Ikk erected his oculars violently. “Eh—” He broke off, looking at the gleaming new power gun in Retief’s hand.
“What’s this?” he squeaked. “I’ve offered you safe conduct . . . !”
“Now, Ikk, you don’t really think I’d expect a campaigner of your experience to let me off scot-free, do you?”
“Well, my fellows might have to employ just a few little measures on you to be sure you weren’t holding anything back—but then I’ll have them patch you up nicely afterward.”
“Sorry—but I have a strong intuitive feeling that your Torture Department may not realize just how fragile human hide is.”
“I shall know in a moment.” The prime minister started toward Retief—six feet of armored hostility, four arms like sheet-metal clubs tipped with bolt cutters cocked for action.
“I can see that Your Omnivoracity hasn’t yet sampled Terran educational methods personally,” Retief commented. “Another foot and I’ll give you your first lesson.”
Ikk halted. “Would you dare?” he keened.
“Sure. Why not? Now, don’t make any sudden moves. I’m going to tie you up. Then I’m leaving.”
Ikk hissed but submitted as Retief plucked the ministerial flag from its place, thrust the staff through his spokes and bound it in place, then tied all four arms firmly.
“There, now, you’ll be all right until the sweepers arrive along about dinner time.”
“You’re a fool!” Ikk shrilled. “You’ll never get clear of the building!”
“Perhaps not,” Retief said. “In that case, education may never come to Quopp.” He went to the intercom. “When I flip the key, tell them I’m coming out,” he said. “Tell them to trail me at a respectful distance, because I’m suspicious. Also, you’re not to be disturbed until further notice. Sound like you mean it.”
Ikk clacked his palps.
“And,” Retief added in fluent Voion thieves’ dialect, “don’t make any mistakes.” He pressed the key.
“What is it this time?” a sharp Voion voice came back. Retief held the gun aimed at Ikk’s center ventral plate while the prime minister delivered the message.
“Well done, Ikk.” Retief flipped off the switch, bent it out of line to render it inoperative. “You may yell all you like now; I have great confidence in ministerial soundproofing.”
“Listen to me, Terry!” Ikk keened. “Give up this madness! My troops will hunt you down without mercy! And what can you hope to accomplish alone?”
“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it, Ikk?” Retief went to the door. “And on that note I’ll leave you . . .”
In the outer office the bodyguards standing by swiveled their oculars nervously at Retief.
“Ikk’s tied up for the rest of the afternoon,” he said breezily. “He’s busy pondering some surprising new developments.” He stepped into the corridor, made his way along narrow, strange-smelling passages, winding, dipping, curiously angled, lit by chemical lamps and lined with cubicles from which bright Voion eyes glinted. He emerged in a cramped courtyard surrounded by high, curving, decoration-crusted walls of faded Burgundy and Prussian blue, gleaming in the eerie light of Second Eclipse. There were, if anything, more police gathered now than an hour before. A ripple seemed to pass across the crowd as Retief appeared—twitching antennae semaphoring a message. At once, a path opened through the press.
In the open street the mob was scarcely less dense. Voion—both polished police and dull-finished tribesmen—stood in rows, packed the parking ledges, jostled for wheel-space in the narrow thoroughfare. Here and there a tall bottle-green Yerkle or blue-and-white Clute hurried, a furtive touch of color against the sea of restless black. Through lighted shop windows, Quoppina of other tribes were visible, gathered in tight groups, watching the street. Except for a steady, subdued buzzing in the Voion dialects, the city was ominously silent.
Retief strode along briskly, the Voion continuing to unobtrusively edge from his path. On a street corner he paused, glanced back. A pair of crested Special Police were shouldering through, keeping a fifty-foot interval between themselves and the object of the prime minister’s instructions. A third Voion came up behind them, shrilled a command. The two came on at a quick roll. Retief pushed on across the street, turned down a narrow sideway. Ahead, there was a stir. More of the tall Special Police appeared, keening orders to those about them. A message rippled across the crowd. To the right, three more cops had come into view, pushing through toward him, clubs prominently displayed.
