The controls bit into the air then; fighting vertigo, Retief hauled the boat out of the spin. The motor barked once, twice, snarled unevenly for a moment, then died. The ship bucked, wanting to fall off on its port stub-wing. A glance showed torn metal, a dark stain of leaking coolant. The skiff was no more than a hundred feet above tree level now; ahead a tall spike-palm loomed. Retief banked to the right, felt the boat drop under him. He caught a momentary glimpse of the immense wreckage of the Rhoon strewn across half an acre of bushy treetops; then he was crashing through yielding foliage, the boat slamming left, then right, then upended, tumbling, dropping to a final splintering crash of metalwood, a terrific impact that filled the tiny cockpit with whirling fireworks even brighter than the ones over the city, before they faded into a darkness filled with distant gongs . . .
Four
Something sharp poked Retief in the side, a vigorous jab that bruised even through the leather strip that joined the dorsal and ventral plates of his costume. He made an effort, sat up, reached to investigate the extent of the skull fracture, felt the metallic clang as his claw touched the painted Voion headpiece. The tough armor, it seemed, had its uses. He pushed the helmet into alignment, looked around at a torch-lit clearing among the boles of great trees, and a ring of three-foot blue-green Quoppina, members, he saw, of the Ween tribe, all eyeing him with faintly luminous oculars, their saber-like fighting claws ready, their scarlet biting apparatus cleared for action.
“Hoo. Meat-fall-from-sky moving around,” a tiny, penetrating voice keened in heavily accented Tribal. “Us better slice it up quick, before it get clean away.”
Retief got to his feet, felt for the gun with his elbow. It was gone—lost in the crash. One midget meat-eater, bolder than the rest, edged closer, gave a tentative snap of his immense white-edge claw. Retief worked levers, clacked back at him.
“Stand back, little fellow,” he said. “Don’t you recognize a supernatural apparition when you see one?” He moved to put his back to a tree.
“What you mean, big boy?” one of the natives demanded. “What that big word mean?”
“It means it’s bad medicine to cook a stranger,” Retief translated.
“Hmm, that mean we is got to eat you raw. How is you, tough?”
Retief drew the short sword. “Tough enough to give you a bellyache, I’d estimate.”
“Hey, what kind of Quopp is you, anyway?” someone inquired. “I ain’t never see one like you before.”
“I’m a diplomat,” Retief explained. “We mostly lie up during the day and come out at night to drink.”
“A Dipple-mac. Hmmm. Ain’t never heard of that tribe before, is you, Jik-jik?”
“Can’t say as I is. Must come from over the mountain.”
“How you get here, Meat-from-sky?” somebody called. “You ain’t got the wingspan for no flying.”
“In that.” Retief nodded toward the smashed shell of the skiff.
“What that?” one native inquired. Another prodded the machine with a small wheel, adapted for rough jungle trails. “Whatever it is, it dead.” He looked at Retief. “You friend no help to you now, big boy. You is all alone.”
“You a long way out of your territory, Stilter,” another said. “Ain’t never see one like you before. What you doing here in Ween country?”
“I’m just passing through,” Retief said. “I’m looking for a party of Terrans that wandered off-course. I don’t suppose you’ve seen them?”
“I heard of them whatchacallums—Terrans. They twelve feet high and made out of jelly, I hears; and they takes their wheels off at night and leaves ’em outside.”
“That’s the group. Any sign of them in these parts?”
“Nope,” the Ween crossed their rear oculars, indicating negation.
“In that case, if you’ll stand aside, I’ll breeze on my way and let you get back to whatever you were doing when I dropped in.”
“What we was doing, we was starving, Meat-from-sky. Your timing good.”
“Jik-jik, you all the time talking to something to eat,” someone said from the ranks. “What you all say to a nice barbecue sauce on this meal, with greens on the side?”
There was a sudden flurry of sound from the near distance, punctuated by shrill cries.
“Get your feather-picking members off me, you ignorant clodhoppers!” a thin Voion voice screeched. “I’m a member of the Planetary Armed Forces! There’s a big reward—” the speech cut off in mid-sentence; threshing sounds followed. Moments later, three Ween pushed into the clearing, hauling the limp figure of a bright-polished member of the Planetary Police. He groaned as they dropped him; one of his wheels, badly warped, whirled lopsidedly.
