“What d’ye seek here, sirs?” he chirped in tribal Voion, in what was meant to be an authoritative tone, meanwhile working his anterior antennae in frantic Voion thieves’ code.
“Shift . . . cases . . . conceal . . . special . . . consignment . . .” Retief deciphered. He noted a sudden stir of activity among the Voion at the net. A pair of the patrolling stick-wielders rolled in to help. The center of attention appeared to be a stack of cases conspicuously tagged with large red cards reading “For the Terran Ambassador.”
“We takee look-see,” Seymour was saying in trade pidgin. “We lookee gift-gift Terry friend-friend send.”
“Very good,” the oldster shifted to the same tongue. “Looky see, plenty ski pants, snowshoe, smoked oyster, bagels, tennis racquet, paint-by-number kit; all stuff keep tiny Quoppina tot alive all winter.”
“You hear that, Retief?” Big Leon growled. “Some of my hottest trade items, those are. You’d think Longspoon was deliberately trying to put us traders out of business.” He pointed suddenly. “Hey, look there!” A Voion in tribal dress, with the feathery antennae of a Flying Jarwheel strapped to his head, was maneuvering a pink Timblum—a smaller cousin of the mighty Wumblum—into position. There was a squat cart hitched behind the mount.
“That’s Smuk; he’s a retired slaver; used to be one of my best customers. Now look at him, freeloading! No wonder I don’t see him around the warehouse sales anymore!”
Retief climbed down from his seat, strolled across to study the stacked crates. The Ramp Master trailed him, his wheels squeaking on the dry bearings of old age. Behind the façade of hurriedly places boxes, Retief counted at least half a dozen of the red-marked cases, identical with the others except for the prominent diplomatic address. The Voion twittered nervously at his heels.
“Nice Terry gentleman take look-see next side, see plenty nice box, you bet,” he creaked.
“What’s in those, Ramp Master?” Retief asked in tribal Voion, indicating the half-concealed boxes.
“Eee, the sir speaks good Tribal,” the old Voion clacked his palps in a gesture indicating Respectful Congratulation. “Why, as to those cases there, they contain educational material, yes, sir, that’s what they contain. Now, over here . . .”
Big Leon had come up beside Retief. “Feel like sticking your nose into trouble?” Retief asked softly.
Leon nodded. “Sure, why not?”
“Why don’t you go stir up a little activity over there, on the far side of the landing jack—say in about ten minutes?”
“Huh? Oh, I gotcha.” Leon gave Retief a quizzical look, went over and spoke to Seymour. Beside Retief, the old Voion signaled with his antennae. A pair of cargo-handlers wheeled casually over to hover near the Terrans, trailing as they sauntered off, looking over the scene of bustling activity.
Retief moved on along the deep-shadowed lane between stacked cargo, paused before a heap of crates, pointed to the manila envelopes stapled to their sides.
“Mind if I look?” he inquired.
“As the sir desires,” the oldster said quickly. Retief pulled a folded copy of a bill of lading from the pocket, opened it out. It indicated that the crate contained bound volumes of the Pest Control Journal, consigned to the Information Service Library in the care of the Terran Consulate at Groon—a small city a hundred miles upriver in Deep Jungle. He went on, casually checking packing lists, rounded the end of the line of stacked crates, came up the back side. Directly behind the red-tagged cases, he found a pile of boxes, containing blank forms destined for the Terran Chancery. At that moment, an outcry came from beyond the looming bulk of the ship. Retief turned to his guide, who was now jittering nervously and looking in the direction from which the disturbance emanated.
“By the way, I forgot to mention it, but one of my companions—the large one—is something of a practical joker. He may have taken it into his head to start a fire or plant a couple of small choke-bombs. Maybe you’d better wheel over and check on him.”
“The sir jests . . . ?” The Ramp Master looked around for a courier, saw the last of his crew curving sharply out of sight on one wheel, headed for the scene of the growing uproar. “If the sir will excuse . . .” he shot off at surprising speed.
