A five-foot native stood before him, staring up anxiously with large protruding green eyes in a smooth, olive-colored face. A wide, almost human mouth opened, showing a flash of pink interior.
“Are you all right, buddy?” a strangely resonant voice inquired in the bubbly local tongue.
Retief felt of his jaw, moved his shoulders gingerly. “A little dazed by the speed with which the boys work, but otherwise fine,” he replied.
“You speak Poon like a native, by Hoop!” the alien said. “Here, sit down. How about a drink of yiquil?” He indicated a low couch heaped with varicolored cushions, turned to a cupboard, wide webbed feet in bright yellow sandals gripping the swaying floor.
“You fell off a catwalk, eh?”
“Something like that,” Retief accepted a deep two-handled porcelain jug, delicately shaped. He sniffed the drink, then sipped.
“My name’s Url Yum. I’m a netter for Matwide Fooderies.”
“I’m Retief. I’m with the Terran Consulate.” He glanced around the room. “Handsome apartment you have here.”
“Oh, it’s all right—” There was a sharp whistle at the door.
“You feel like meeting a bunch of people? I guess they saw you fall, and they’ll be crowding in now to take a look at you; we don’t often see Terries here in town, you know.”
“I’d rather not go on exhibit right now, Yum.”
“Sure, I know how you feel. I had to go over to Dryport on business a few months back, and every other do-gooder wanted to have me in for tea and look me over.”
The whistle sounded again at the door. Url Yum padded across to the closet, brought out a large satchel, pulled out bright-colored gear of plastic and metal.
“I was just about to go for a swim. Why don’t you join me? You don’t want to go back up tonight—in this wind. We can go down the back way. How about it?”
“A swim? In this weather?”
“The best time. Hunting’s good; the small stuff shelters under the Mat, and the big stuff is in there hunting them—and we hunt the big stuff.” He held up a polished spear-head.
“Look, Yum, I’m just a Terry; I can’t hold my breath more than a minute or two.”
“Neither can I. That’s what the gear’s for. You burn oxygen, same as we do, don’t you?”
The whistle came again, more peremptory now. “Hey, Yum!” a voice called.
Retief finished his drink. “That yiquil’s great stuff, Yum; it’s already affecting my judgment. Let’s go!”
* * *
They stood in a narrow way that wound between high walls hung with lights and signboards, studded with balconies from which pennants fluttered, crowded with brilliantly mantled and jeweled Pupoony, filled with the shriek of wind, the chatter of whistled conversation, and over all the polyphonic creaking of the city.
“I’ve heard of twisting roads,” Retief called. “This is the first time I ever saw one that fit the description.”
Yum put his mouth close to Retief’s ear. “You know the whistle dialect?”
“I can understand it,” Retief shouted back. “But I can’t whistle it.”
Yum motioned, led the way down a side alley to a sea-shell ornamented hanging, pushed into a low room with couches along one wall, open shelves on another. A portly Poon waddled forward.
“Oi, Yum! Oi, stranger.”
“Oi,” Yum said. “Gipp, this is Retief. We’re going down. Can you fix him up with a spray job?”
“Lucky you came to my place, Yum. I happen to have a compound specially prepared for Terry requirements, a fresh batch, just concocted yesterday.”
“Good. Retief, put your stuff over there . . .” Yum opened his satchel, took out equipment, laid it out on a low table. He selected a pair of goggles, handed them to Retief. “These are a little big, but I think they’ll seat all right.” He handed over a heavy cylinder the size and shape of a beer bottle, added other items.
“OK: propulsion, communication, lights, breathing apparatus, emergency gear. Now, after you strip and get your equipment buckled on, Gipp will fit you with water foils, and spray you in.”
Retief donned the gear, watched with interest while the portly proprietor shaped a putty-like material to his feet, forming large fins which stiffened to a rubbery consistency, then brought out a portable apparatus with a tank, compressor, and hose with a wide nozzle.
“Give him a Striding Devil job, Gipp,” Yum ordered.
