“Here’s some more,” Retief offered helpfully. He gathered up and handed over a pair of saucers, three empty glasses and a couple of cheese sandwiches each minus one bite. “You’d better hump along now and police up behind His Arrogance,” he suggested. “He’s leaving a trail of saucer rims behind him; doesn’t seem to like the floral design.”
“You dry dell me my chop?” the Hoogan demanded truculently as Retief fumbled a spoon, let it drop to the grass just under the edge of the hanging table cloth.
“Certainly not, old boy,” Retief reassured the glowering local. He stooped for the spoon, caught a glimpse of an eye peering from the shadows.
“Get in the bag,” he hissed from the corner of his mouth.
“Who you talg to?” the servant ducked and stared under the table. Behind him, the paper trash container rustled softly as the Spism whisked into it.
“Just addressing a few words to the spoon god,” Retief said blandly. “Bad luck to drop a spoon, you know.”
“Yez?” the Hoogan said. He leaned against the table, got out a much-used toothpick and began plying it on his unpolished teeth. “You voreigners kot grazy iteas. Efrypoty know kood lug trop sboon, bat lug trob forg.”
“Back home, falling from a ten-story building is considered an inauspicious omen,” Retief rambled on, watching the armed Papal Guard as they worked closer. One came over to the table, gave Retief a sharp look, thrust his head under the table, then reached to check the trash container. “How about a little refreshment?” Retief picked up a cup, dipped it full from a bowl of thick purple punch, took a step toward the warrior and seemed to trip; the sticky fluid struck the Hoogan just below the clasp holding the rainbow-hued cape, spread out in an interesting pattern across his polished breastplate. The bearer grabbed up his tray and bag and backed off hurriedly as the spluttering guard slapped limber fingers at the mess.
“Itiot! Clumpsy oaf!” he choked—
“What, boozink on duty?” a vast voice boomed. The Pope bellied past Retief, planted himself before the confused Hoogan. “The benalty is boilink in oil!” he roared. “Take him away!”
Other guardsmen closed in, grabbed their unfortunate fellow.
“That was my fault, Your Arrogance,” Retief started. “I offered him—”
“You would inderfere with the Babal administration of justize?” the Pontiff bellowed, turning on Retief. “You have the demerity to sugchest that the Babal judgment is fallible?”
“Not exactly; you’re just wrong,” Retief said. “I spilled the punch on him.”
The Pope’s face purpled; his mouth worked. He swallowed.
“It’s ben zo long zinze anyone contradicted me,” he said mildly, “that I’ve vorkotten the bunishment.” He waved two fingers in blessing. “You are apzolved, my zon,” he said airily. “In vact, I apzolv you for the whole weekent. Have fun; it’s on the house.”
“Why, isn’t that gracious of His Arrogance?” Magnan chirped, popping up beside the Pope. “What a pity we didn’t find the demon; but I—”
“That reminds me,” the Pope said ominously. He fixed an eye on Ambassador Straphanger as the senior diplomat came up. “I’m still waitink for results!”
“Look here, Your Arrogance! How can we find a demon if there’s no demon here?”
“That’s your broblem!”
There was a yell from the gate. Two guards were man-handling the bearer with the waste-paper bag, who jerked away, making indignant noises. The bag fell, split open, spilling garbage from the midst of which the fugitive Spism burst, sending scraps flying in every direction. With a bound, it was past the astonished guards, heading for the rear gate. More guards appeared in its path, jerking long-barreled guns from tooled holsters. A shot seared a long gouge in the deep grass, narrowly missed other Papal retainers dashing up to get a crack at the action. The Pope yelled, waving his boneless arms.
Cut off, the Spism veered, dashed for the house, was met by a squad charging out from inside. A near-miss smashed dishes on the table beside Magnan, who yelped and hit the dirt.
The Spism skittered, took evasive action, headed for the flower-decked gate letting onto the drive. The guards were all behind it now, the way clear. With a tremendous yell, Pope Ai-Poppy-Googy whipped his giant sword out and leaped to intercept the fleeing creature. As he bounded past Retief, the latter pivoted, thrust out a foot, hooked the papal leg just above a flare-topped bejeweled pink leather shoe. His Arrogance dived forward, struck medals-first, and skidded on his face under the table.
“Why, hi there,” Magnan’s voice piped from under the muffling canopy of the drooping table cloth. “Just a minute, and I’ll scroonch over—”
The Pope roared and rose up, the table lifting with him; dishes, glasses, and food cascaded off on Magnan, crouching on the ground. With a surge, the Pontiff hurled the board aside, roared again, whirling to confront the dancing figure of Ambassador Straphanger, who flapped a napkin at the mud on the ornate canonicals of the guest of honor.
