“Look here, I’m paying you nothing!” Magnan barked. “Just assist this unfortunate chap out of here, if you please, and we’ll get on with our dressing!”
“Small religious contributions fine old Hoogan gustom!” the Overseer protested. “You want to fiolate local tapoos?”
“We Terrans have a few customs of our own,” Retief put in smoothly. “We feel that graft should only be paid voluntarily.” He offered a note which the officer palmed deftly. The guard was on his feet now, swaying; the captain barked an order; his subordinate gathered up the spear fragments, shot Magnan a poisonous look and departed, followed by the captain.
Retief closed the door behind the departing visitors, fished out the scrap of paper dropped by the fleeing Spism, opened it out:
BY THE OGRE FOUNTAIN AT SECOND MOONRISE; WEAR A YELLOW DUNGFLOWER
Magnan, busy at the mirror again, heaved a deep sigh.
“Hardly an auspicious beginning,” he commented. Then: “Heavens! It’s twenty thirty! We’re late!” He gave his sarong a final tug, smoothed a thinning lock across his forehead, led the way along the echoing hall and down a spiral stair to an archway debouching onto wide steps above a ragged lawn. Blue lanterns hanging in the branches of skeletal trees shed a wan radiance on the fungus-like ornamental plants, the sculptures representing souls in torment, and the wide tables laden with Terran delicacies hastily unloaded from the Corps transport for the occasion. A dozen grotesquely shaped fountains spread a fine mist and an odor of sulphur across the festive scene. Beyond the high, spike-topped wall, the ominous shape of an immense brass-colored idol reared up half a mile away, its ferocious sculptured grin glowing in the glare of spotlights, its right arm raised in the Hoogan royal salute, elbow straight out, forearm pointing upward with fingers spread, the left hand gripping the right biceps. Magnan shuddered.
“That beastly idol—it’s sub-Hoogan,” he commented. “Isn’t that smoke coming out of its nostrils?”
Retief sniffed. “Something’s burning,” he agreed.
A dark figure stepped up from dense shadow at Magnan’s elbow. “Only old newsbapers you scent,” it rumbled. “Our Hoogan Kods are uzeful; they zerve as gommunity inzinerators.”
“Oh-Doomy-Gloom! You startled me!” Magnan chirped. He slapped at an insect that buzzed his face. “I do hope the evening is a big success. It was so thoughtful of His Arrogance to allow the Corps to act as host tonight; such a gesture of acceptance, sort of.”
“Reverze hosbitality is an old Hoogan gustom,” Oh-Doomy-Gloom said. “It would be a good idea to know all our old Hoogan gustoms, so as not to end up lige the last Derran Tiplomat.”
“Yes, it was unfortunate about Ambassador Straphanger’s predecessor getting excommunicated, and all. But really, how was he to know he was supposed to fill the Papal begging bowl with hundred-credit notes?”
“It wasn’t zo much not contributink; but pourink the canned beans in spoiled the bill His Arrokanze had planted as a hint.”
“A bad scene,” Magnan agreed. “But I’m sure this evening will smooth everything over.”
The orchestra was tuning up now; lugubrious notes groaned across the lawn. Armed Papal guards were taking up their posts, and sarong-clad diplomats were forming up a receiving line by the stone arch opening on the drive through which the dignitaries would arrive.
“I must hurry alonk now and zee to the kun emplazements,” Oh-Doomy-Gloom said. “One lasd suggestion: worldly goods of course mean nothink to His Arrokanze, but the deadliest of the zinz is Stinchiness. His Arrokanze detests a tightwad.” He moved off, chains clashing.
“The Ambassador’s not out yet,” Magnan noted nervously. “Gracious, I hope he puts in an appearance before Pope Ai-Poppy-Googy arrives. I dread the prospect of having to engage His Arrogance in light chitchat.”
“According to the Post Report, dealing with the Pope is very simple,” Retief said. “Just give him everything in sight, and if that doesn’t satisfy him, give him some more.”
“I can see that you’re getting the hang of diplomacy, Retief,” Magnan said approvingly. “Still, I’m worried . . .”
“Since it’s your job as Protocol Officer to soften up difficult guests,” Retief said, “why not meet the Pope at the gate and try out a few racy stories on him?”
“I hardly imagine that the Chief of State of a Theocracy would react favorably to biological anecdotes,” Magnan said stiffly.
“Oh, biology is a perfectly clean subject here on Hoog; but don’t bring up cooking in polite conversation. According to the handbook, there’s an unspoken agreement among the cultured element that the stork brings the goodies.”
