accented with orange polka dots.

“Where our war chief?” Jik-jik shrilled. “I wants to see Tief-tief, and I means now!”

“Steady, troops,” Retief soothed. “Here I am.”

“What you mean, here I is?” Jik-jik yelped. “I looking for a fighting Quopp name of Tief-tief, not some foreign-type Terry!”

“Shhh. I’m in disguise. Don’t give me away.”

“Oh.” Jik-jik looked Retief over carefully. “Pretty good,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “Almost fooled me.”

“Is it you, Tief?” Tupper hooted. “I feared ye were dead, the way ye dropped out of sight.”

“Just a tricky bit of undercover work,” Retief assured the group.

“Things is got worse since we seen you last,” Jik-jik said. “Voion using new stuff on us!”

“Them Voion throwing thunderbolts now, for sure!” a Ween said. “Come nigh to melting my tail wheel down!” He displayed the two-inch coaster depending from the tip of his anterior segment.

“Hoo! It melted half away!” Jik-jik looked at Retief. “What this mean, War Chief?”

“It means the Federated Tribes are in trouble,” he said. “The Voion are using guns.”

“Where’d they get those whatchacallums, guns?” a Clute inquired. “I ain’t never hear of nothing like that before. Melt a fellow down before he gets in harpoon range.”

“I’m afraid there’s been some meddling in Quopp’s internal affairs,” Retief said. “After we’ve cured the Voion of their interest in governing the planet, we’ll have to reverse that trend.” He looked over the delegation.

“I see you’ve picked up a few recruits. How did you manage it?”

“Well, Tief-tief,” Jik-jik announced. “I got to thinking about my uncle Lub-lub and some of them other Ween in the next village, so I bribed a Phip to scatter over there and invite ’em to join the party. Seem like word got around, because volunteers done been coming in all day. Them Voion sure is got a heap of folks riled at ’em.”

“Nice work, Jik-jik-you, too, Tupper.”

“What about me?” Fufu demanded. “While I was out on patrol, I caught a nosy Voion creeping up on us and flattened him single-wheeled!”

“Way I heard it, you was sneaking off the back way and run into the whole Voion army,” Fut-fut commented. “It scare you so bad you come rolling back fast!”

“The idea! I’d just slipped away for a little solitary contemplation-”

“We’ll compose a suitable military history of the -operation later,” Retief interposed. “We’ll put in all the things we wish we’d done, and leave out the embarrassing mistakes. For now, we’ll stick to practical politics.”

“Ain’t nothing practical about the fix us in,” Jik-jik stated. “Us done cut our way right into a trap. They is got us outnumbered a six of sixes to one or I is a Voob’s nephew.”

“I resent that, you!” a small red-orange Quoppina said cockily, snapping a couple of medium-sized claws at the Ween. “We Voob-”

“Even you Voob can see they packed together out there like grubs in a brood-rack-”

“Watch y’r language, ye Wormless cannibal-” a Zilk grated.

“No bickering,” Retief broke in. “Tonight we’re all Quoppina together, or tomorrow we’ll be spare parts!”

It was full dark now. A pale glow in the south announced the imminent appearance of Joop. A Phip, its tiny pale green running lights glowing, dropped in, rotors whining, to settle on Retief’s outstretched arm.

“Ween-ween set-set,” it reported in a penny-whistle chirp. “Zilk-zilk chop-chop, Flink-flink swing-swing!”

“All right, we’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” Retief said softly to Jik-jik, standing by with the other members of the general staff, one from each of the tribes now represented in the Federation, plus Leon, Fifi, and Seymour. Retief swung up onto Fufu’s back. “Leon, wait until our diversion has penetrated as far as the edge of the jungle; then hit them with all the firepower we’ve got. With a little luck, they might panic and pull out.”

“And if a Dink had rotors, he wouldn’t spin his wheels so much,” a Blang muttered.

“All right, you Quoppina in the commando party; don’t do anything brave and don’t get captured,” Retief directed. “Just stick to the plan and try to cause as much confusion as possible.”

“Let’s go,” a Flink mounted astride a Jackoo whined. “Already nervous prostitution I got.”

“All right-roll out!” Fufu huffed and started forward, rolling over a mat of flattened Voion, bursting out through the broached fence, sending Voion flying. Ahead, the suddenly aroused enemy were closing in, clubs waving and here and there the wink of a power gun, firing with wild inaccuracy. Retief crouched over Fufu’s neck, his sword held extended low on the right side. A Voion darted into his path, raised a gun-and slammed back as the point took him under the chest-plates. Another leveled a spear, jumped aside in the nick of time as Fufu thundered past, the others of the assault column close behind.

“Those city wheels,” Fufu snorted. “No good at all for this sort of thing!” A Voion dashing to firing position among the trees ahead threw up his arms, arced gracefully into the air, paused, started a return swing, suspended by the neck from a length of purple rope. Another veered suddenly as a filmy net dropped to engulf him, went head over wheels in a cloud of dead leaves, tripping a pair of comrades.

