“Gee, Mr. Retief,” Miss Braswell murmured. “It’s sort of sexy at that, isn’t it?”
“Wha-whatever’s happened?” Barnshingle burst out. “Where’s the city gone?” He stared across at the glowing heap that marked the site of the fallen towers.
“It seems to have—ah—been offered to the local deities,” Magnan said. “It seems to be the custom.”
“And all those nasty little bug-eyes with it,” Miss Braswell put in.
“Really, Miss Braswell! I must ask you to avoid the use of racial epithets!”
“It’s really too bad about the towers; they were awfully pretty.”
Oo-Plif, perched like a vast moth on a nearby tree-fern, spoke up. “Is OK; re-use glass; make plenty bowl and pot from fragments.”
“But, what about all those Groaci mixed in with the pieces?”
“Impurities make dandy colors,” Oo-Plif assured her.
“My jaw,” Barnshingle grated. “How did I fall and hit my jaw?”
“Retief-Tic arrive in nick of time to snatch you from sacrificial pile. Probably bump chin in process.”
“What in the world were you doing there, Mr. Minister?” Magnan gasped. “You might have been killed.”
“Why, ah, I was trepanned there by the Groaci—quite against my will, of course. They . . . ah . . . had some fantastic proposal to make. I was just on the point of daring them to do their worst, when you appeared, Retief. After that, my recollection grows a bit hazy.”
“These head-blows often have retroactive effects,” Retief said. “I’ll wager you don’t recall a thing that was said from the time they picked you off the mountain.
“It’s even possible that Oo-Plif has forgotten some of the things he overheard—about penthouses and gilt edge stocks,” Retief went on. “Maybe it was the excitement generated by your announcement that Yalc will be getting some large shipments of fine grey silica sand from Groac suitable for glass-making, courtesy of the CDT.”
“Announcement?” Barnshingle gulped.
“The one you’re going to make tomorrow,” Retief suggested gently.
“Oh . . . that one,” the Minister said weakly.
“Time to go along now to next phase of celebration,” Oo-Plif called from his perch.
“How jolly,” Magnan said. “Come along, Mr. Minister—”
“Not you, Magnan-Tic, and Barnshingle Tic-Tic,” Oo-Plif said. “Mating rite no place for elderly drones. You scheduled for cozy roost in thorn-tree as ceremonial penitence for follies of youth.”
“What about us?” Miss Braswell asked breathlessly.
“Oh, time for you to get in on youthful follies, so have something to repent later!”
“You said . . . mating rite. Does that mean . . . ?”
“Voom Festival merely provide time, place, and member of opposite gender,” Oo-Plif said. “Rest up to you . . .”
RETIEF’S WAR
One
Jame Retief, Second Secretary and Consul of the Terrestrial Embassy to Quopp, paused in his stroll along the Twisting Path of Sublime Release to admire the blaze of early morning sunlight on the stained glass window of a modest grog shop wedged between a stall with a sign in jittery native script announcing Bargain Prices in Cuticula Inlays, and the cheery facade of the Idle Hour Comfort Station, One Hundred Stalls, No Waiting. He took out a long cigar of the old-fashioned type still hand-rolled on Jorgensen’s Worlds, glanced back along the steep, narrow street. Among the crowd of brilliantly colored Quoppina—members of a hundred related native species mingling freely here in the Great Market of Ixix—the four Terrans who had been trailing him for the past half hour stood out drably.
Retief drew on the cigar, savoring the aroma, turned and stepped through the low arch into the tavern. From a high stool within the raised ring-bar at the center of the gaily lit chamber, the barkeeper—a medium-sized, short-abdomened individual of the Herpp tribe, with chipped wing cases of faded baby blue and four dexterous arms of bristly wine-red on one of which a Terran wristwatch was strapped—manipulated the controls of the dispenser console, exchanged banter with the customers, made change, and kept a pair of eyes on the free lunch simultaneously. He saw Retief, tilted his anterior antennae in friendly greeting.
“I am Gom-Goo, and I dance the Dance of Welcome,” he susurrated in Quopp trade dialect, his voice reminiscent of fingernails on a blackboard. “What’ll it be, Retief?”
“I’m Retief, and I dance the Dance of Glad Arrival,” the diplomat replied in the same tongue. “How about a shot of Bacchus brandy?”
“Red or black?”
“Black.” The other customers made room as Retief moved up, unclipped a carefully charred wooden bowl from the serving panel, got it under the proper bright-plated nozzle just in time to catch the tar-colored syrup as it jetted forth.