Gipp hesitated, looking at Retief. “I suppose you’ve had a lot of experience . . . ?”
“He’ll be all right,” Yum put in. “He catches on fast, and he’s got a good arm.”
“Whatever you say, Yum—but you ought to warn him that a Death Angel will jump a Strider on sight.”
“Sure—that way we don’t have to go looking for ’em.”
“Well, if you get one, remember I’m paying top sprud for stones.”
“You’ll get first crack.”
Gipp started up the compressor, twiddled knobs, then directed a heavy spray of viscous, greenish fluid on Retief’s chest, working it in a pattern that covered him to the knees, then shut down and set about changing hoses.
“What’s this stuff for?” Retief inquired, studying the thick, soft layer hardening on his skin.
“Protective covering; it’s tough as yuk skin. And it has an osmotic action; passes oxygen in, and CO2 out. The color disguises you so you don’t scare off the game—and the finished job holds all your gear in place. It’s a good insulation, too. That water’s cold. It strips off easily when you come back in.”
Gipp worked for another five minutes. Retief craned his neck to look at himself. His back, he saw, was a dull black, with red and white flecks, separated from the glossy green front by pale grey sides. Broad pink gill-flaps flared from throat to shoulders. The ankles and fin-covered feet were a vivid red-orange.
“He’s got the build for it,” Gipp said, looking him over. “If I hadn’t done the job myself, I’d swear he was a Strider, by Hoop!”
“That’s the idea, Gipp. Now just give me a straight Big Mouth outfit.” Yum took a flask from a side pocket, offered it to Retief, who took a generous pull, then passed it to Gipp, busy with his apparatus.
“No thanks; I don’t need any delusions of grandeur tonight. I hope to do a good volume of business before the storm hits its peak.” He worked carefully, covered Yum with a uniform dull grey, added a peaked crest of garish yellow.
“All right, Retief.” Yum handed him a light, short-barreled rifle from the muzzle of which a razor-edged spear head protruded. “Let’s go down.”
Gipp led the way to a back room, opened a wide wicker cover set in the floor. Retief looked down at the sloping surface of a three-foot tube of close-woven strips.
“Follow me,” Yum said, and dived, head first, out of sight. Retief gripped his spear-gun, waved Gipp a cheery farewell, and dived after him.
* * *
The water was ink-black, alive with darting lights in red and yellow, ponderous-moving patterns of green and blue, and far below, dull gleams of violet. Retief kicked his feet, watched lights scatter before him in a boil of phosphorescence.
A dark shape darted from the gloom, hovered before him; he recognized Yum’s yellow crest, waving gently in the moving water.
“Only peaceful place in town, when the wind’s working,” Yum’s voice crackled in Retief’s ears. “Let’s work our way east to get clear of the activity around here; then we’ll see if we can’t bait an Angel up.”
“How deep are we?”
“The Mat’s thirty meters thick here; we’re going to work Underside first; if that’s no go, we’ll move down.”
Yum darted off with a flick of webbed feet. Retief followed. Above, the mass of the floating continent of weed was a fairyland tangle of waving fronds, fantastically shaped corals, moving lights.
“Use the knob on your left hip as a jet control,” Yum said. “Steer with your feet—and keep your rifle ready. If you see anything that looks like you, let him have it.”
Retief tried the knob, felt water churn past his knees; he leaped ahead, driving through the water with a speed that blurred the weedscape above. A slight twist of the ankles sent him angling sharply toward the depths; a minute adjustment brought him back to Yum’s side. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, picked out the shapes behind the lights now. Massive, sluggish swimmers cruised, wide jaws open. Slim torpedo shapes darted and wheeled. A nebulous form, glowing with a nacreous pink, rose up, reached out with feathery arms; Yum swerved away, Retief following fifteen feet to one side of his bubble-trail.
After a ten-minute run, Yum slowed, rose until he brushed the tops of the coral trees, then reached up with his feet, planted them in a swirl of smoky mud, and stood, inverted. Retief came alongside, twisted, felt the soft ooze under his feet.