There was a shrill rasp of sound. A thick, five-foot Quoppina with a glistening black carapace decked out in elaborate silver ornaments rolled between Retief and Big Leon.
“Outside, foreign grubs!” the intruder keened. He waved a long billy club of black wood, jabbed it at the scar-faced man, who had stumbled to his feet. There were other club-wielders behind the first—two, three, half a dozen or more, all wearing the new black and silver trappings of the CDT-sponsored Federal Police. The Voion captain waved his palps, giving Retief a glimpse down a yellow-green throat set with silvery needles.
“All of you are under arrest,” he rasped. “Place your manipulative members above your sense-organ clusters and proceed hence!”
“What’s the charge?” Retief asked in the Voion dialect.
“Trespassing in forbidden territory, alien, not that it matters! The example may remind your fellows to remain in the ghetto graciously assigned to them by the indulgence of the Planetary Government!”
“Just a minute,” the barkeeper interrupted from his perch above. “I am Gom-Goo and—”
“Silence, panderer to alien perversions,” the Voion snapped. “Or I’ll find dungeon space for you, too!”
The other Voion were unlimbering clubs now. Over their heads, Retief caught Big Leon’s eye, jerked his head minutely to the right; the big man narrowed his eyes, nodded quickly. As the Voion before Retief brought his club back for a jab to the sternum, Leon reached, caught the alien by the upper pair of arms, lifted him clear of the floor, whirled him, and slammed him at his fellows. Two of them went over with a crash. Retief spun, intercepted an eager junior closing in from the left, caught him by his vestigial wing cases, sent him reeling back to collide with his partner as Scar-face feinted, twisted the club from the two-pronged grip of the nearest cop, ducked, and jammed it through the spokes of the alien’s yard-high main wheels. The victim stopped with a screech and a twanging of broken spokes. Big Leon met a second charging Voion with a roundhouse swipe, yelled as his fist glanced off the armored and thorned thorax, then landed a blow that spun the creature aside. Retief, ready, spiked its main wheels with the club he had wrenched from his last victim, just as the sole undamaged Voion struck Big Leon a vicious blow behind the ear. Leon turned with a roar, picked up the cop bodily, and slammed him against the barkeeper’s podium.
“Here!” the barkeeper shrilled. “I am Gom-Goo and I dance the Dance of Distress—”
“Let’s get out of here!” Scar-face ducked aside as a Voion’s club whistled, charged for the door. Quoppina of all sizes and colors scattered before him. Leon aimed a blow at a cop renewing the attack; Jerry took the arm of the fourth Terran, staggering from a bloody cut across the scalp, plunged through the crowd. Retief, backed against the podium by the last two Voion still in action, keeping their distance and swinging their clubs in whistling arcs, plucked a tall bottle from a display, got in a hearty crack across the head of one as Gom-Goo leaned down and laid the other out with a bung starter.
“Retief!” The Herpp called above the chatter of the clientele who had been enjoying the free show. “I am Gom-Goo and I dance the Dance of Apology—”
“This dance is on me,” Retief panted. “I think I’d better be off now, Gom-Goo; sorry about the damage—”
“It was entirely the fault of these jacks-in-office,” the bartender clashed his wing cases in agitation. “Interfering in a friendly dispute among cash customers! Tum-Tuk . . .” He signaled to his two table waiters. “Haul these Voion troublemakers out into the alley, to survive or not, just as they please.” He leaned over to eye the one Big Leon had thrown against the podium. “As for this fellow, stuff him in the incinerator. He’s shouldered his last free citizen off the parking-ledge.”
“We’d better dust, Mister,” Leon said. “That Bug was a cop and he’s got plenty of pals . . .”
There was a distant clanging of gongs.
“You’d best transfer the scene of your diversions elsewhere for the nonce, Retief,” Gom-Goo called. “One of these spoil-sports has summoned his fellow black-guards . . .”
“We were just leaving; and thanks for tapping that last fellow; he was getting too close for comfort.”
