Chapter Two

 

1

 

            Jerry, the barman at the VIP snack bar, paused after placing a bumper of bacchus black before Retief, and plied his bar-rag vigorously on a nonexistent ring on the polished vermilion heowood.

 

            "Say, Mr. Retief," he blurted at last, "I want to give you my sympathy on your new assignment; hope I'm not getting out of line."

 

            "There's no line waiting to congratulate me, Jerry," Retief reassured the mixologist. "By the way, what new assignment is that?"

 

            "Oh, didn't you hear?" Jerry responded. "All the scuttlebutt has it the Secretary picked you to go out to try and calm down old CIIU Slive, the Ree big shot. I wouldn't want to put my neck into a noose like that, even for a three-grade bump, which I don't guess you'll get."

 

            "If the boys in the latrine know all this, the news ought to be filtering down to First Secretary level pretty soon," Retief commented.

 

            He took his Bacchus black and sauntered toward the kidney-shaped keowood booths. VIP's  of all shapes and sexes were cozying up in strategic huddles on the soft, bisque-colored cushions. Pale lanterns hung from the dark, sculptured, sound-absorbent ceiling, diplomatically refraining from throwing too much light.

 

            He found an empty booth, sank onto the cushions, and swirled the Bacchus potion.

 

            "Oh, Retief, there you are," the voice of Mr. Magnan cut across the murmur of well-bred conversation in the lounge. Retief looked up and saluted his immediate supervisor with raised glass.

 

            "Mr. Magnan, here I am indeed," Retief greeted the slightly-built senior diplomat. "But according to Jerry, not for long."'

 

            "Ah, yes, Retief," Magnan muttered, as he sat in the booth, "I might have known the bartenders would get the news first. I'm afraid you're being sent as Special Envoy to the Ree Legation at Goldblatt's world. Slive is Chief of Mission there, you know. You're to convince him of our peaceful intentions."

 

            "I'm not the best man for the job," Retief said.

 

            "I know. I mean, none of us deserves Slive. I'm really sorry. But after the fashion in which you aroused the Undersecretarial ire by the indignities you imposed on that nasty little worm, Captain Fump, or whatever, I can hardly say I'm surprised. Still," he went on, "I wish you the best of luck. Do keep in touch. And now I must be off to a mummy-viewing at the Hoogan Legation. Ta."

 

            Magnan got up abruptly and hurried away.

 

            Retief savored his bumper to the last drop, rose, and carried the empty mug to the bar.

 

            "Geeze," Jerry offered, discarding the mug, "you're taking it good, Mr. Retief. Most of the boys would be crying into their beer at an assignment to Goldblatt's. They're really trying to put it to you, Retief. Hang in there. If you let them run you out of the Corps, I'll have to start learning Wormspeak."

 

 

2

 

            It had been a spartan three standard day trip out, aboard the rusting tramp freighter which had been the only transport available for the final leg of the long crossing from Aldo to Prute, where Retief was scheduled for initial contact with Ree officialdom via Snith, the Groacian Consul.

 

            "Say, Mr. Retief," the whiskery First Officer said to his lone passenger at dinner on the last night out, "do you or any of them CDT big shots back at Sector meet this Snith, before they go making plans?"

 

            "Only via screen, Big," Retief replied as he sampled the baked Alaska.

 

            "Not too bad, considering, hey, Mr. Retief?" Big suggested, eyeing the desert. At Retief's querying glance, he elucidated:

 

            "Considerin it's been froze, and then scorched," the old spacehand explained apologetically. "Autochef must be on the blink."

 

            "That's all right, Big; it's supposed to be frozen and then scorched," Retief pointed out. "The trick is to brown the meringue without melting the ice-cream inside; and I see the chef almost managed it," he added, as a stream of murky fluid drained out through a hole in the stiff sponge-cake outer layer. "But tell me about Mr. Snith. Do you know him well?"

 

            "About as good as you can get to know a guy who keeps a couple Haterakan meat-hawks chained to their perch beside the legation door, I hafta go up there every trip to hand over the invoices atid pick up the bills of lading, and all I ever got was a quick look at the little mother inside his limousine his chauffeur was practically running me down with. But I heard plenty. The boys say he hates Terries worser'n he does the Pruties, which he peppers with buckshot on sight."

 

            "Is he on good terms with the Ree?" Retief asked.

 

            "Better'n with us Terries, I guess," Big offered. "Haven't heard of him shooting at none of them yet, even when they came waltzing into his legation compound, armed to the mandibular serrations."

 

            "Flexible animosity is an old Groaci technique," Retief pointed out. "Thanks for the briefing, Big. How soon do we hit atmosphere?"

