“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 entertainment.” 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 Appreciation 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 Omnivoracity . . . ?” 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 . . .”