“Those Flink are a caution,” Fufu panted. “Shall I head back out now?”

“Affirmative-and look out for that big fellow with the harpoon-”

Fufu honked, swerved as a long barb-headed spear shot past his head, clattered off his side.

“Tief-tief, are you all right?” he shouted.

“Sure; nice dodging!” The Jackoo curving back now, racing through the trees for the shelter of the stockade. Behind him, Voion non-coms shrilled commands; a steady fire slashed after the retreating heavyweights. Fufu shied as a beam flicked across his flank, shifted into high gear.

“Yiiiii!” he bucked wildly. “That stings!”

Retief looked back; a pack of Voion were in close pursuit; light winked as they fired at the run, keeping to the six foot trail flattened by Fufu’s hasty passage. More Voion packed the way ahead. Fufu plowed into the press, dozing the hapless Planetary forces aside like Indian clubs-but more popped up to fill their places.

“I’m getting . . . winded,” the heavy mount called back over his shoulder.

“There are so many of them . . .”

“Break it off, Fufu,” Retief came back. “Looks like we can’t make the stockade; we’ll take to the woods and harass their flanks . . .”

“I’ll try-but . . . I’m almost . . . pooped . . .”

“As soon as you hit the edge of the jungle, we’ll form up a defensive ring,”

Retief called. He countered a swinging club in the grip of a Voion, ducked under a spear thrust, leaned aside from the flare of a power gun. Behind him, the other Jackoo of the detachment were in similar straits, hemmed in from all sides by a crushing press of Voion, those behind forcing the front rank unwillingly under the flattening treads of the heavy creatures.

“We’ll form a circle,” he shouted back to them. “Close spacing, and heads facing out; you Flink dismount and beat them off as long as you can!”

At the edge of the jungle now, Fufu wheezed to a halt; Bubu came alongside, wheeled to face the forward-surging enemy; the others quickly took up positions to complete the ring. The oncoming Voion met wild swings from the embat-tled Jackoo’s digging members, supported by vigorous resis-tance from Flink-wielded clubs and spears, captured from the Voion. Retief wrenched a power gun from the grip of a Voion who had managed to evade Fufu’s shovel-tipped arms, blasted him with it, then downed another. A heap of damaged Voion grew around the tiny fortress; now the Voion attackers were forced to scale a mound of casualties to fire down into the enclosure.

Beside Retief, one Flink after another yelled, toppled backward, smoking from a hit. The few remaining rebels had all captured guns now; they fired steadily, but nearly as inaccurately as the Voion. Retief picked off one attacker after another, while the weapon grew hot in his hand. Then it buzzed dolefully and died. A Voion above him took aim, and Retief threw the gun, saw it clang off the Voion’s armored head, knocking him backwardThere was a sudden change in the quality of the sounds of conflict: a high, thin shriek cut through the squalling of the Voion and the crackle of gunfire and fiercely burning metallo-wood. Dust rose in a swirl; a miniature tornado seemed to press at the crowded Voion, then hurl them backward. Into the cleared patch thus created, something vast and dark slammed down with a ground-shaking impact, a boom! like a falling cliff. In the stunned silence that followed, pieces rattled down all around as shrill Voion cries rang out. Dust rolled away to show the pulverized remains of a Rhoon scattered across the field among windrows of felled Voion. A second huge dark shape appeared, beating across the scene of battle at low level, rotors hammering. The bright flash of a power gun winked above its lights.

“That does it, Tief-tief,” Ozzl gasped. “Who could fight lightning from the sky?”

Something dropped from the Rhoon’s underside, slammed down among the Voion, bounced high, hit again, cutting a swathe through ranks still stunned by the crash of the first of the giant creatures.

“Tief-tief!” a vast voice boomed, floating across the sky as the Rhoon lifted.

“Tief-tief . . .”

“Listen!” Ozzl choked. “He’s-he’s calling you? What could it mean?”

Retief jumped up on Fufu’s broad back. All around, the Voion were breaking and fleeing now, while the steady crackle and bzzapp! of power guns sounded from the vast dark shadows hanging above on hammering rotors.

“It means the fight’s over!” Retief shouted above the hurricane. “It’s Gertie and her friends with reinforcements from the city-and two hundred smuggled power pistols!”

An hour later, in an unburned room of the battered post office, Retief and his victorious allies sat around a wide table, sampling Terran trade rum, Bacchus brandy, and Quoppina Hellrose, cut three to one to stretch.

“Those blasters turned the trick, all right, Retief,” Leon said. “What sleeve did you have them up?”

“Oh, they were stored conveniently in the customs shed. I hoped we wouldn’t have to use them, but once the Voion started it, there wasn’t much choice.”

“You’re a funny kind of diplomat, if you don’t mind my mentioning it,”

Seymour commented. “I mean, sending Gertie to collect contraband guns so you could blast the government army-it was a neat move, don’t get me wrong-but what’ll Longspoon say?”

“Actually, Seymour, I hadn’t intended to tell him.”

“I hope all of you gentlemen will display the most complete discretion,” Fifi said sweetly. “Otherwise, I’ll come gunning for you personally.”

