“Here,” he said weakly. “What’s this . . . impersonating an officer . . . ?”
“I believe reservists are required to wear appropriate uniforms at a military ball,” Retief said.
“A battle commander? A general officer? Impossible! You’re a civilian! An imposter! A fake!”
“Oh no, he’s quite genuine,” a mellow feminine voice said behind the colonel. He spun. A breathtaking girl in a silvery gown and a jeweled coronet smiled at him.
“And—and how would you know?” he blurted.
“Because he hold his commission in the armed forces of my world.”
“Your world?” He blinked at her. “Here, aren’t you the person who ignored my orders not to land here?”
“My dear Colonel,” General Hish interjected, placing a limp Groaci hand on Underknuckle’s arm. “Is it possible you don’t know? This young lady is Her Highness Princess Fianna Glorian Deliciosa Hermoine Arianne de Retief et du Lille.”
“B—b—but I gave orders—”
“And I countermanded them, Colonel. I knew you’d understand.” She smiled radiantly.
“And, now, Colonel, I think you and General Hish would like to have a little chat,” Retief put in. “He wants to tell you all about his plans for a Groaci surgical and prosthetics mission to improve the lot of the Quoppina wounded, past and future.” He looked at the Groaci. “Right, General?”
“Quite correct, my dear Battle Commander,” Hish whispered in a resigned tone. “And the other matters we were discussing . . . ?”
“I’ve forgotten what they were.”
“Ahh . . . to be sure. So have I, now that you mention it.” Hish moved off, whispering to Underknuckle. Retief turned to Fifi, inclined his head.
“If I may crave the honor . . . ?”
“You’d better,” she said, taking his hand and turning to the dance floor. “After coming all this way just to lead a charge in sheet-metal underwear, I think I deserve a little attention . . .”
WICKER WONDERLAND
“Patiently toiling in humble consulates on many a remote world, Junior Corps officers, ever-mindful of the welfare of emergent non-Terrestrial peoples, labored on in their unending quest to bring the fruits of modern technology to supplement native arts and crafts, enriching their halcyon days with the awareness of the profound effect their efforts might have on entire populations. The examples set by such dedicated public servants as Vice-consuls Pird and Wimperton stand as an inspiration to us all . . .”
—Vol. VII, Reel 21, 487 AE (AD2948)
Consul-General Magnan clutched his baggy chartreuse velvet beret against the blast of air from the rotor of the waiting heli, beckoned Retief closer.
“I’ll be candid with you, Retief,” he said from the side of his mouth. “I’m not at all happy about leaving you here as deputy chief under a Groaci superior; the combination of unpredictable elements is an open invitation to disaster.”
“I’ve never known disaster to wait for an invitation, where our Groaci colleagues were concerned,” Retief commented.
“Naturalizing a Groaci was irregular enough in itself—” Magnan went on. “Tendering him an appointment in the Corps smacks of folly.”
“Don’t underestimate the boys at headquarters,” Retief said cheerfully. “Maybe this is just the first step in a shrewd scheme to take over Groac.”
“Nonsense! No one at HQ would want to go on record as favoring such a policy . . .” Magnan looked thoughtful. “Besides, what does Groac have that we need?”
“Their cast-iron gall would be a valuable acquisition—but I’m afraid that’s the sort of intangible that will elude the wiliest diplomacy.”
Magnan pursed his lips. “Take care, Retief: if anything goes awry, I’ll hold you fully responsible.” The senior diplomat turned to the other staff members waiting nearby on the tower-top helipad, moved among them shaking hands, then scrambled into the heli; it lifted, beat it way eastward against a backdrop of vermilion-bellied clouds in a sky of luminous violet. Behind Retief, the voice of Vice-Consul Wimperton rose to a shrill bark.
“No want um basket! No need um beads! Want um heavy metal, you blooming idiot!”
Retief turned. A short-legged, long-torsoed local draped in a stiff lime-green garment stood round-shouldered before the Commercial Attaché dwarfed under a load of fancifully woven and beaded baskets.
“No want um?” the Poon inquired in a voice that seemed to thrum in his chest. “Plenty too cheap—”
“No bloody want um! How many times do I have to tell you, you bug-eyed—”
A curtain twitched aside from a narrow doorway; a spindle-legged Groaci in Bermuda shorts, argyle socks and a puce and magenta aloha shirt peered out.