 

            "About an hour, I guess," Big supplied crisply. "Better get your stuff aboard the drop-boat— if you're sure you want to go down there. Remember, aside from your pal Snith, you got the Pruties to deal with. Ever met one?"

 

            Retief nodded. "At a cocktail party back at Flamme. Enormously fat fellow, Assistant Grimacer as I recall, bucking for promotion to field grade. Not too different from us single-skulled, bipedal Terries, except for large teeth and a number of muscular arms. Nearly beat me at Drift."

 

            "Bet he cheated, Retief," Big suggested. "I happen to know you're Drift champ for the whole Arm."

 

            "Yes, maybe he cheated a little," Retief acknowledged. "He used three arms. A point for the philosophers. But he was a sore winner; wanted a rematch to prove he could do it with two."

 

            "And you using only one," Big commiserated. "It don't pay to try and play fair with all these here Eeties. They got no conscience. Oops," the mate interrupted himself as a sudden impact shook the vessel.

 

            "That's atmosphere, Retief," he explained unnecessarily as the vessel settled down to a steady buffeting. "Drop boat away in four minutes," he added and hurried off.

 

 

3

 

            The Prute Customs and Immigration shed was a squat structure assembled from scraps of corrugated styrene, dim-lit by a hanging jar of Slovian juice-bugs which shed a wan, greenish glow on the deeply-creased olive-hued visage of the Excise Officer who leaned on Retief's  locker, foot, junior officers, for the use of, and said; "I don't care what the treaty says, Bub, it's what I say that counts. And I say you pay up in cash or the luggage don't clear Customs this year."

 

            "I suggest you get several of your elbows off my box, Mister," Retief said, and jerked the support from beneath the joints to which he had referred, causing the functionary to collapse like the empty barracks-bag he resembled.

 

            "Hey!" he yelled from the floor, "Grab that Terry! He assaulted me in the performance of my duties!"

 

            "I wouldn't," Retief suggested as a second tax-collector moved in confidently. The Prutian paused and arranged his puckered features in a passable version of the classic What's This, Impertinence? (17-g).

 

            "Precisely," Retief confirmed the query inherent in the alien's features, which resembled the mouth of a sack secured by a drawstring.

 

            "You can't get away with the rough stuff," the newcomer pointed out mildly as he leaned to assist his colleague to his large, flat feet.

 

            "See, we not only got the regs on our side, we also got you outnumbered, wise guy," the latter pointed out as he resumed his position behind the Customs table, this time keeping his elbows out of play.

 

            "Wrong," Retief said. "According to treaty, the personal effects of diplomatic personnel are to be accorded duty-free entry. As for having me outnumbered, how many more boys have you got on call? I only see ten." He picked up the locker and proceeded past the Customs sign to Health and Immigration, where he was confronted by a larger and plumper-than-average Prutian in a heavily braided uniform.

 

            "I'm Chief Inspector Thise," the official stated firmly as Retief paused before him. "Health OK? No fallen arches or ruptures? Got to watch these infectious maladies. An alien microbe could sweep through Prute like wildfire. Caught a Groaci last year with crossed eyes, and considering the little devils have got five eyes, on stalks at that, you can see what the plague could of done to us single vision folks."

 

            "Sounds bad," Retief agreed. "I don't suppose a touch of boredom would constitute much of a threat, would it?"

 

            "Boredom!" the inspector echoed in tones of horror. "We're highly susceptible! Keep back! Don't breath on anything, while I go fetch the medical inspector!"

 

            "Sorry," Retief returned. "I'll have to bend the regs slightly. Breathing is a habit I don't intend to kick."

 

            "We've got a regimen where we can put you on carbon monoxide and taper you off in a couple days," the Prutian countered. "Think of it! Free at last from the simian on your back! You'll thank Prute for the cure once it's done. Don't worry, the withdrawal symptoms only last a short while."

 

            "You don't understand," Retief said. "My mission requires that I stay alive long enough to put a bug in, the ear of CIIU Slive. But first I have to see the Groaci Consul here on Prute. So why not simplify matters by calling me a cab and accepting this modest token of my esteem?" He handed over a ten-Guck note which was whisked out of sight at once.

 

            "Say, you wouldn't try to bribe a Prutian official, would you, Terry?" the official mumbled.

 

            "How much do you go for?" Retief inquired interestedly.

 

            "You trying to buy me?" the Prutian gasped.

 

            "No; just renting," Retief explained.

