“Ah, yes, impulse buying; hardly consonant with domestic thrift. But enough of this delightful gossip, Mr. Minister. The matter I wished to discuss with you . . .” Fiss gave the Minister a glowing account of his peaceful take-over, citing chapter and verse each time the astounded diplomat attempted to rumble a protest.
“And, of course,” he finished, “I wished to acquaint your Excellency with the facts before permitting you to be subjected to ill-advised counsel by hot-heads.”
“B-but, Great heavens, Drone-master—”
“Planetary Coordinator Pro Tem,” Fiss interjected smoothly. “Now, I shall, of course, be happy to inspect your credentials at once in order to regularize relations between the Corps and my government.”
“My credentials? But I’ve presented my credentials to Mr. Rilikuk of the Foreign Office—”
“This is hardly the time to reminisce over vanished regimes, Mr. Minister. Now . . .” Fiss leaned forward confidentially. “You and I are, if I may employ the term, men of the world. Not for us the fruitless expense of emotional energy over the fait accompli, eh? As for myself, I am most eager to show you around my offices in the finest of the towers of my capitol—”
“Towers? Capitol?”
“The attractive edifices just beyond the swampy area where the local wild-life are now disporting themselves,” Fiss explained. “I have assigned—”
“You’ve violated the native Sanctum Sanctorum?” Barnshingle gasped.
“An unfortunate choice of words,” Fiss hissed. “Would you have me establish my ministries here in this warren of one-story clay huts?”
“The Yalcans—” Barnshingle said weakly.
“The name of the planet is now Grudlu,” Fiss stated. “In honor of Grud, the patron Muse of practicality.”
“Look here, Fiss! Are you asking me to turn my back on the Yalcans and recognize you as the de jure government here? Simply on the basis of this absurd legalistic rationalization of yours?”
“With the exception of a number of slanted adjectives, very succinctly put,” Fiss whispered.
“Why in the world would I do a dastardly thing like that?” Barnshingle demanded.
“Why, good for him,” Miss Braswell breathed behind Retief.
“Ah, yes, terms,” Fiss said comfortably. “First, your Mission would, of course, be raised at once to Embassy level, at Grudlun insistence, with yourself requested by name as Ambassador, naturally. Secondly, I have in mind certain local commercial properties which might make a valuable addition to your portfolio; I can let you in at investor’s prices—the entire transaction to be conducted with the utmost discretion, of course, so as not to arouse comment among the coarse-minded. Then, of course, you’ll wish to select a handsome penthouse for yourself in one of my more exclusive towers . . .”
“Penthouse? Ambassador? Portfolio?” Barnshingle babbled.
“I marvel at the patience Your Excellency has displayed in tolerating the thinly-veiled insult implied in your assignment to grubby quarters in this kennel,” Fiss commented. “Why, a person could disappear in this maze of old crockery and never be heard from again . . .”
“Disappear?” Barnshingle croaked. “And wha-what if I refuse . . . ?”
“Refuse? Please, Mr. Minister—or more properly, Mr. Ambassador—why release the fowl of fancy to flutter among such morbid trees of speculation?”
“What about my staff? Will they . . . ah . . . ?”
“Suitable bribes will be offered,” Fiss whispered crisply. “Pray don’t give it another thought. All surviving members of the Mission will present a united front—with the exception of the two criminals now skulking in the former Legation, of course,” he added.
“Magnan? Why, he’s one of my most reliable men . . .”
“Perhaps something could be managed in the case of Mr. Magnan, since you express an interest. As for the other—he will return to Groac to stand trial for assorted crimes against the peace and dignity of the Groacian state.”
“I really must protest . . .” Barnshingle said weakly.
“Your Excellency’s loyalty is most touching. And now, if you’d just care to sign here . . .” An underling handed Fiss a document which he passed to Barnshingle.
“Why, the old phoney!” Miss Braswell gasped. “He’s going to do it!”
“It’s time to break this up,” Retief whispered to Oo-Plif. “I’ll take care of Fiss; you hit the others—”
“On contrary, Retief-Tic,” the Yalcan replied. “Most improper to interfere with natural course of events.”
“Maybe you don’t understand; Barnshingle’s about to sign away your rights to Yalc. By the time you drag it though the courts and recover, you may all be dead. The Groaci are zealous in the field of wildlife control—”
“No matter; we Yalcans pacifistic folk; not like butt in.”