“Really? Heavens, and all the cookies are stamped `Made in Hong Kong’! I’ll have to tell the cook to substitute blintzes. While I’m attending to that, you’d best take your post at the gate. You’ll handle the first shift tonight. I’ll send Stringwhistle along to relieve you in an hour.”
“I could delay the Pope a few minutes for you,” Retief offered, as they crossed to the gate. “Suppose I start by demanding to see his invitation—”
“None of your ill-timed japes, Retief! After the last mission’s fiasco, establishing a friendly rapport with the Pope tonight could mean promotions all around.”
“I think the traditional lawn party is a little too subtle for a fellow like the Pope. We should have used a simpler symbolism—like a few rounds of heavy artillery lobbed into the palace grounds.”
“Hardly the diplomatic approach,” Magnan sniffed. “For centuries now it’s been understood that if enough diplomats go to enough parties, everything will come right in the end.”
“I wonder if the Hoogans understand that tradition?”
“Certainly; after all, we’re all fellow beings—brothers under the skin, as it were.”
“In this case, the skin is an inch thick and tougher than armorplast. I’m not sure we can penetrate to the brotherhood layer in time to save bloodshed.”
“Actually, I rather look forward to matching epigrams with His Arrogance tonight,” Magnan said loftily, turning to scan the gardens. “As you know, I’m always at my sparkling best with high-ranking guests—and of course, mere size and strength fail utterly to intimidate me—” Magnan turned at a sound behind him, uttered a strangled yelp, and trampled a Hoog waiter’s foot as he leaped back from the spectacle of a seven-foot-high, six-foot-wide Hoog wrapped in cloth of gold. The monster’s gilded features included one-inch nose holes, huge watery, reddish eyes and a wide mouth set in a formal grimace to display polished gold-capped teeth. Two clusters of ringed fingers gripped the hilt of an immense two-edged sword.
“Somethink smells pat!” the apparition bellowed. He leaned forward, sniffed vigorously at Magnan and snorted.
“Horriple!” he announced, elbowing Magnan aside. “Ko away, vellow! You’re invested with an acute P.O.!”
“Why, Your Arrogance—it’s just a touch of skin bracer back of my ear—”
“It smelts like pargain night in a choy house. Where’s Ambassador Hapstrinker? I drust you have blenty of food reaty. I understant you Terries take a kreat interesd in gooking.” The Pope winked a damp pink eye, rammed Magnan under the ribs and guffawed comfortably.
“Oof!” Magnan said. “Why, Your Arrogance!”
The Pope was already striding toward the nearest table, his escort of armed and helmeted guards trailing behind, fingering scimitars and eyeing the diplomats suspiciously.
“I . . . I think I’ll just scoot along and see to the refreshments,” Magnan bleated. “Retief, you accompany His Arrogance and keep him amused until help arrives—I mean, until the Ambassador puts in an appearance!” He fled.
The Pope dipped a boneless finger into a large crystal container of cheese sauce, studied it at arm’s length, sniffed it, then, with a flick of a limber wrist, spattered it across the ruffled shirt-fronts and glassy smiles of the diplomats strung out in the receiving line.
“Who are these loavers?” he demanded loudly. “Bropaply relatives, waitink arount for handouts. I have the same proplem. Or had the same proplem, I should zay. Two weeks ako was Self-Denial Festival. I made the subreme sagrifize ant offered the entire lot to the anzestral spirids.”
“Giving up your relatives for Lent is quite an idea,” Retief said. “It could catch on.”
The Pope picked up a plate of dainty sandwiches, spilled the food off, sniffed the plate, and took a small bite. “I’ve heard a kreat teal about Terran tishes,” he said, chewing noisily. “A bit too crizp, but not bat.” He took a second nip from the thin porcelain, offered it to Retief.
“Have a bite,” he invited genially.
“No thanks, I filled up on a beer bottle just before Your Arrogance arrived,” Retief countered. “Try the dinner plates. They’re said to be an epicure’s delight.”
There was a sudden stir from the vicinity of the wide terrace doors. Ambitious diplomatic underlings sprang to positions of eager anticipation, delighted smiles ready. The squat figure of Career Minister Straphanger, Terrestrial Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to Hoog, waddled into view, stylishly decked out in a short but heavily brocaded Hoogan longhi, a brilliant red sash which all but dragged the ground, and jeweled sandals. At his side puffed a companion of almost identical build and garb, distinguished only by a mop of vivid orange hair. Magnan trailed by two yards.