 

            "Oh. OK. Don't ever try to buy a official of the great Prutian nation," the local warned. "We run high: sweepers get ten thou, and as fer a Chief Inspector, like me—" the Chief paused to indicate the rank badge on his sleeve. "We start at half a mil."

 

            "Then ten Guck would hardly be considered a genuine bribe," Retief suggested.

 

            "Heck, no!" the alien confirmed. "More like a token of a fella's esteem."

 

            "Fine. Now about that cab," Retief said. "I'd prefer one with a seat and a roof."

 

            "No sweat," the inspector replied. "By the way, you weren't planning on immigrating, I suppose?"

 

            "Not just yet," Retief confirmed.

 

            "So that takes care of that," the inspector said as he deposited an impressive, folded newspaper-sized document in the refuse container. "Say, Terry—er, Mr. Retief, I mean—if you're interested in a little companionship, I got a couple hot numbers."

 

            Retief declined the offer, and was halfway to the exit when a third inspector, this one a bulky chap in civvies, strolled into his path and held up a peremptory hand.

 

            "It's OK that you rolled over Clarence and Rocky," he intoned, "but I'm civilian chief Gluck. So let's see what you got in the lock-box."

 

            "Better move over," Retief replied. "I'm running behind schedule, and I see my cab's here."

 

            "Don't get in too big a hurry, Terry!" Gluck snapped, signalling for a pair of armed guards who moved into position flanking the Terran. "I've got to satisfy myself you ain't carrying contraband." He turned to address the cop, "Open it up."

 

            One of the two policemen took a step toward the object of official interest. Retief put out an arm: the cop rebounded from it and rubbed his neck, which had sustained the brunt of the impact. The second cop lunged and ricoshayed off Retief's other arm.

 

            "What's the matter, you boys forgot how to open up a suitcase?" their leader inquired, producing a stout crowbar from a recess under the counter. "I'll show you," he added an instant before Retief plucked the iron bar from his grasp and carefully bent it into a rude circle, which he sent rolling across the cavernous shed floor. Both cops took a single step after it, and halted abruptly.

 

            "You see what that Terry did?" one inquired of the circumambient air. "Took and twisted old Gluck's bar into a regler cookie," he amplified.

 

            "He never," Gluck contradicted. "Couldn't of, Horace."

 

            "I saw what I saw," Horace stated sullenly. "Leroy saw it too."

 

            "I have a feeling you fellows been on this cushy indoor job too long," Gluck mused. "Thinking about transferring you out to foot-patrol on Big Rock." He glanced at Retief. "Big Rock's our near moon," he explained. "No air, no water, no snick berries. No much of anything. Keeps a fellow on his toes just trying to keep alive. Got a small Customs station out there.

 

            "You wait here, Terry," he added in a harder tone, and set off toward a small partitioned-off room placed inconspicuously in a corner. He tapped diffidently at the door, over which Retief noted the words 'Liaison Office' and the equivalent in a variety of scipts, including the Ree ideograms. Gluck disappeared inside, and reemerged a moment later accompanied by the squat, cylindrical figure of a Ree in military paint with the rank pips of a field grade officer. The alien outdistanced his escort to ripple truculently up to Retief.

 

            "Gluck here—where the devil is the fellow?" the Ree interrupted himself to look around, discovering Gluck just behind him. "—says you got big ideas, Terry. Better shape up and show the boys your luggage, before I get tough."

 

            "Keep a civil tongue in your talk-box," Retief ordered. "And you may address me as 'sir'."

 

            "Well," the colonel began hesitantly. "I've got my orders, Terry. It looks like I'll have to have you thrown in the lockup as a potential enemy alien."

 

            "Potential?" Retief inquired. "Are you planning to start a war?"

 

            "Well, you never know," the Ree declared. "Anyway, this is free Prutian soil, and I guess old Gluck's got a right to look through your laundry if he wants to."

 

            "Are you and Gluck really sure you're ready to violate the most-favored-planet treaty between Terra and Prute?" Retief asked, as if mildly curious.

 

            "Naw, nothing like that, Terry. Just routine, you know."

 

            "Routine requires that diplomatic personnel in transit to friendly worlds be accorded duty-free entry of personal effects, and VIP treatment," Retief pointed out. "But, of course," he added, "we're willing to oil the routine."

 

            He pulled out an envelope (funds, emergency, for good impression) and distributed a sheaf of GUC. The Ree tentacled up the bulk, and the Purtians scooped the rest.

 

            "You may stamp my passport now," Retief suggested, preferring the blue-covered booklet. "I'm in transit to Goldblatt's World, you know. Does that feeder flight originate here?"