“That’s pretty good stuff,” Gom-Goo said; he lowered his voice. “But for a real kick, you ought to try a shot of Hellrose—cut ten to one, of course. That’ll put a charge on your plates.”
“I tried it once. Too sweet for a Terry. We like our sugar fermented.”
“Sourballs?” The Herpp indicated an assortment of pea-sized lumps of yellow, white, purple, and green.
Retief shook his head. “I prefer salt peanuts to salt-peter,” he confided.
“Well, every tribe to its own poison.”
“Here’s oil in your crankcase,” Retief toasted formally, nibbling the brandy.
“Oil,” Gom-Goo responded. “You haven’t been in lately, Retief. Been dormant?”
“No more so than usual, Gom-Goo. Ambassador Longspoon’s been imposing non-union hours on the staff, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t do to let the Groaci steal a march on us and get a Bolshoi-type ballet theater built before we can get a Yankee-stadium type sports arena off the drawing board.”
Gom-Goo worked his dorsal mandibles in the gesture that expressed courteous skepticism. “Frankly, Retief, we Quoppina aren’t much interested in watching Terries hobble around. After all, only two legs and no wings . . .”
“I know; but it’s traditional in these diplomatic competitions to build something conspicuously inappropriate.”
Gom-Goo tilted his oculars toward the door, where a pair of Quoppina with highly polished black carapaces were rolling past, twirling nightsticks.
“Speaking of Terry programs, Retief, just between you and me, what’s behind this business of buffing up these Voion ne’er-do-wells and setting them to cruising the streets waving clubs at the rest of us?”
“Well, Gom-Goo, it appears that in some quarters the view is held that you Quoppina are a little too fond of brawling, anarchy, and dueling in the streets to qualify as natural democrats. Ergo, a native police force.”
“Uh-huh—but why pick the Voion for the job? Their tribe’s made its living by waylaying honest Quoppina in back alleys ever since the Great Egg first hatched—”
A heavy foot clumped behind Retief. He turned to find the four Terrans ringing him in, ominous expressions on their weathered features.
“We’re just in from the Trading Post at Rum Jungle,” the lean, scar-faced member of the quartet said flatly. “We want to have a little talk with you, Mister.” He put his left fist carefully against the palm of his right hand and twisted it, looking around nervously.
Retief nodded. “Go ahead,” he said pleasantly. A large man with thick, protuberant ears and thin sandy hair eased the scarred man aside.
“Not in this dump,” he said in a voice like a cannonball rolling downstairs. “Outside.”
“If it’s a private matter, maybe you’d better drop by my office—”
“We already been to the Embassy; talked to some bird named Magnan,” the big man said. “He acted like his lace drawers was itching him; no joy there.”
“Don’t argue with this chump, Big Leon,” a squatty fellow with a bluish chin and a steel front tooth advised. “Bring him along.”
The bartender leaned over and buzzed sharply. “My name is Gom-Goo,” he started. “I—”
“Better get your wiring checked, low-pockets,” Scar-face cut him off. “Sounds like you got a short in your talk box.” He jerked his head at Retief. “Let’s walk, Mister.”
“I haven’t quite finished my drink,” Retief said mildly. “Why don’t you go stand outside; I’ll be along presently.”
The fourth man, yet to be heard from, edged close. “Ah, sir, we have a problem,” he began. “We—”
“Skip it, Jerry,” Scar-face snapped. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, glowered at Retief. “Outside, you, like Big Leon said.”
“Sorry,” Retief said. “Some other time, maybe.”
Scar-face narrowed his eyes, reached a large-knuckled hand for Retief’s collar; Retief leaned aside, caught the hand, and flipped it over, his fingers against the palm, his thumb against the scarred knuckles, doubled it back over the wrist. Scar-face went to his knees with a yowl. Retief tsked.
“A very poor lead, Lefty,” he said reproachfully. “It’s a good thing I wasn’t an enemy of yours.”
“Hey,” the big man said, stepping in. “Let him up.”
Retief looked at the wide face that topped his own six-three by an inch. “Why do they call you Big Leon?”
Big Leon set himself. “Put Seymour down and I’ll show you,” he grated.
Retief shifted his grip, lifted the scarred man clear of the floor, hoisted him chest-high. “Here, you have him,” he offered, and tossed him at the big man. Leon staggered back, oof!ed, thrust Seymour aside, frowned, doubled a large fist, and moved in—