The two scavengers were clambering into their dark machine now. Running lights sprang into diamond brilliance. The turbos whirred. Retief disengaged his hand, ran across the thirty feet of open pavement and jumped, just as the heli lifted. There were faint, confused cries from the startled Groaci; one fumbled out a power rifle in time for Retief to jerk it from his grasp, toss it over the side. The heli canted wildly, narrowly missing a decorated cornice. Retief got a grip on a bony neck, propelled the owner over the side, heard a faint yelp as he hit. An instant later, the second followed. Retief caught the controls, brought the heli around in a tight turn, dropped it in beside Miss Braswell.
“Oh! I was afraid it was you that fell overboard, Mr. Retief!” She scrambled up beside him, lent a hand to tumble the gaboon out to smash thunderously on the tiles. On a nearby roof, the two dispossessed Groaci keened softly, like lost kittens. The heli jumped off, lifted swiftly and headed for the glass towers.
* * *
The city of glass spread over forty acres, a crystalline fantasy of towers, minarets, fragile balconies suspended over space, diaphanous fretwork, airy walkways spun like spider-webs between slim spires ablaze with jewel-colored light. Retief brought the heli in high, settled in a stomach-lifting swoop toward the tallest of the towers.
“Miss Braswell, you can operate this thing, can’t you?”
“Sure, I’m a good driver, but—”
Retief threw the drive into auto-hover three feet above a tiny terrace clinging to the spire. “Wait here; I’ll be back as soon as I can. If anybody else shows up, get out of here fast and head for the bog!”
“The . . . the bog?”
“It’ll be the safest place around when the quake hits . . . !” He was over the side, across the five-foot wide shelf of water-clear glass, and through an opening arched with intertwined glass vines hung with sparkling scarlet and purple berries. A narrow stair wound down, debouching into a round chamber walled with transparent murals depicting gardens in the sun. Through the glass, lighted windows in the next tower were visible, and beyond, the silhouettes of half a dozen Groaci and a tall, paunchy Terrestrial.
Retief found more stairs, leaped down them, whirled through an archway of trellised glass flowers. A narrow crystal ribbon arched across the void to the lighted entry opposite. He pulled off his shoes, crossed the bridge in five quick steps.
Voices were audible above, and dark shadows moved to the pebble-glass ceiling. Retief went up, caught a brief glimpse of five richly-draped Groaci under an ornate chandelier, fingering elaborate Yalcan wine glasses and clustering about the stooping, chinless figure of Minister Barnshingle.
“—pleasure to deal with realists like yourselves,” the diplomat was saying. “Pity about the natives, of course, but as you pointed out, a little discipline—”
Retief knocked two Groaci spinning, caught Barnshingle by the arm, slopping his drink over the crimson cuff of his mess jacket.
“We’ve got to go—fast, Mr. Minister! Explanations later!”
Fiss hissed orders; two Groaci darted away and another rushed in to be stiff-armed. Barnshingle choked, spluttered, jerked free. His face had turned an unflattering shade of purple.
“What’s the meaning of this outburst—”
“Sorry, Mr. Minister . . .” Retief slammed a clean right cross to the side of Barnshingle’s jaw, caught the diplomat as he folded, stooped to hoist the weight to his shoulders, and ran for the door.
Suddenly, Groaci were everywhere. Two bounced aside from Retief’s rush; another ducked, swung a power gun up, fired just as Fiss leaped in and knocked his hand aside.
“To endanger the bloated one,” he hissed—and went over backward as Retief slammed him aside. A helmeted Groaci Peace-keeper tackled Retief from behind; he paused to kick him across the room, bowling over others. A blaster bolt bubbled glass above his head. The air hissed with weak Groaci shouts as Retief plunged down stairs. Behind him, there was a terrific crash; over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of glass chips showering from the fallen chandelier. He was at the bridge now. Barnshingle groaned and flapped his arms feebly. Retief stepped onto the narrow span, felt it sway under his weight. He took two steps, put a foot over the edge, teetered—
There was a crystalline tinkle, and a ten-foot spear of canary-yellow glass fell past him. He caught his balance, took another step, wobbled as the bridge quivered, leaped clear as the glass shattered into ten thousand glittering shards that sparkled as they fell.