“Mr. Wimperton,” he said faintly, “I must request that you refrain from abusing the locals so loudly; I have a splitting headache . . .”
The deck lifted, creaking, sank back gently. The Groaci put a hand against his midriff and clutched the doorframe.
“My, that was a dandy,” Wimperton said. “Felt like my stomach came right up and bumped my chin!”
“I’m sure we’re all aware of the motion, Mr. Wimperton—all too aware . . .”
“Say, you don’t look at all well, Mr. Consul-General,” Wimperton said solicitously. “It’s this constant rocking, up and down, to and fro; you can never tell which way the tower will lean next—”
“Yes, yes, a penetrating observation, Mr. Wimperton.” The Consul-General tilted two eye-stalks toward Retief. “If you’d step inside a moment, Mr. Retief . . . ?” He held the curtain aside, let it drop behind Retief.
Late sunlight filtering through the open-work walls of the consulate splashed a checkered pattern across colorful rugs of kelp fibre, low couches, desks, and chairs of woven wickerwork. Consul-General Dools looked at Retief nervously.
“Mr. Retief,” he said in his faint voice. “Now that our previous chief, Mr. Magnan, has departed, I, of course, find myself in charge . . .” He paused while the floor lifted and sank; his eye-stalks waved sickeningly.
“As a newcomer, perhaps you’ve noticed . . . ah . . . irregularities in our little organization here . . .” Four of his eyes studied different corners of the room. Retief said nothing.
“I wished merely to caution you: It would be unwise to evince excessive curiosity . . .”
Retief waited. The tower leaned to the steady pressure of the rising gale. The floor slanted. Consul-General Dools clung to a desk, his throat-sacs vibrating.
“There are many ways,” he started, “in which accidents could befall one here . . .”
The floor sagged, rose abruptly. Dools gulped, threw Retief a last despairing glance and fled as Wimperton came in, still muttering. He looked after the departing Groaci.
“Consul-General Dools isn’t a very good sailor,” he commented. “Of course, in the week you’ve been here, you haven’t seen a real blow yet—”
The native peddler poked his round head through the door hanging, padded across the room on large, bare webbed feet, paused before Retief.
“You want um basket?” The round, amber-and-olive patterned face gazed hopefully at him.
“I’ll take that one,” Retief said in the native language, pointing.
The lipless mouth stretched wide in the local equivalent of a delighted grin.
“A sale! I was beginning to think you High-Pockets—excuse me, sir—you Terries were tighter than weed-ticks in a belly-button.” He lowered his wares, extracted the basket.
“You shouldn’t encourage him,” Wimperton said snappishly. “For months I’ve been indoctrinating him to bring in some gold nuggets; the land-masses are practically solid with them—but no, they build their town on a raft of seaweed in mid-ocean and weave baskets!”
“They evolved in the weed,” Retief said mildly. “And if they lifted the embargo on gold, in six months the planet would be swarming with prospectors, dumping their tailings into the ocean. They like it the way it is.”
The Poon caught Retief’s eyes, jerked his head toward the doorway, then ducked out through the door hanging.
Retief waited half a minute, then rose lazily, stepped out on the wide observation deck. All around, lesser towers, intricately patterned, rose from the miles-long mat of yellow-green seaweed far below, moving restlessly with the long ocean swells. Sea fowl with weed-colored backs and sky-blue undersides wheeled and screamed. Between the swaying pinnacles, a spider-web complex of catwalks swung in hundred-yard festoons. A continuous creaking of rattan filled the air. Far away, the white-flecked surface of the open sea was visible.
Retief crossed to where the Poon waited by the stairwell entry.
“You seem like a good fellow,” the native said as Retief came up. “So I’ll give you some free advice.” He glanced around at the color-drenched sky. “There’ll be a Big Blow tonight. Get down below—don’t waste any time.” He hitched at his load of baskets, turned to the stairs. “And don’t bother to tell those clowns—” he jerked his head toward the consular offices. “They’re bad medicine.” He bobbed his head and was gone.
Retief threw a sharp glance at the clouds, got out a cigar and lit up, turned from the rail.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a somber uniform stood by the catwalk mouth. He looked Retief over casually, then came across the close-woven deck, thrust out a large, well-tanned hand.