“Retief did what he had to do,” Leon growled. “What good’s a dead diplomat?”

“That’s a question we’d better not examine too closely,” Retief said. “And since we’re now in position to present the authorities with a fait accompli, I don’t think anyone will pursue it to its logical conclusion.”

“You is got my guarantee,” Jik-jik announced. “The new Federated Tribes ain’t going ask no embarrassing questions.”

A Terran planter thrust his head into the room. “The Bugs-our Bugs, I mean-just brought in the Voion general. Ugly-looking little devil. What do you think we ought to do with him?”

“Retief, you want to talk to this Jasper?” Leon demanded. “Or should I just throw him back?”

“Maybe I’d better have a word with him.” Retief and Fifi followed Leon along to the room where the captive Voion huddled on splayed wheels, his drooping antennae expressive of profound dejection. One ocular twitched as he saw Retief.

“Let me talk to him-alone,” he squeaked in a weak voice. Retief nodded. Leon frowned at him.

“Every time somebody gets you off to the side, funny things start happening, Retief; I’ve got an idea you’re not telling all you know.”

“Just my diplomatic reflex, Leon. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”

“Watch that bird; he may have a spare sticker under his inlay.”

As soon as the two Terrans had left, the Voion lifted off his headpiece to reveal the pale gray visage of General Hish.

“To give you credit, Terry,” he hissed in Groaci. “To have sucked me in neatly with the pretense of disorganization.”

“Don’t feel too badly, General; if you only knew how I labored over the timing-”

“To not forget the miserable quality of the troops under my command,” Hish added anxiously. “To wish the lot of them disassembled and exported-” He broke off. “But I tire you with these recriminations,” he went on smoothly in Voion. “Now, as a fellow member of a foreign mission, I assume you’ll accord me the usual courtesies . . .”

Retief looked thoughtful. “Let me see; as far as I can recall, the courtesies I received the last time I was a guest of the Groaci-”

“Now, now, my dear Retief, we mustn’t hold grudges, eh? Just give me an escort to my heli and we’ll let bygones be bygones-”

“There are a few little points I’d like for you to clear up for me first,” Retief said. “You can start by telling me what the Groaci Foreign Office had in mind when it started arming the Voion.”

Hish made a clicking noise indicating surprise. “But my dear chap-I thought it was common knowledge that it was your own Ambassador Longspoon who conceived the notion of supplying, ah, educational material . . . ?”

“Terry power guns make a blue flash, Hish,” Retief said patiently. “Those of Groaci manufacture make yellow ones-even when they’re tricked out with plastic covers to look like Terry guns. It was one of your flimsier deceptions-”

“Speaking of deceptions,” Hish mused, “I feel sure your own clever impersonation will cause quite a stir among your troops, once it’s known-to say nothing of the reaction among your colleagues when they discover you’ve been leading an armed insurrection-and against your own CDT-supported faction at that.”

“It might-if there were anyone alive who knew about it-and felt gabby,”

Retief agreed.

“I’m alive,” Hish pointed out. “And while ‘gabby’ is not perhaps the word I would have employed-”

“There’s not much I can do about your gabbiness,” Retief cut in. “But as for your being alive-”

“Retief! You wouldn’t? Not a fellow alien! A fellow diplomat! A fellow illegal operator!”

“Oh, I might,” Retief said. “Now, suppose you demonstrate that gabbiness you were boasting about a few seconds ago . . .”

“ . . . in the strictest confidence,” Hish croaked, mopping at his throat sac with a large green hanky. “If -Ambassador Schluh ever suspected-that is, if he knew of my professional confidences-”

There was a scrape of feet outside the door. Hish hastily donned his head as the yellow-bearded Terran came into the room. “Hey, Mr. Retief,” he said. “There’s a fellow out here just made a sloppy landing in a heli. Says he’s from the Terry Embassy at Ixix. Leon says you better talk to him.”

“Certainly,” Retief got to his feet. “Where is he?”

“Right here . . .” the blond man motioned. A second figure appeared in the door-muddy, tattered, his clothing awry, his cheeks unshaved; Leon, Fifi, Seymour, and a crowd of others were behind him.

“Retief!” Magnan gasped. “Then you-how-I thought-but never mind. They let me go-that is, they sent me-Ikk sent me-”

“Maybe you’d better sit down and collect yourself, Mr. Magnan,” Retief put a hand under the First Secretary’s elbow, guided him to a chair. Magnan sank down.

“He has them-all of us-the entire staff,” he choked. “From Ambassador Longspoon-locked up in his own Chancery, mind you-down to the merest code clerk! And unless the Federated Tribes instantly lay down their arms, disband their army, and release all prisoners, he’s going to hang them right after breakfast tomorrow!”

“All I got to say is,” Seymour announced, hitching up his pants, “we ain’t about to give up what we won just to save a bunch of CDT slickers from a necktie party. Serves ’em right for chumming up to them Voion in the first place.”

“Retief didn’t ask you to,” Big Leon snapped. “Shut up, Seymour. Anyway, we didn’t win the fight-the Bugs did.”