 

            "Suppose to," Gluck acknowledged, as he stamped a large purple impression on the blank transit visa page before him and handed the document back. "They'll make me sign a statement of charges for that pry-bar, you know," he added.

 

            Retief allowed an extra five-Guck note to flutter down; Gluck plucked it from mid-air and whisked it out of sight.

 

            "You know, Mister," he commented, "it's a real pleasure to be of service to a real gent like yourself, who knows where it's at. Lemme check on that cab." He hurried off toward the street doors.

 

 

4

 

            When the porter had tossed Retief's trunk into the cargo bin of the dilapidated hack which had squealed to a halt at the inspector's imperious hail, and collected his half-Guck honorarium, the driver, a flabby-looking chap with a battered Bogan military-style peaked cap half-obscuring his face, leaned over the divider and said, "Where to, Mac?" in badly-accented Obfuscese.

 

            "The Groaci Legation," Retief told him.

 

            "You ain't no Groaci," the chauffer stated flatly. Retief agreed that the assessment was correct.

 

            "Not enough eyes," the driver explained. "And no stems on the ones you got." He started up with a squeal of aged gyros and gunned the antique car into the traffic stream.

 

            "Also, you're too high," he continued. "Look like one of them Terries, no offense."

 

            "Flattered," Retief reassured his cicerone.

 

            "I'm Jake. I've seen 'em all," the driver explained. "Wonder what a feller like you'd want with them Groaci. Hear old Snith throws anybody out on his can that comes around the place. Some nice guy, huh? Hope he ain't a friend o' yours."

 

            "Not insofar as I know, Jake," Retief replied to the question. "I'm hoping he'll transmit a message to CIIU Slive for me."

 

            "That sounds like one o' them Rees," Retief's new acquaintance stated. "No offense," he said, then added, "some folks say I shoot off my mouth too much. You a pal of them worms?" he queried, peering into his rear-view mirror at Retief.

 

            "I haven't spent enough time with them to find out," Retief told him; "though they seem at their best when estivating in a sack."

 

            The driver braked at a traffic square that opened suddenly between the tall, jut-front buildings at the end of the narrow street. Apparently they had come to a traffic roundabout, with individual initiative determining the cyclonic or anticyclonic flow.

 

            The cab joined the majority of the movement, and changed course down another jut-front traffic slot. The driver took up his thoughts again and complained.

 

            "You see them dang worms everywhere these days. I got a feeling they're infiltrating, giving orders to honest Prutian folks right on their own planet. Heard they shot some folks who didn't get out of their way quick enough. We got no navy, you know."

 

            "Sounds awkward," Retief commented. "What are you people doing about it?"

 

            "Nothing," Jake said, "we got a mutual assistance pack with Terra, you know, and figger you boys'll swat these worms when the time is right. Right?"

 

            "I hope so," Retief reassured Jake. "The problem is deciding when the time is right."

 

            "Well, let's say sometime before they clean Prute out of all its food and fuel reserves," Jake suggested. "Say in about a week, the way they're going. They already cut my go-juice ration down to subsistence level, barely six glips a day. Feller'd starve on that, but lucky I got a few contacts."

 

            "I'll make a note of it," Retief assured the anxious Prutian. "The short ration, I mean, not the contacts."

 

            "There goes one of them worms now," Jake said, as the squat figure of a Ree enlisted trooper appeared ahead, hurrying across the crowded street, thrusting civilians aside as he went.

 

            "Got a good mind to run the sucker down," Jake said, steering for the now isolated Ree, who had paused in mid-wriggle to light up a dope-stick.

 

            "Better not," Retief suggested. "Wait for bigger game, like an Intimidator. Might as well get all the mileage you can, since it will be an interplanetary incident in either case."

 

            Jake agreed and slowed; a moment later he swerved the cab sharply to pass between the baroquely ornamented columns flanking the gravelled drive of the Groacian Mission to Prute, jolting to a halt before the polished plastic plate with the words 'Legation of the Groacian Autonomy' and the fanciful armorial bearings of the Great Seal of Groac. Two uniformed Groaci Marines in smartly ribbed hip cloaks and silver-chased greaves snapped their eye-stalks and tentacles to attention as Retief disembarked from the wheezing vehicle and offered ten Guck to the driver, who grabbed the coin and gave the grimace of gratitude.

 

            One of the guards lunged toward Retief, who put a finger under the Marine's third eye, the latter's momentum causing him to rebound, lose his balance, and fall heavily.

 

            "You boys saw that," the Groaci yelled toward the driver and the other Marine. "Assault and battery, that's what it was! And maybe kidnapping, too, depending," he added, as his comrade helped him up.