“Maybe you’d better step in to avoid the crowd, Terry,” a thin voice said at Retief’s back. He turned. A small, purplish, lightly built Quopp of the Flink tribe stood in the doorway of a tiny shop. He stepped back; Retief followed, glanced around at shelves loaded with trinkets; Yalcan glasswork, Jaq beaten copper-ware, wooden objects from far-off Lovenbroy, a dim-lit display of Hoogan religious mosaics featuring the Twelve Ritual Dismemberments.
“That one caught your eye, didn’t it?” the Flink said. “That’s always been a snappy seller with you Terries.”
“It’s a winner,” Retief agreed. “There wouldn’t be a back way out of here, I suppose?”
The Flink was staring out at the street. “Ikk’s up to something big this time; such a force he never had in town before. Half his tribe he’s got in the streets, just standing around like it was a signal they was waiting for.” He turned to look at Retief. “Yep, there’s a back way—but you won’t get far; not if Ikk’s bully boys are looking for you. Right now, you must be the only Terry in Ixix still running around loose.”
“That’s a distinction I’d like to retain,” Retief pointed out.
“Terry, I’d like to help you out,” the Flink waggled his head. “But you’re as easy to spot as an off-color grub at a hatching ceremony—” He broke off, twitched vestigial wing cases, producing a sharp pop. “Unless . . .” he said. “Terry, are you game to try something risky?”
“It couldn’t be any riskier than standing here,” Retief said. “The cops are closing in from all four directions.”
“Come on.” The Flink flipped aside a hanging, waved Retief through into an even tinier chamber behind the shop, from which a number of dark tunnel-mouths opened—mere holes, two feet in diameter.
“You’ll have to crawl, I’m afraid,” he said.
“One of the basic diplomatic skills,” Retief said. “Lead on.”
* * *
It was a five-minute trip through the cramped passage, which twisted and writhed, doubled back, rose suddenly, then dropped, did a sharp jag to the left, and opened into a leather-and-wax smelling chamber, lit by a sour-yellow chemical lamp inside a glass bowl. The room was stacked with curiously shaped objects of all sizes and colors. Retief snapped a finger against the nearest—a large, shield-shaped panel of a shimmering pearly pink. It gave off a metallic bong.
“These look like fragments of native anatomy,” he said.
“Right. This is the back room of Sopp’s Surgical Spares; Sopp has the best stock in the district. Come on.”
Hobbling on small wheels better adapted to trolley service than ground-running, the Flink led the way past heaped carapace segments of glossy chocolate brown, screaming orange, butter-yellow, chartreuse, magenta, coppery red. Some of the metallo-chitinous plates bore ribs, bosses, knobs, spikes; some were varicolored, with polka dots and ribbons of contrasting color, or elaborate silver-edged rosettes. A few bore feathers, scales or bristles. At one side were ranged bins filled with gears, bearings, shafts, electronic components.
“Yep, for anything in the used parts line, old Sopp’s the Quopp to see,” the Flink said. “He can pull this off if anybody can. Wait here a minute.” He stepped through an arched opening into the display room beyond.
“Hey, Sopp, close the blinds,” Retief heard him say. “I’ve got a friend with me that doesn’t want to attract any attention . . .” There was an answering twitter, a clatter of wooden shutters, followed by more low-voiced conversation punctuated with exclamations from the unseen proprietor. Then the Flink called. Retief came through into a neat showroom with cases filled with bright-colored objects of obscure function, presided over by a frail-looking Yerkle with a deep green carapace half-concealed under a silken paisley-patterned shawl. He stared at Retief, looking him over like a prospective purchaser.
“Well, what about it, Sopp?” the Flink demanded. “You’re the best in the business. You think you can do it?”
“Well . . . I can give it a try.”
“Great!” the Flink chirped. “If this works, it’ll be the slickest caper pulled in this town since you rigged Geeper out as a Blint and he fertilized half the rolling stock in the Municipal Car-Barns!”
* * *
“Well,” the Yerkle said two hours later. “It’s not perfect, but in a bad light you may pass.”
“Sopp, it’s your masterpiece.” The Flink, whose name was Ibbl, rolled in a circle around Retief. “If I didn’t know different, I’d swear he was some kind of a cross-breed Jorp in town for the bright lights! That set of trimmed down Twilch rotors is perfect!”