“But the sixty-one prisoners,” Magnan protested breathlessly. “Twenty women-”

“Longspoon ought to appreciate being strung up by his pals,” a man put in.

“Those Quopp tribesmen will sure do the job if the Voion don’t.”

“It’s a tough deal,” Leon cut in. “But even if we went along, we got no guarantee Ikk wouldn’t hang ’em anyway-and us alongside of ’em.”

“I’m afraid doing business with Ikk is out of the -question,” Retief agreed.

“The former prime minister is one of those realistic souls who never let a matter of principle stand in the way of practical matters. Still, I think hanging the whole staff is a bit severe.”

“He must be out of his mind,” someone said. “He’ll have a couple squadrons of CDT Peace Enforcers in here before you can say Jack Dools-”

“Ikk is an end-of-the-world type,” Retief said. “He’s not concerned about consequences-not until they jump out and grab him by the back of the neck.”

“I say let’s get the Bug army together-”

“The Federated Tribes,” Retief corrected gently.

“Yeah-OK, the Federated Tribes. We march ’em straight through to Ixix, with plenty of Rhoon cover, take over the town, kick out the Voion garrison, tell old Ikk to hang up his toolbox, and put in a call for CDT Monitors-”

“CDT Monitors, hell,” Seymour growled. “What did the CDT ever do for Quopp except give the Voion big ideas?”

“Gentlemen, it’s apparent that the next target for the Federation is the capital,” Retief said. “I want you to wait one day before starting, however.”

“Hell, let’s hit ’em now, before they get a chance to pull themselves together-”

“That ain’t likely-not with their general cooling his wheels here.” Seymour nodded toward Hish, sitting silently in a corner.

“What do you want us to wait for, Retief?” Les demanded.

“Don’t sound any dumber’n you got to,” Big Leon growled. “He needs a few hours to try to spring the ambassador and his rappies before Ikk strings ’em up.” He looked at Retief. “Seymour and me’ll go with you.”

“Three Terries would be just a trifle too conspicuous in Ixix tonight,” Retief said. “But I think I’ll take our friend the general along for company.”

Hish jumped as though stung by a zinger. “Why me?” he whispered.

“You’ll be my guide,” Retief said blandly.

“How do you figure to make your play?” Leon asked.

“There are a few supplies I’ll need. Then I’ll have to go over to the Federation camp and talk to the local headmen,” Retief said. “We’ll work out something.”

Leon looked at him with narrowed eyes. “There’s angles to this I’m not getting,” he said. “But that’s OK. I guess you know what you’re doing.”

Fifi put a hand on his arm. “Jame-have you really got to . . . ? But that’s a stupid question, isn’t it?” She managed a smile. Retief put a finger under her chin.

“Better send out some Jackoo and an escort and get the girls in here to camp and ready to march. Tomorrow night you’ll all be celebrating with a big party aboard a Corps Transport.”

“But we c-came to see you . . . !”

“You will,” Retief said. “I claim the first dance.”

“Yeah,” Shorty said under his breath. “Let’s hope he’s got both feet on the floor when he gets it.”

Twelve

With his Quoppina armor in an inconspicuous bundle under one arm and Hish, still in Voion trappings, trailing dismally, Retief followed a guiding Phip to the Ween encampment a mile from Rum Jungle. Startled veterans of the morning’s action jumped up, fighting claws ready, as he walked into the clearing around their main campfire, the Groaci close on his heels. Jik-jik came forward.

“Well, you must be one of them Terries us saved the bacon for,” he shrilled, coming up close. “Hmmm; you looks tender and juicy . . .”

“We’ve already been through this routine, Jik-jik,” Retief said in a low voice. “Don’t you know me?”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Jik-jik made a fast recovery. “Well, Terry, just step on in and sit down. Just be a little bit careful one of the boys don’t get kind of curious and nip off a small bite.”

“I’m poison,” Retief said loudly. “You get terrible belly cramps if you eat a Terry, and afterward your cuticula falls off in big patches.” He took a seat on a fallen log; Hish hovered close, looking nervously at the Ween fighting claws gleaming all around. “I have to get into town, Jik-jik,” Retief said.

“I’m going to need some help from the tribes with what I have in mind . . .”

Retief, once again clad in his bright-colored armor, scanned the ground below as the immense male Rhoon on which he rode beat its way southward in company with a dozen picked companions. To the left flew the steed of General Hish, a mount specially equipped with a dummy cockpit astride which the terrified Groaci sat, a gay red scarf fluttering from his neck. “It looks as though the ground troops have rounded up most of the refugees from last night’s fiasco,” Retief called to his Rhoon. “I see a few small parties huddled together here and there, but no concentrations.”

“Except the fifty thousand of the rascals who still behind the city’s towers hide,” the deep voice boomed. “My hope it is they’ll venture up, their stolen Rhoonish corpses to employ against us.”

“I doubt if you’ll get your wish,” Retief said. “Gerthudion and her friends have pretty well cleared the skies, I think.”