 

            "Don't worry," Retief counselled the Groaci. "If you don't accidentally blurt it out, nobody will ever know you tried it."

 

            As the cab gunned away, the Marines closed ranks to bar Retief's entry.

 

            "Who are you, Terry?" the aggressive one demanded.

 

            "Special Terran Envoy Retief to see His Excellency," he informed the guards. "He's expecting me."

 

            "To doubt that His Excellency has time for distressed Terry tourists," one guard offered, as the other vibrated his throat-sac in the Groaci equivalent of a snicker.

 

            "No doubt." Retief agreed. "But I'm not a sightseer." He brushed the nearer guard aside and, as the second Marine came to port arms, standing his ground, Retief plucked the weapon from his grasp and snapped the breech open. He glanced down the pitted barrel and tossed the blaster back to its owner.

 

            "You forgot to clean that piece this year, Lance Corporal," he told the indignant Groaci. "Fire the thing in that condition and it's likely to blow your head off. Now let's see you get that door open."

 

            The chastened guard, his crest adroop, moved quickly to comply with Retief's order. His partner erected all five eye-stalks in an expression of Ferocity Restrained (Z-21) and resumed his place at one side of the door. Retief passed between the two alert sentries into the gloomy, smoked gribble-grub smell of the Groaci Mission. A pert receptionist at a small desk looked up brightly.

 

            "To inquire your business," she said as sharply as her weak Groaci voice would permit.

 

            "Just want to see his nibs, sweetheart," Retief told her.

 

            "The Consul is receiving no callers without a proper appointment," she returned sharply.

 

            "That's good," Retief replied calmly, "because I've got one that was made by Undersecretary Snaffle personally. Via closed screen, that is."

 

            "Oh." The young Groaci female said contritely. "You'd think the old sourpuss would tip me off." She checked a small computer terminal, came up with a print-out card which she handed over.

 

            "The Chancery is one floor up, to the left; second door on your left. I'm supposed to tell you not to snoop. But I'm sure you're too nice for that, anyway."

 

            "I'm sure His Ex will tell me all I need to know, with no necessity for snooping,' Retief reassured her.

 

            The lift was an antique Otis, formerly installed in Macy's, Retief noted, from the ornate wrought-iron monogram worked into the cage ceiling. It wheezed and clanked its way upward like an exhausted alpinist making the last few yards to the survival hut. When precisely between floors, it came to an abrupt halt.

 

            Retief pushed the appropriate buttons. They elicited no response. He stood still and listened. He heard a distant thumping and the faint sound of shouting. The words were impossible to distinguish, but the intonation was definitely Terran. Retief pushed open the escape hatch on the ceiling of the car, and pulled himself up and out on the six-foot-square roof. The thumping and yelling were louder here. Above, he saw a small hinged panel set in the wall of the elevator shaft. He was able to reach it by climbing the greasy cable which supported the elevator car. A sharp kick against the latch mechanism caused the panel to pop open. Now the thumping and shouts sounded clearly.

 

            "... let us out! Let us out!" the shout was repeated, in frontier Terran. The pounding went on monotonously. Looking into the cramped crawl-space the panel had covered, Retief saw light leaking from somewhere at the far end of the passage. He worked his way in, and proceeded on elbows and toes, through dust and arachnid-webs, complete with arachnids, until he reached a crudely boarded-over opening in the side wall, through which the light was leaking.

 

            "Let us out!" the chant went on, accompanied by thumps. "Let us out! Ah, hell, Andy, what's the use? Nobody can hear us, and even if they did, who's around to give a hang what happens to a bunch of Terry POW's?"

 

            Retief got a fingertip grip on a plank and ripped it free. Now he could see into a featureless gray cell, lit by a ragged hole in one wall through which wan Prutian sunlight streamed. Half a dozen assorted Terrans—men, women and one thumb-sucking five-year old—sat in dejected attitudes on the littered floor. All looked up as one at the scritch! of the torn-away plank. The child eyed him solemnly for a moment, then removed his thumb from his mouth, wiped it carefully on his grubby chemise, and uttered a wail. His mother caught him up, casting a reproachful glance toward Retief.

 

            "Holy Moses," a youngish fellow in faded bib overalls said and came to his feet. "Who're you, feller? And how'd you get in the cross-shaft system?"

 

            "The elevator stopped and I heard you yelling," Retief told him. "I get the idea you'd rather be elsewhere."

 

            "Too right," a small man with a villainous two-weeks' growth of black whiskers volunteered.

 

            An elderly man wearing a once-elegant but now badly torn and stained suit got creakily to his feet.