“Treason!” Ai-Poppy-Googy bellowed. “Azzazints! Murderers! Achents of the Unterworlt! Obstructors of chustist! Heretics!”
“Now, now, Your Arrogance! Don’t get upset—”
“Upzet! This iz maybe a choke?” The Pope dashed the muddied cloth from Straphanger’s hand, bent and snatched up his sword, waved it overhead. The Papal Guard was closing in quickly now.
“I hereby eggsgommunigate the lot of you!” he Pope yelled. “No food, no water, no bolice brotection! Alzo, you will be puplicly eggsecuted! Boys, round them up!”
Guns were suddenly leveled at the huddle of diplomats surrounding the Ambassador. Magnan yelped. Straphanger’s wattles quivered.
“Ton’t miss this one!” Ai-Poppy-Googy indicated Retief. “It was his foot I fell over!” A guard poked a gun into Retief’s side.
“Ah, I think Your Arrogance is forgetting that Mr. Retief has a Papal dispensation,” Straphanger said brightly. “Retief, if you’ll just run along to my office and send out a code two-oh-three—or is it three-oh-two—or . . . anyway, a call for aitch ee ell pee—”
“He’ll ko along with the rest of you scoundrels!” the Pope yelled. Half a dozen armed Hoogans were herding the remainder of the staff up to join the group now.
“Any more insite?”
“No, Your Arrokants,” the captain of the guard reported. “Only a few zervants.”
“Poil them in oil for azzociatink with azzazints! As for the rest of you—”
“Your Arrogance,” Straphanger spoke up. “Naturally, I don’t mind dying, if it’s Your Arrogance’s pleasure, but then we won’t be able to give you the gifts and things, will we…?”
“Tamn!” Ai-Poppy-Googy threw his sword down, narrowly missing Magnan’s foot. “I forgot about the gidtz!” He looked thoughtful. “Look, zuppose I make arranchmends for you to write a few chegs in your zell pefore the eggzecution?”
“Oh, I’m afraid that wouldn’t do at all, Your Arrogance. I need the Embassy seal, and the check verifying machine, and the code books and—”
“Well . . . bossibly I might make an egzeption; I’ll defer punishment until the cash arrives—”
“Sorry, Your Arrogance, but I wouldn’t ask you to deviate from tradition just to accommodate me. No, we’re all excommunicated, so I suppose we may just as well get comfortable and start starving—”
“Holt it! Don’t rush me! Who’s doing the eggsgommunigatink, you or me?”
“Oh, you are—”
“Brecizely! And I zay you’re not eggsgommunigated!” The Pope stared around truculently. “Now about the gifd! You can deliver the two million immediately; I juzt happened to pring an armored gar alonk—”
“TWO million? But you said one million!”
“This is touple gift day.”
“But you said Wednesday was double-gift day. This is only Tuesday.”
“It’s now Wentsday, by Babal decree.”
“But you can’t—I mean, how can you . . . ?”
“Calendar Reform,” Ai-Poppy-Googy said. “Lonk overdue.”
“Well, I suppose it could be arranged . . .”
“Kood! I herepy grant you a Babal rebrieve. Put that toesn’t inglude the resd of these untesiraples!” the Pope waved a hand. “Dake them away, poys!”
“Ah . . . I’m grateful for the pardon, I’m sure,” Straphanger said, gaining confidence rapidly; “but of course I won’t be able to process the paper work properly without my staff . . .”
Ai-Poppy-Googy glared with large, damp, red eyes. “All righd! Keeb them! They’re all rebrieved egzebd thad one!” he aimed a finger at Retief like a gun. “I have sbezial blans for him!” The guards shifted their attention to Retief, ringing him in with aimed guns.
“Maybe His Arrogance would be just a teeny bit lenient this time,” Magnan suggested, dabbing at a smear of liver paste along his bare arm, “if Mr. Retief apologized and promised never to do it again.”
“Do whad akain?” the Pope demanded.
“Trip you,” Magnan said. “You know, like he did just now.”
“He dribbed me?” Ai-Poppy-Googy choked. “On burpose?”
“Why, ah, it must have been a mistake—” Straphanger started.
“Your Arrogance has such a keen sense of humor, I’m sure you’ll see the comic aspect of it, if you just think about it,” Magnan offered.