With the Rhoon carrying Hish a hundred yards in advance, Retief’s flyer descended steadily, passed over the port at five hundred feet, aiming for the rooftop heli pad that crowned the Terran Chancery Tower.

“That gun crew down there is tracking us,” Retief said. “But they’re not quite sure enough to shoot.”

“That’s but a trivial hazard, Tief-tief, compared with challenging the Blackwheel’s stronghold.”

“Let’s hope Hish remembers his lines.”

“The prospect of Lundelia’s rending claws will him inspire to a flawless performance,” the Rhoon croaked. Ahead, the lead Rhoon settled in to the pad, Hish clinging to his saddle, his jaunty scarf fluttering downward now in the air blast from Lundelia’s rotors. Two Voion posted on the roof rolled to meet him, guns in hand. Hish lowered himself awkwardly, cast a nervous glance at the looming head of his mount; his arms waved as he spoke to the police. He pointed to Retief’s Rhoon, now dropping in to light beside Lundelia. The big flyer braked his rotors to a stop with a final whop-whop-woooppp of displaced air.

“ . . . prisoner,” Hish was whispering. “Just stand aside, fellow, and I’ll take him along to His Omnivoracity.”

As Retief jumped down, Hish waved the power gun from which the energy cell had been removed. “I’m sure the prime minister will be interested in meeting the rebel chieftain, Tief-tief,” he amplified.

“So that’s the bandit, eh?” One of the Voion rolled over, peering through the failing light of the sun, now a baleful spotlight behind flat purple clouds on the horizon. “He’s a queer-looking Quopp; how’d you snare him?”

“I snatched him single-handed from under the noses of his compatriots, killing dozens and injuring hundreds more,” Hish snapped in his breathy Groaci voice. “Now clear my path before I lose my temper and add you to the list of casualties.”

“OK, OK, don’t get huffy,” the guard said sullenly. He waved the pair toward the door. “For your sake I hope that’s the genuine article you’ve got there,”

he muttered as Hish rolled awkwardly by on his prosthetic wheels.

“Oh, I’m genuine,” Retief said. “You don’t think he’d lie to you?”

Inside, Retief went ahead of Hish, glanced along the short hall, turned to Hish.

“You’re doing fine, General. Now don’t get excited and blow this next scene; it’s the climax of the morning’s enter-tainment.” He took the gun, fitted the kick-stick back in the butt, slipped it into his concealed hip holster, then adjusted his face mask.

“How do I look?”

“Like an insomniac’s nightmare,” Hish whispered. “Let me go now, Retief!

When you’re shot down for the idiot you are, it would be a pity if I were caught in the overkill.”

“I’ll see that your passing won’t be accidental,” Retief reassured the Groaci. He checked to see that the bulky pouch slung over his left hip was in place; its contents shifted with a dull clank of glass.

“All right, Hish,” he said. “Let’s go down.”

“How can I negotiate these stairs, wheeled as I am?” the Groaci demanded.

“No stalling, General; just bump down the way the Voion do, not forgetting to use the handrails.”

Hish complied, grumbling. In the wide corridor one flight down, Voion sentries posted at intervals turned cold oculars on the pair.

“Sing pretty,” Retief said softly.

“You there,” Hish keened at the nearest Voion. “Which are the chambers of His Omnivoracity?”

“Who wants to know, wobbly-wheels?” the cop came back. “What’s this you’ve got in tow? A Terry-Quopp half-breed?” He made the scratchy sound that indicated Appreci-ation of One’s Own Wit.

“What wandering cretin fertilized your tribal ovum racks just prior to your hatching?” Hish inquired pointedly. “But I waste time with these pleasantries. Show me the way to the prime minister or I’ll see to it your component parts are added to the bench stock in a front line reppo deppo.”

“You will, eh? Who the Worm you think you are-”

Hish tapped his narrow, Voion-armored thorax with a horny pseudoclaw, eliciting a hollow clunk. “Is it possible you don’t know the insignia of a general officer?” he hissed.

“Uh-is that what you are?” the fellow hesitated. “I never saw one-”

“That omission has now been rectified,” Hish announced. “Quickly now! This prisoner is the insurgent commander-in-chief!”

“Yeah?” The guard rolled closer. Others in hearing pricked up their auditory antennae, moving in to follow the conversation.

“To watch your step,” Retief said quietly in Groaci. “To remember that if I have to shoot, you’ll be in my line of fire . . .”

“Stop!” Hish snapped hoarsely, waving back the curious Voion. “Resume your posts at once! Clear the way-”

“Let’s have a look at this Stilter,” a Voion shrilled.

“Yeah, I’d like to get a piece of the Quopp that blew the wheels off a couple of former associates of mine!”

“Let’s work him over!”

Hish crowded back against Retief. “One step closer, and you die!” he choked. “I can assure you a gun is aimed at your vitals at this instant-”

“I don’t see any guns-”

“Let’s see if this Stilter’s arms bend-”

There was the crash of a door slamming wide, an ear-splitting screech of Voion rage; the sentries whirled to see the oversized figure of Prime Minister Ikk, Jarweel feathers atremble with rage, confronting them, flanked by armed guards.