 

            "We're hostages," the latter said. "Seems the Ree big shot, this fellow who calls himself Slive, has an idea we're worth money, or at least territorial concessions. Damn fool. What does the CDT care what happens to us?"

 

            "Actually," Retief told him, "We'd heard something about you folks: that's why I'm here, in a way. Are you all the hostages they have?"

 

            "You could have plumb swaggled me," the oldster conceded. "I reckoned we were good for a life stretch. I'm Governor Anderson of Peabody's Plantation, out on Hardtack. Was, anyway, until those confounded Rees landed one morning whilst I was on my south forty, and rounded up what folks they could find.

 

            "This," he added, indicating the small be-whiskered man, "is my boy Lester, and his wife, Lulu, and little Roy. Other feller's Buster, my hired hand. There's more, from some other settlement, I guess. Just got a glimpse of them whilst we was unloading. About two dozen altogether, I reckon. Who're you? How come you're in that cross-shaft? They boarded it over the first day we was here, about a month ago, or maybe a week ..." The old fellow paused to study a pattern of scratches on the nacreous wall beside him. "Yep, thirty-two days today."

 

            Retief tossed aside two more of the slats barring his egress, and dropped down into the cramped and smelly room. The furnishings, he noted, consisted of two battered mattresses laid on the floor, half a dozen pots, some rugs of dubious origin and a scattering of papers, one of which, face-up, read AN INVITATION TO ALL SQUATTERS TO ACCEPT LIBERATION BY VICTORIOUS REE ARMIES. THIS MEANS YOU.

 

            "I take it you'd like to get out of here," Retief said to the ex-governor.

 

            "Oh, it ain't so bad," Buster, the hired hand, contributed, "only no telly."

 

            "Lord yes, sir," daughter-in-law Lulu put in fervently. "Roy needs better eats and more of 'em. Can't hardly yell good a-tall."

 

            "What you got in mind, Mister?" son Lester demanded eagerly, coming to his feet. He was clad in a grayish sack-like garment. His exposed hide, dark with lack of bathing facilities, was marked with angry red flea-bites, at which he scratched absently, awaiting a reply.

 

            "For the moment," Retief told him, "just sit tight and stay alert. Break off the banging and chanting, but the next time they feed you, eat all you can, because you may be missing a few meals."

 

            "Won't mind that," the hired hand said. "They feed worserner'n the Navy: I was in fer a couple weeks," he amplified. "Reserves. But they told us they run outa funds, whatever funds are, and they up and disbanded us. Too bad, too, jest a month afore the Rees showed up. We were expecting a couple Terry battlewagons would come along and run the worms off, but they never."

 

            "Back at GHQ," Retief said, "the top officials aren't really sure there's a war on, so they've been a bit slow to respond. Maybe we can speed things up a little."

 

            "Whatever you say, Mister," Lester blurted. "But we can't do much a-setting here."

 

            "True," Retief conceded. "Just be ready to go. Don't try to follow me; that duct is a dead end. And remember: try not to start any riots."

 

 

5

 

            Retief retraced his route to the elevator, this time operating the emergency switch on top of the car, and resumed his slow progress upward. At last the rickety cage clanked to a halt, meticulously leveled itself, and the doors whoosh!ed open. Retief stepped out into a corridor garishly carpeted in chartreuse and puce and went along to a forbidding set of double doors at the end of the passage. A cocoa mat lettered STAY AWAY lay before them.

 

            Retief tapped lightly and heard a breathy reply from inside. He tried the door; locked. He twisted harder and something broke with a sharp tink! and the door swung in. Across the wide room, a Groaci wearing the jeweled eye-shields of a top-three-grader glanced at him.

 

            "To explain the meaning of this outrage!" he hissed.

 

            "It means that Terry diplomats with appointments aren't cooling their heels in the corridor this year, Mr. Consul," Retief interpreted. "I need to see the Ree Intimidator Slive, and I'm informed you're prepared to offer your good offices in arranging the meeting."

 

            Consul Snith canted three eyestalks at an angle indicative of gracious condescension and rose to his full four-foot-eight. "To have no time to devote to such trifles," he hissed, after a brief glance at the embossed card Retief had handed him. "Only a Second Secretary and Consul, eh?" he whispered, "Not even a Counsellor."

 

            "True, Mr. Consul," Retief acknowledged. "Still I would have been a Counsellor, if anybody had gotten around to promoting me."

 

            "Of course," Snith agreed. "And at the same time, I myself would now be an Undersecretary by the same reasoning, thus maintaining the disparity in rank. But enough of this yivshish. I suppose I can deal with you, just this once. After all, all I'm going to do is refuse to help you."