“My pleasure, Retief. The rascals have been getting pushier by the day. They’re up to something, mark my words! And remember: After the wheels, the juncture between the parietal plates is the best spot to go for on a Voion.”
“I’ll remember that. Ta ta.”
* * *
In a quieter grog shop half a mile from the scene of the action, Retief and four Terrans found a table at the back of the room from which they could keep an eye on the street. Through the wide, doorless arch, Voion cops could be seen hurrying past, grim and businesslike in their black and silver trappings. Big Leon blew on his skinned fist, looked at Retief almost shyly.
“Sorry about the rough stuff, uh, Mister, uh . . .”
“Retief. No apology needed. I see now why they call you Big Leon.”
Leon nodded. “You looked pretty good in there yourself, Mister. Maybe those Bugs’ll think about it before they tackle a bunch of Terries again.”
“What’s got into them Bugs?” the scarred man demanded. “They been giving us a hard time out in the field, but I figured they’d be minding their manners here in town.”
“That’s what we came here to talk about,” Big Leon said. “Something’s stirring the Voion tribe up. I thought it was just us planters and traders they were out to get, but they’ve got the whole town sewed up like a dead sailor.”
“We pretty near didn’t get into the city,” the steel-toothed man said. “There’s a patrol around the port; a man could get the idea he wasn’t welcome.”
“The new police force was designed to bring law and order to Quopp,” Retief said. “According to the official T.O. there are supposed to be no more than a hundred of them assigned to the city, with smaller detachments at the major trading towns.”
“A hundred my uncle Edgar,” Leon growled. “The whole town’s swarming with ’em—and there must be another ten thousand between here and Rum Jungle.”
“Yes, I’d say our friends the Voion have answered the call to civic duty in surprising numbers,” Retief said.
“They say Longspoon’s the one behind it,” Scar-face said. “Sometimes I wonder whose side you CDT boys are on.”
“The motivation of the diplomat is an enigma that even his best friend, if he had one, would be hard put to define,” Retief confided. “Technically, the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne is dedicated to the protection of Terran interests, Galaxy-wide. Of course, figuring out what those interests really are can get a little complicated.”
“Like equipping local cops with clubs to pound Terry heads, using fees squeezed out of Terry businessmen,” Seymour growled.
“What does the Corps want here, anyway?” Leon demanded. “Quopp was doing all right—with a little help from Terry free enterprises; then along comes a bunch of CDT Johnnies getting everything organized, and all of a sudden us Terries are undesirable aliens.”
Retief refilled glasses. “Admittedly, some of the measures selected by our Chief of Mission may seem paradoxical at first glance. But that’s just because you haven’t entered into the spirit of the game. All of the measures Ambassador Longspoon has taken—restrictions on private enterprise by Terrans, establishment of the Planetary Police, free goods for the indigent, subsidies for Voion commercial enterprise, and the rest—are designed to bring peace and plenty to the downtrodden locals whom you fellows have been exploiting.”
“What do you mean, exploiting?” Big Leon’s fist hit the table. “Why, a hundred years ago, when the first Terries hit Quopp, there was nothing here but wild Bugs living in grass huts and eating each other. We laid out the towns, built trails, started ’em in on a little cottage industry and intertribal trade. We brought in electronics men to be country G.P.’s, developed new lines of merchandise to make life more beautiful for the Quopp in the street, and taught ’em the idea of civilization. Sure, we made a good profit—but they’ve got their money’s worth every step of the way!”
“Still, Leon, now that you’ve put Quopp on the star maps, competition has set in. Our friends the Groaci aren’t going to let this world drift into the Terry camp without a struggle. They’ve set up a string of trading posts along the other coast of Continent One, and they’re doing a brisk trade in miniature Tri-D’s, artificial limbs and wheels, and electronic Mah-Jongg sets—”
“Direct competition with us!” Jerry burst out. “The copy-cats!”
“Of course,” Retief went on, “no self-respecting diplomat could let the challenge pass without making an effort to out-enlighten the opposition. Whatever the Groaci do, we have to do bigger—”