At once, Retief turned to the nearest red-tagged crates, used a handy pry-bar to lever a slot free. A layer of oil-impregnated plastic barred his view of the contents of the box. He took out a compact pocket knife, snapped the blade out, slit the liner, reached in, felt a lump coolness of a plastic coated object. He managed a two-fingered grip, drew it out. It was a bulky, heavy package, roughly triangular, larger than Retief’s hand, its outlines obscured by the protective cocoon. He slit it, peeled it back; the polished butt of a Mark XXX power gun nestled in his hand.
Retief glanced around; none of the port personnel were in view. He stripped away the oily covering from the gun, dropped the weapon in his pocket, then tucked the empty plastic back inside, folded the liner over it, pressed the slat back in position.
The noises from Big Leon’s direction were gaining in timbre and volume, accompanied by splintering sounds. Voom-Voom glanced at Retief. “Say, boss, that racket—”
“Just boyish high spirits; it won’t last much longer,” Retief said. “Meanwhile, see that nobody disturbs me for the next five minutes.” Voom-Voom waved one arm, clicked his luminescent organ on, and rolled forward to cover the approach. Retief set to work moving the barricade of boxes aside and removing red tags from the special consignment. The riot continued, still growing in volume. With the red tags free, Retief moved back to the crates marked for Groon, quickly removed the tags, used the butt of his pocket knife to hammer labels removed from the consignment of forms in place in their stead, then hurried on to the crated forms, placed the red tags on the boxes.
“Better hurry it up, boss,” Voom-Voom hooted softly. “I think the excitement’s dying down over there—” He broke off to rumble suddenly into action. Retief heard the shrill of Voion voices. He glanced up at the black disk of Joop; a glowing bulge was showing at one edge now; the eclipse would be over in another half-minute. He hurried back to the special consignment, attached the cards from the library shipment intended for Groon. Behind him, voices shrilled; Voom-Voom was still blocking the lane, loudly demanding why he should move merely to let a pack of Voion riffraff through. Retief stepped quickly to Rhum-Rhum.
“If you backed up carelessly, you might just ram that pile of boxes,” he said. “They might get all mixed up together . . .”
“They might, at that,” the Wumblum agreed. “Take those scalpers half their siesta hour to unscramble ’em.” He straightened his wheels, glanced back, and moved suddenly, slammed into the neatly stacked crates. They skidded, toppled with a crash. Voom-Voom, watching the byplay with one pair of eyes, whirled about in mock alarm, dumped another row. Excited Voion shot past him, shrilling, just as the glare of returned sunlight sprang across the hills, scythed down the slope and on across the crowded tarmac to bathe the scene of chaos in brilliant day.
Big Leon appeared, looming over the scurrying cargo-tenders. He looked around, frowning.
“What the Sam Hill happened here?” he demanded loudly.
“Big brute of a dumb Wumblum makee big mess-mess,” the old Voion cargo master shrieked. “Great clumsy louts gotee no damn pidgin here!”
“Don’t spin your wheels, grandpa,” Voom-Voom rumbled carelessly. He leaned over to put his armored cranium near Retief’s. “How’d I do, chief?”
“Very effective,” Retief said approvingly. He walked over to the sidelines where a dull-eyed Vorch cargo-carrier was squatting, watching the activity.
“There are half a dozen crates marked for the Terry Library at Groon,” he said in trade dialect to the heavyweight. “I wonder if you know of an unused shed nearby where they might accidentally be tucked away out of sight for a few days.” He dropped a strip of embossed plastic trade wampum in the Vorch’s nearest hand, which immediately twitched it out of sight.
“What’s this—a bribe?” the carrier swiveled his wide head to bring his silicon-lensed rear eyes to bear.
“Just a gratuity for services rendered,” Retief reassured him.
“That’s OK then; just so you don’t offer me no graft.” The Vorch pointed with a short, thick arm. “The little bonded warehouse over there—the one with the red carving on the front. I’ll stack the stuff in there.”
Retief nodded and rejoined the party.
“Hey, what gives, Mr. Retief?” Seymour demanded. “Leon says—”
“Maybe you better not ask too many questions,” the big man put in. “I think we made our point. Let’s settle for that and head back for Rum Jungle. Something’s ready to pop, and I want to be minding the store when it happens.”