He went up stairs three at a time. A sudden lurch threw him against the wall, where mosaiced glass figures depicted glass blowers at work. A huge chunk of the scene fell backward, letting in a gust of cool night air. Retief scrambled for footing, went up, felt a glass slab drop from underfoot as he gained the terrace. Wind beat down from the heli, hovering a few yards distant. The sparkling tower that had loomed nearby was gone. A sustained crashing, as of nearby surf, drowned the whine of the heli’s turbos as it darted in close.
Retief lowered Barnshingle, now pawing weakly and blinking vague eyes, half lifted, half shoved him into the rear seat.
“Hurry, Mr. Retief! It’s going . . . !” The noise was deafening now. Retief grasped a strut to pull himself up, and suddenly he was hanging by one hand, his feet treading air. The heli surged, lifting. He looked down. The tower was dropping away below, a cloud of vari-colored glass splinters puffing out as the upper stories thundered down into the depths. A slender sapphire spire, thrusting up almost alone now, rippled like a dancer, then broke into three major fragments, dropped gracefully from view. Retief hauled himself up, got a foot inside the heli, pulled himself into the seat.
“Mr. Retief, you’re bleeding!” He put a hand up, felt slickness across his cheek.
“A lot of splinters flying around. It was a little too close—”
“Mr. Retief . . . !” Miss Braswell worked frantically at the controls. “We’re losing altitude!”
There was a harsh droning noise. Retief looked back. A heavy armored heli with Groaci markings was dropping toward them.
“Make for the bog!” Retief called over the racket.
There was a buzz, and garish light glared across the struts above Retief’s head, bubbling paint.
“Hang on!” Miss Braswell shouted. “Evasive action!” The heli tilted. Barnshingle yelled. The heli whipped up in the opposite direction, spun, dropped like a stone, darted ahead. The futile buzzing of the Groaci’s blaster rattled around the faltering vehicle.
“Can’t do much more of that,” Miss Braswell gasped. “Losing altitude too fast—”
A vast, dark shadow flitted overhead.
“We’re sunk,” Miss Braswell squeaked. “Another one—”
There was a flare of actinic blue from above and behind, followed by a muffled clatter. Retief caught a glimpse of the Groaci heli, its rotors vibrating wildly falling away behind them. Something huge and shadowy swept toward them from the rear in a rising whistle of air.
“Get set,” Retief called. He brought up the blaster he had taken from Oo-Plif, steadied his hand against the heli—
The shadow dropped close; the running lights of the heli gleamed on thirty-foot canopies of translucent tracery spread wide above a seven-foot body. Oo-Plif’s gaily painted face beamed down at them. He floated on spread wings, arms and legs folded close.
“Ah, Retief-Tic! Punch in thorax hasten metamorphosis. Got clear of chrysalis just in time!”
“Oo-Plif!” Retief yelled. “What are you doing here?”
“Follow to warn you, dear buddy! Not want you meet gods with crowd of Five-eyes! Now on to bog for festivities!”
Below, the torch-lit surface of the swamp rushed up. Miss Braswell braked, threw herself into Retief’s arms as the battered heli struck with a massive splatter at the edge of the mud. Painted Yalcan faces bobbed all around.
“Welcome, strangers!” voices called. “Just in time for fun!”
* * ** * *
Barnshingle was groaning, holding his head.
“What am I doing here, hip-deep in mud?” he demanded. “Where’s Magnan? What happened to that fellow Fiss?”
“Mr. Magnan is coming now,” Miss Braswell said. “You bumped your head.”
“Bumped my head? I seem to recall . . .”
Someone floundered up, gasping and waving skinny, mud-caked arms.
“Mr. Minister! These primitives dragged me bodily from the street—”
“I thought you were going to stay inside the Legation,” Retief said.
“I was merely conducting a negotiation,” Magnan huffed. “What are you doing here, Retief—and Miss Braswell!”
“What were you negotiating for, a private apartment just below the Ambassadorial penthouse?” she snapped.
“Miss Braswell! Kindly bend your knees! You’re exposing yourself!”
“I’ve got a quarter-inch layer of black mud on; that’s more than I wear to the office!”
“Here, what’s this?” Barnshingle exclaimed. “What’s happened to my clothes? I’m stark naked!”
“Why, it’s a sort of symbolic shedding of the chrysalis, as I understand it, sir,” Magnan babbled. “One must go along with native religious observances, of course—”