“Hoo, this evening shaping up,” someone said. The Voion was lying on his back, waving all four arms feebly.
“You can’t do this to me,” the captive tweeted. “In the name of the Wo—” The Ween standing closest to the fallen policeman brought his immense claw around and with a sound like a pistol shot nipped off the newcomer’s head with a single snap.
“Well, that the first of them big noises I see trimmed up like he ought to be,” Jik-jik said. “You got him just in time, Fut-fut, before he call on the Name of the Worm—” He broke off, looked at Retief.
“In the Name of the Worm,” Retief said, “what about a little hospitality?”
“You and your big vocalizing apparatus,” someone said disgustedly. “Well, back to camp. At least us can fry up some policeman to tide us over.” A quartet of Ween lifted the limp body; someone picked up the head.
“Lucky for you you call on the Name of the Worm,” Jik-jik said conversationally. “Old Hub-hub ready to dine right now, what I mean.”
“Mentioning the Worm takes me off the menu, eh?”
“Well, it give you time to get you thoughts in order, anyway.”
“I have a feeling that remark is pregnant with meanings, none of them pleasant.”
“Hoo, it simple enough, big boy. It mean us keep you pen up for five days, and then skin you out for a old-fashioned tribal blowout.”
An aggressive-looking Ween pushed forward. “How about if us trim off a few edges now—just to sample the flavor?”
“Get back there, Hub-hub,” Jik-jik admonished. “No snacking between meals.”
“Come on, Meat-from-sky,” the aggressive pygmy called. “Get you wheels in gear.” He reached out with his claw to prod Retief—and jumped back with a screech as the heavy sword whipped down, lopped off an inch of the member’s pointed tip.
“Look what he do to my chopper!” he shrilled.
“You ask for it, Hub-hub,” Fut-fut said.
“I like a lot of space around me,” Retief said, swinging the sword loosely in his hand. “Don’t crowd me.”
The Ween edged back, fifty or more small, dark-glittering creatures like oversized army ants in a wide ring around Retief, his armor a splash of vivid color in the gloom. Hub-hub jittered, holding his damaged claw high, torchlight glinting on his metallic sides. “I is hereby taking this piece of meat off the chow list!” he screeched. “I is promoting him to the status of folks!”
“Hey, Hub-hub, is you gone out of you head? What the idea of doing a trick like that . . . ?” A chorus of protest broke out.
Jik-jik confronted the outraged tribesman.
“He chop off a piece of you, and now you chumming up to him. What the idea?”
“The idea is now I ain’t got to wait no five days to get a piece back!” Hub-hub keened. “Get back, all of you . . .” He waved the two-foot long, steel-trap claw in a commanding gesture. “I is now going to snip this Stilter down to size!”
The Ween drew back, disappointed but obedient to tribal custom. Hub-hub danced before Retief, who waited, his back to the tree, the sword held before him, torchlight glinting along its steel-hard razor-sharp edge. Hub-hub darted in, legs twinkling, snick-snacked a double feint high and low with the big fighting arm, lashed out viciously with a pair of small pinchers, then struck with the big claw, eliciting a loud clang! from Retief’s chest armor—and staggered as the flat of Retief’s blade knocked him spinning.
“Hoo!” Jik-jik shrilled. “Old Hub-hub chew off more than he can bite this time!”
“Let’s call this off, Shorty,” Retief suggested. “I’d hate to have to skewer you before we’ve really gotten acquainted—”
The Ween danced in, pivoting on spider legs, feinted, struck with his fighting claw—
Retief’s sword flashed in a lightning arc, sang as it bit through steel-hard metallo-chitin. The oversized claw dropped to the ground.
“He . . . he done chop off my chopper . . . !” Hub-hub said faintly. “Now he going to stick me for sure . . .” He crouched, waiting, a drop of syrupy dark fluid forming on the stump.
“Serve you right, Hub-hub,” someone called.
“Suppose I let you go?” Retief stepped forward and prodded the Ween’s slender neck with the sword point. “Promise to be good and speak only when spoken to?”