 

            "Since your Mission has the only hot-line to Ree HQ in the Tip," Retief countered, "it wouldn't take a moment to get through to the Intimidator."

 

            "But that I refuse to do," Snith hissed.

 

            "So I guess I'll have to do it myself," Retief replied, coming around the twelve-foot platinum desk, Chief of Mission, for the use of.

 

            The Groaci lunged for a drawer in time to encounter Retief's hand, which closed on his skinny tentacle and lifted him from his Terry-made hip-o-matic power swivel chair, a gift of Ambassador Fullthrust on the occasion of the signing of the latest in a series of treaties of Eternal Chumship, none of which had been effective in diminishing the traditional rivalry between the Galactic super-powers.

 

            Snith delivered a breathy tirade in which the repetitive "vile Terry" and "iniquitous Soft One" soon became tiresome.

 

            Retief dropped the senior diplomat into his own solid gold wastebasket, abruptly ending the stream of threats of dire retribution.

 

            The traditional red-enameled tight-beam personal screen built into the desk uttered a harsh buzz when Retief flipped the URGENT key.

 

            At once, an unctuous voice said, in flawless Groaci: "Tor wait whilst one notifies the Second Assistant Great One to notify the First-AGO to intimate to the Great One himself that some lesser being is understandably desirous of holding converse with his Loftiness."

 

            "To put some snap into it," Retief replied in Groaci over the tight-beam, without heat.

 

            Snith redoubled his threshing among the waste paper and keened: "To walk softly, Retief! To not arouse the ire of the insidious Ree against selfless Groacian bureaucrats!"

 

            "Don't worry, Mr. Consul," Retief soothed his host. "I'm only talking to the janitor."

 

            "To have heard that crack," the hot line said harshly. "Maybe you five-eyed suckers don't know us building supers got a union, which we could shut down custodial services to you boys any time. Your wastebasket would get pretty full, if the sweeper corps didn't show up at dark to rub old Pennzoil on the desk-tops to give 'em that nice shine, which you old-timers know enough not to put your elbows onna desk till about after lunch."

 

            "A telling point!" Snith hissed from his cramped position in the disposal bin. "To apologize at once, Retief, lest this miscreant implement his threat!"

 

            "To be in a slight hurry," Retief said into the talker in unaccented Groaci, "To have to talk to Slive right now."

 

            There was a crackle of static from the beam, an echo of secretarial huffings, and a new voice cut in, speaking Groaci with a heavy Ree accent.

 

            "This is His Loftiness speaking. "What've you got, Snith? I was just revising my surprise—ha-ha—plans for receiving a delegation of Terries."

 

            "To rejoice in the intelligence, Loftiness," Retief returned, mimicking Groaci eagerness. "To yearn to revel in the details."

 

            "Sure, why not?" Slive replied comfortably. "You little five-eyed sticky-fingers are just as neutral against the Terries as us Ree. So here's the plot: We got a couple dozen Terry hostages; you know, like the ones you're keeping for me," Slive continued, "picked 'em up pretending they were simple farmers and colonists out on some end-of-the-line worlds they call Moosejaw, and Hardtack and a couple others. Since they weren't in uniform, we've got a right to shoot 'em as spies, of course."

 

            "To be sure," Retief agreed. "What did they spy on?"

 

            "Well, of course us Ree've got nothing to hide," Slive replied. "But still some of them might've got a glimpse of some of the peaceful missile installations we've been installing on a few small bodies in monitored space and all. Could get talk started, as if us Ree would do anything as lousy as infiltrating inviolate Treaty Territory."

 

            "Small minds do tend to misinterpret these matters," Retief agreed cheerfully. "Anything else?"

 

            "They could've got an idea there's something fishy about our new out-tourist program," Slive conceded. "We've been encouraging solid Ree citizens with impeccable security records to get culturally enriched by traveling around in what the Terries call Tip Space, learning all about the quaint native arts of basket-weaving and electronic surveillance, and early-warning sites, and folk-dancing—all that culture stuff, you know."

 

            "Good thinking, Intimidator," Retief replied crisply. "To tell me more about the doubtless clever surprise you have in store for the delegation of vile Terry meddlers you're expecting."

 

            "Well, this is pretty good, Snith, old boy," Slive replied. "I've got a couple schemes, but I about decided on just a simple defenestration. My offices are on the ninety-third floor, you know."

 

            "To first disarm them if they should so far violate diplomatic usage as to attempt to smuggle weapons into the conference room, of course," Retief guessed. "Then to extort humiliating terms of peace, and once signatures are in hand, to dispose of them. Superb!"