“You pond scum have the unmitigated insolence to conduct a free-for-all at my very door?” he shrilled. “I’ll have the organ-clusters off the lot of you!

Niv! Kuz! Shoot them down where they stand!”

“Ah . . . if I might interject a word, Your -Omni-vora-city . . . ?” Hish raised a hand. “I hope you remember me-General Hish? I just happened along with my -prisoner-”

“Hish? Prisoner? What-” The irate leader clacked his jeweled palps with a sound like a popped paper bag, staring at the disguised Groaci. “You mentioned the name of, ah, General Hish . . .”

“Ah-there was the matter of a suitable, er, cover -identity . . . ?”

“Cover . . .” Ikk rolled up, waving the chastened sentries aside. He stared closely at Hish. “Hmmm. Yes,” he muttered. “I see the joints now; nice job. You look like a tribal reject with axle rickets and shorted windings, but I’d never have guessed . . .” He looked at Retief. “And this is a prisoner, you say, Hish?”

“This, my dear Ikk, is the leader of the rabble forces.”

“What-are you sure?” Ikk rolled quickly back, looking Retief up and down. “I heard he was a Stilter . . . maroon cuticula . . . rudimentary rotors . . . by the Worm, it fits! How did you manage-but never mind! Bring him along!”

He whirled; his eye fell on the sentries huddled in a clump under the watchful oculars of the bodyguards.

“Send these good fellows along,” he shrilled merrily. “See that they all get promotions. Nothing like a show of spirit, I always say. Shows morale’s up.”

Buzzing a merry tune, the Voion leader led the way through the wide door into the ambassadorial office, took up his pose under the large portrait of himself hanging where the Corps Ensign had been on Retief’s last visit.

“Now,” he rubbed his grasping members together, eliciting a sound effect reminiscent of a hacksaw cutting an oil drum. “Let’s have a look at the dacoit who had the effrontery to imagine he could interfere with my plans!”

“Ah, Ikk,” Hish made a fluttery gesture. “There are -aspects to the present situation I haven’t yet -mentioned . . .”

“Well?” Ikk canted his oculars at the Groaci. “Mention them at once! Not that they can be of any importance, with this fellow in my hands. A capital piece of work, Hish! For this, I may allow you to . . . But we’ll go into that later.”

“It’s rather private,” Hish whispered urgently. “If you wouldn’t mind sending these fellows along . . . ?”

“Umph.” Ikk waved an arm at his bodyguards. “Get out, you two. And while you’re at it, tell Sergeant Uzz and his carpenters to hurry up with the ten-Terry gibbet. No need to wait until morning now.”

The two Voion rolled silently to the door, closed it gently behind them. Ikk turned to Retief, making a clattering sound with his zygomatic plates indicative of Pleasure Anticipated.

“Now, criminal,” he purred. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Retief lifted the holster flap, snapped out the power gun and leveled it at Ikk’s head. “I’ll let this open the conversation,” he said genially. Ikk crouched, slumped down over his outward-slanting wheels, his lower arms slack, his upper pair picking nervously at his chest inlays.

“You!” he addressed Hish. “A traitor! I trusted you! I gave you full powers, listened to your counsels, turned over my army to you! And now this!”

“Surprising how these matters sometimes turn out,” Hish agreed in his whispery voice. He had his headpiece off now and was smoking one of Ikk’s imported dope-sticks. “Of course, there was the little matter of the assassins assigned to eliminate me from the picture as soon as you had achieved your modest goal, but of course that was to be expected.”

Ikk’s oculars twitched. “Who, me?” he said dazedly. “Why . . .”

“Naturally, I eliminated them the first day; a small needle fired into their main armatures did the trick neatly-”

There was a small sound at the door; it snapped wide and Ikk’s two bodyguards rolled quickly through, guns at the ready, flipped the door shut behind them. Ikk came to life then, dropped behind the platinum ambassadorial desk as the two swiveled to face Hish. Behind the Groaci, Retief held the gun steady against his hostage’s back-plates.

“Shoot them down, Kuz!” Ikk shrilled. “Blast them into atoms! Burn them where they stand; never mind about the rug . . .” His voice faded off. He extended an ocular above tabletop level, saw the two Voion standing, guns at their sides.

“What’s this?” he shrilled. “I order you to shoot them at once!”

“Please, my dear Ikk!” Hish objected. “Those supersonic harmonics are giving me a splitting headache!”

Ikk rose up, his palps working spasmodically. “But-but I summoned them! I pushed my secret button right here under my green and pink inlay . . .”

“Of course. But naturally, your bodyguards are on my payroll. But don’t feel badly; after all, my budget-”

“But-” Ikk waved his arms at the Voion. “You can’t mean it, fellows! Traitors to your own kind?”