“In that case, I’ll have to do it alone. You’ll take care of Miss Braswell—”
“No, not even alone, dear Retief-Tic. Not in spirit of Yalcan Pacifism.” Something hard prodded Retief’s chest; he looked down at the power gun in Oo-Plif’s lower right hand.
“Why, you old stinker,” Miss Braswell said. “And I thought you were sweet!”
“Hope soon to recoup good opinion, Braswell Ticcim,” Oo-Plif said. “Now silence, please.”
In the room, Barnshingle and Fiss were making congratulatory noises at each other.
“Matter of fact,” Barnshingle said, “I never felt these Yalcans were ready for self-government. I’m sure your wardship will be just what they need.”
“Please—no meddling in internal affairs,” Fiss said. “And, now, let us away to more appropriate surroundings. Just wait until you see the view from your new suite, Mr. Ambassador . . .” They departed, chattering.
“Well, you’ve had your way, Oo-Plif,” Retief said. “Your pacifism has a curiously spotty quality. Just why do you object to preventing our unfortunate Minister from making an idiot of himself?”
“Forgive use of weapon, Retief-Tic. Foolishness of Barnshingle Tic-Tic-Tic not important—”
“He’s a three-tic man now?”
“Promotion just received at hands of Five-eyes. Now away to bog, all buddies together, eh?”
“Where’s the rest of Barnshingle’s staff? They were together on the crater-viewing expedition.”
“All tucked away in house few alleys from here. Better get wiggle on now; climax of festival arrive soon.”
“Good night, does your silly old carnival mean more to you than your own planet?” Miss Braswell demanded.
“Voom Festival of great national importance,” Oo-Plif stated, opening and closing his bony mandibles like the two halves of a clam—a mannerism indicating polite amusement.
Following the Yalcan’s instructions, Retief squeezed through narrow passages, found his way out into the inevitable dark alley, Miss Braswell’s hand holding tightly to his. The sounds of looters and their vehicles had diminished to near-silence now. A turbine growled along a nearby street, going away. They came out into a side street, surveyed the deserted pavement, the scattered discards of the Groaci homesteaders. Above the low roof-lines, the mile-distant towers of the shrine were a blaze of gorgeous light.
“It looks so pretty, all lit up,” Miss Braswell said. “I’m just amazed that you’d let those nasty little Groaci walk in and take it all away from you.”
Oo-Plif laughed, a sound like sand in a bearing. “Towers tributes to deities. Fate of towers in deities’ hands now.”
“Hmmmph. They could have used a little help from you,” Miss Braswell sniffed.
“Looks like the new owners have cleared out for now,” Retief said. “All over at the towers, throwing a party in honor of Independence Day.”
“Time go to dandy hot bog,” Oo-Plif said. “Big event soon now.”
Moving briskly along the empty street under the light of the fourth moon, now high in the sky, they reached the corner. Down the wide cross-avenue, the flaring torches of the revelers at the bog sparkled cheerfully. The faint sound of Yalcan voices raised in song were audible now in the stillness.
“Just what is this big event we’re hurrying to make?” Retief inquired.
Oo-Plif indicated the large satellite overhead. “When number four moon reach position ten degrees west of zenith—Voom!”
“Oh, astrological symbolism.”
“Not know big word—but only one time every ninety-four years standard all four moon line up. When this happen—Voom time here!”
“Voom,” Retief said. “Just what does the word signify?”
“Fine old Yalcan word,” Oo-Plif said. “Terry equivalent . . . ummm . . .”
“Probably untranslatable.”
Oo-Plif snapped the fingers of his upper left hand.
“I remember,” he said. “Mean `earthquake’!”
Retief stopped dead.
“You did say—`earthquake’?”
“Correct Retief-Tic—”
Retief’s left fist slammed out in a jack-hammer punch to the Yalcan’s midriff plates. The tall creature oofed, coiled into a ball, all four legs scrabbling, the four arms groping wildly.
“Sorry, pal,” Retief muttered, catching up the power gun. “No time to argue.” He grabbed Miss Braswell’s hand and started off at a dead run down the deserted avenue toward the towering castle of light.
They skidded to a halt at a gleam from an opening door ahead. A pipe-stem-legged Groaci hurried from a building, a bulging sack over one knobby shoulder. A second helmeted looter trotted behind, lugging a handsome ten gallon spittoon.
“They’ve got a heli,” Retief said softly. “We need it. Wait here.”
Miss Braswell clutched his hand even tighter. “I’m scared!”