 

            "You get the sketch," Slive agreed. "But this is top security dope. My Chief of Security'll go into a premature moult if he knew I was talking about it, even on this tight line to my pal Snith."

 

            "To assure you, it will go no further," Retief assured the Ree warlord. "Now, about that delegation: I myself have assumed the responsibility of requesting your reception of such a party, at your convenience, on the third day of the Moon of Impeccable Treachery, a salubrious season for your clever plan, eh?"

 

            "Suits me, Snith. Make it between one-thirty and six pee em. Better have the old credentials in order, too."

 

            "To assume lunch will be served in the waiting room," Retief suggested.

 

            "They'll have to wait in the baggage shed, which has a gribble-grub dispenser and a Pepsi machine," Slive replied harshly. "Why waste VIP eats on alimentary tracts that won't be around long enough to digest em?"

 

            "Splendid," Retief said in Snith's breathiest, most enthusiastic tone. "Since the gribble-grub dispensers were a gift of the Groacian people to Ree, to enjoy a sense of participation in the scheme."

 

            "Don't go grabbing the credit, Mr. Consul," Slive came back sharply. "After all, you boys are Easterners, too, like the Terries, and to tell you the truth, I don't see why you'd want to lend us West Arm fellows a hand to take over your own turf."

 

            "To pretend not to have heard that, Slive," Retief replied stiffly. "An opportunity to wipe the eye of the vile Terries is at any cost not to be allowed to pass me by."

 

            "Just don't get any ideas you're getting cut in for a slice of the action," Slive warned. "I agreed to tolerate you boys and give you preferential status when it come to doling out menial jobs, is all."

 

            "The litter-mate of nest-fouling drones is too arrogant by half!" Snith hissed from his position in the waste receptacle. "To perhaps reconsider my rash agreement to aid him in his aggressive designs."

 

            "I heard that, Snith," Slive yelled. "Stand a little closer, I almost lost you on that last transmission. Reconsider, eh? Better get your fleet out of mothballs!"

 

            "On that note, Mr. Consul," Retief said to the excited Groaci, "I shall take my leave. Ta."

 

 

6

 

            Leaving the Groaci Legation, Retief found his taxi awaiting him.

 

            "I figgered in case you came out of there alive, you wouldn't be in no condition for no long walk," Jake confided.

 

            "Take me to the best hotel in town," Retief specified, to the amusement of his chauffer.

 

            "That'd be the Prutian Hilton," Jake offered when his hilarity had subsided. "Funny," he added, "a hotel can be the best without being good."

 

            After half an hour's limping progress through crowded streets in which a shabby elegance steadily deteriorated, the vehicle wheezed to a stop before a peeling polystyrene facade ornamented with new neon letters six feet high, in the crabbed Prutian script, identifying it as an outpost of Hilton enterprise.

 

            Inside, Retief found his way along a corridor which was either still under construction or in the final stages of collapse—he was unable to determine which—up rickety stairs to a door painted a dull turnbuckle dun, adorned with a yellow 6, and hanging by one hinge. The interior of the chamber fulfilled the rich promise of its context. An almost-clean spot on the lone, tarnished window afforded a view of the street, where a squat, black-enameled vehicle parked before the hotel was disgorging three Prutian Cops who hurried inside in a purposeful manner.

 

            Retief returned to the narrow hall, took up a position behind heaped crates at the head of the stairs. As the first of the local cops arrived, puffing, Retief stepped out suddenly, causing the squat Prutian to shy violently; Retief saved him from a painful tumble back down the steps by a quick grab.

 

            "Hi, there," Retief said casually. "Good of you to come. What I wanted was directions to the VIP entrance to the Port Departures area."

 

            "Thanks, pal," the cop muttered, readjusting his tunic, by the collar of which Retief had hauled him to safety. "You want to find the VIP gate, what you do, you go right past the public entry, that's figgering you're coming up along Condemned Parkway, and hang a right. Straight past the baggage-smashing department, over the NO PASSAGE BEYOND THIS POINT barrier, or maybe through it, if you're driving a heavy vehicle, and through the door marked Prutian Ladies Only, and there you are. You'll never find it. Come on, the boys and I'll run you over."

 

            Retief ambled downstairs after his guide.

 

            Back in the street, the lieutenant greeted his minions, "Yeah, this is the Terry Retief we were supposed to pick up. But I don't lean over backwards to pick guys up for the Groaci, and this one gave me a hand when the grand stairway collapsed. Saved my life, maybe. He's in a hurry, got to catch Ten Planet Flight 79 at three o'clock. Let's rush him there—and we've no time to waste."