“They’re a couple of chaps you ordered disassembled for forgetting to light your dope-stick,” Hish said. “I countermanded the order and planted them on you. Now-”

“Then-at least let them shoot the Stilter!” Ikk proposed. “Surely you and I can settle our little differences-”

“The Stilter has the drop on me, I’m afraid, Ikk. No, these two good lads will have to be locked in the W.C. Attend to it, will you, there’s a good fellow.”

“You handled that properly, Hish,” Retief commended as Ikk rolled dejectedly back after snapping the lock behind his former adherents. “Now, Ikk, I think we’d better summon Ambassador Longspoon here to make the party -complete.”

Ikk grumbled, pressed a button on the silver mounted call box, snapped an order. Five minutes dragged past. There was a tap at the door.

“You’ll know just how to handle this,” Retief suggested gently to the prime minister.

Ikk twitched his oculars. “Send the Terry in!” he snapped. “Alone!”

The door opened cautiously; a sharp nose appeared past its edge, then an unshaved, receding chin, followed by the rest of the Terran ambassador. He ducked his head at Ikk, shot a glance at Retief and Hish, whose face was again concealed behind the Voion mask. He let the door click behind him, tugged at the upper set of chrome-plated lapels of his mauve after-midnight extra-formal cutaway, incongruous in the early evening light that gleamed through the hexagonal window behind Ikk.

“Ahh . . . there you are, Mr. Prime Minister,” he said. “Er, ah . . .”

“Hish, tell him not to get in my line of fire,” Retief said in Tribal. Longspoon’s eyes settled on Retief, still fully armored, jumped to the disguised Groaci, then back to the prime minister. “I’m not sure I understand . . .”

“The person behind me is armed, my dear Archie,” Hish said. “I fear he, not our respected colleague, the prime minister, controls the situation.”

Longspoon stared blankly at Retief, his close-set eyes taking in the maroon chest-plates, the scarlet-dyed head, the pink rotors.

“Who-who is he?” he managed.

“He’s the Worm-doomed troublemaker who’s had the effrontery to defeat my army,” Ikk snapped. “So much for visions of a Quopp united in Voionhood.”

“And,” Hish put in quickly, “you’ll be astonished to learn that his name is . .

.” He paused as though remembering something.

“Why, I know the bandit’s name,” Longspoon’s mouth clamped in an indignant expression. “As a diplomat, it’s my business to keep in touch with these folk movements. It’s, ah, Tough-tough or Toof-toof or something of the sort.”

“How clever of Your Excellency,” Hish murmured.

“Now that the introductions are out of the way,” Retief said in Tribal, “we’d better be getting on with the night’s work. Ikk, I want the entire Embassy staff taken to the port and loaded aboard these foreign freighters you’ve impounded and permitted to lift. Meanwhile, we’ll use the hot line to Sector HQ to get a squadron of CDT Peace Enforcers headed out this way. I hope they arrive in time to salvage a few undamaged Voion for use as museum specimens.”

“What’s he saying?” Longspoon pulled at his stiff vermilion collar, his mouth opening and closing as though he were pumping air over gills.

“He demands that you and your staff leave Quopp at once,” Ikk said quickly.

“What’s that? Leave Quopp? Abandon my post? Why, why, this is outrageous! I’m a fully accredited Terran emissary of Galactic Good Will!

How could I ever explain to the under-secretary-”

“Tell him you departed under duress,” Ikk suggested. “Driven out by lawless criminals wielding illegal firearms.”

“Firearms? Here on Quopp? But that’s . . . that’s-”

“A flagrant violation of Interplanetary Law,” Hish whispered piously.

“Shocking . . .”

“Give the orders, Ikk,” Retief said. “I want the operation concluded before Second Jooprise. If I have to sit here any longer with my finger on the firing stud it may begin to twitch involuntarily.”

“What? What?” Longspoon waited for a translation.

“He threatens to kill me unless I do as he commands,” Ikk said. “Much as I regret seeing you depart under such, ah, humiliating circumstances, Archie, I fear I’ve no choice. Still, after your dismissal from the Corps for gross dereliction of duty in permitting shipments of Terry-manufactured arms to the rebels-”

“I? Nonsense! There are no Terran weapons on Quopp-”

“Look at the gun even now being aimed at my Grand Cross of the Legion d’Cosme,” Ikk snapped. “I assume you know a Terran power pistol when it’s pointed between your eyes!”

Longspoon’s face sagged. “A Browning Mark XXX,” he gasped. Hish canted an eye to look at Retief. Retief said -nothing.

“Still,” Ikk went on, “you can always write your -memoirs-under a pseudonym of course, the name Longspoon having by then acquired a Galaxy-wide taint-”

“I’ll not go!” Longspoon’s Adam’s apple quivered with indignation. “I’ll stay here until this is covered up-or, rather, until I’m able to clarify the situation!”

“Kindly advise the ambassador this his good friend Ikk intends to hang him,” Retief instructed Hish.

“Lies!” Ikk screeched in Terran. “All lies! Archie and I have sucked the Sourball of Eternal Chumship!”

“I’ll not stir an inch!” Longspoon quavered. “My mind is made up!”

“Let’s have a little action, Ikk,” Retief ordered. “I can feel the first twitch coming on.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Ikk keened faintly. “My loyal troops would tear you wheel from wheel . . .”

“But you won’t be here to see it.” Prodding Hish ahead of him, Retief went up to the desk, leaned on it, put the gun to Ikk’s central inlay. “Now,” he said.

Behind him there was a rustle, a wheeze of effortHe stepped back, whirled in time to see a chair wielded by the ambassador an instant before it crashed down across his head.

“Ah,” Ikk purred, like a knife sawing through corn husks. “Our rabble-rouser is now in position to see matters in a new light . . .” He made rattling noises in tribute to the jest. Retief, strapped into the same chair with which Longspoon had crowned him, many loops of stout cord restraining his arms, held his headpiece half turned away from the lamp which had been placed to glare into his oculars. A pair of heavy-armed Voion interrogation specialists stood by, implements ready. Hish was parked in a corner, striving to appear inconspicuous. Longspoon, lapels awry, hooked a finger under the rope knotted about his neck.

“I . . . I don’t understand, Your Omnivoracity,” he quavered. “What’s the nature of the ceremony I’m to take part in?”

“I promised you’d be elevated to a high post,” Ikk snapped. “Silence, or we’ll settle for a small informal ritual right here in your office.” He rolled over to confront Retief. “Who supplied the nuclear weapons with which you slaughtered my innocent, fun-loving, primitively armed freedom fighters?

The Terrans, no doubt? A classic double cross.”

“The Terrans supplied nothing but big ideas,” Retief confided, “and you Voion got all those.”

“A claw-snap for their ideas.” Ikk clicked his claws in discharge of the obligation. “You imagine I intended to conduct the planet’s business with a cold Terran nose in all my dealings, carping at every trifling slum-clearance project that happened to involve the disassembly of a few thousand Sub-Voion villagers? Hah! Longspoon very generously supplied sufficient equipment to enable me to launch the Liberation; his usefulness ended the day the black banner of United Voionhood went up over Ixix!” He turned back to Retief. “Now, you will at once supply full information on rebel troop dispositions, armaments, unit designations-”

“Why ask him about troop dispositions, Ikk?” one of the interrogators asked. “Every Quopp on the planet’s headed this way; we won’t have any trouble finding them-”

“It’s traditional,” Ikk snapped. “Now shut up and let me get on with this!”

“I thought we were the interrogators,” the other Voion said sullenly. “You stick to your prime-ministering and let Union Labor do their job-”

“Hmmmph. I hope the Union will enter no objection if my good friend Hish assists with the chore in the capac-ity of technical adviser?” He canted an ocular at the disguised Groaci. “What techniques would you recommend as being the most fun as well as most effective?”

“Whom, I?” Hish stalled. “Why, wherever did you get an idea like that . . .

?”

“To keep them occupied,” Retief said quickly in Groaci. “To remember which side of the bread substitute has the ikky-wax on it.”

“What’s that?” Ikk waggled his antennae alertly at Retief. “What did you say?”

“Just invoking the Worm in her own language,” Retief clarified.

“What language is that?”

“Worman, of course.”

“Oh yes. Well, don’t do it any more-”

“Ikk!” Hish exclaimed. “A most disturbing thought has just come to me . . .”

“Well, out with it.” Ikk tilted his eyes toward the Groaci.

“Ah-er . . . I hardly know how to phrase it . . .”

Ikk rolled toward him. “I’ve yet to decide just how to deal with you, Hish; I suggest you endear yourself to me immediately by explaining what these hems and haws -signify!”

“I was thinking . . . that is, I hadn’t thought . . . I mean, have you happened to think . . .”

Ikk motioned his torturers over. “I warn you, Hish-you’ll tell me what this is all about at once, or I’ll give my Union men a crack at some overtime!”

As Hish engaged the Voion in conversation, Retief twisted his arm inside the fitted armor sheath, slipped his hand free of the gauntlet; the confining rope fell away. He reached to the pouch still slung at his side, lifted the flap, took out a small jar of thick amber fluid.

“Awwwwkk!” Ambassador Longspoon pointed at him, eyes goggling. “Help!

It’s liquid smashite! He’ll blow us all to atoms-”

Ikk and his troops spun on their wheels; one Voion scrabbled at a holster, brought up a gun as the jar arched through the air, smashed at his feet; a golden puddle spread across the rug in an aroma of pure Terran clover honey. There was a moment’s stunned silence.

“Sh-shoot him!” Ikk managed. The Voion with the gun dropped the weapon, dived for the fragrant syrup; an instant later, both interrogators were jackknifed over the honey, quivering in ecstasy, their drinking organs buried in nectar a thousand times stronger than the most potent Hellrose. Ikk alone still resisted, his antennae vibrating like struck gongs. He groped, brought up a gun, wavered, dithered, then with a thin cry dropped it and dived for the irresistible honey.

Retief shook the ropes from his arms, undid the straps and stood.

“Well done, General,” he said. “I think that concludes this unfortunate incident in Quopp history. Now you and I had better have that little private chat you mentioned earlier . . .”