“Be realistic, Retief,” Hish urged. “My end of the bargain was fulfilled in a rather informal manner, true, but surely you are not so naïve as to imagine that detail nullifies the spirit of our agreement . . . ?”
Retief glanced at the looming stockade walls, the Voion ringing him in. “What spirit would that be?”
“One of cooperation,” Hish purred. “I suggest we move along from these depressing surroundings now and conduct our little chat in more comfortable circumstances—”
“I’m afraid you’ve gotten a couple of false impressions along the line somewhere,” Retief said. “I just agreed to come with you; I didn’t promise to do your homework for you.”
“Surely the supplying of certain information was implicit in your surrender!”
“Why natter with the scoundrel?” the Voion major put in. “I have specialists on my staff who’ll put him into a talking mood!”
“Don’t be tiresome, Retief,” Hish whispered. “I can squeeze the truth out of you; but why force me to these uncouth tactics?”
“Oh, maybe I have an idea you don’t know just where I stand, and that you’re a little reluctant to damage CDT property—”
“What’s he talking about?” the Voion demanded. “What has this to do with interloping Terries?”
“Silence!” Hish snapped. “Go busy yourself with executing the slackers responsible for the escape, or some other routine task—”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” the major keened. “Some headquarters goldbrick sent you out here to poke around and count paper clips, but if you think you can talk that way to me and get away with it—”
“Calm yourself, Major! I should dislike to employ my influence with Prime Minister Ikk to have you transferred to duty on—certain other fronts . . .” Hish turned back to Retief. “You will now give me full particulars on rebel troop concentrations, or suffer the consequences!”
“Suppose we just jump directly along to the consequences,” Retief proposed. “It will save time all around.”
“As you will, then.” Hish turned back to Xic. “Since your stockade has proven inadequate to requirements, what other facilities can you offer for the restraint of the prisoner?”
“Well—there’s a nice little room behind post headquarters, specially built to house the officers’ stimulant supply—if we ever get any. If it’s good enough to keep my kleptomaniacs out of the Hellrose, it ought to keep this Stilter in.”
“Very well,” Hish snapped. “Take him there and chain him to the wall.”
* * *
The cell was a cramped, low-ceilinged chamber with damp mud walls retained by log pilings only the upper foot of which were above ground level; through the narrow openings between uprights, Retief could see the muddy polyarc-lit acres of the camp stretching a hundred yards to the nearest jungle perimeter. The crowd of Voion who had escorted him there crowded in, watching as the head jailer shook out a length of tough chain, welded one end to a projecting stub on an ironwood corner post, then approached Retief.
“Just sit quiet now, Stilter,” he ordered, “while I throw a loop around your neck—and no backchat, or I’ll weld your mandibles shut.”
“How about putting it on my left stilt instead,” Retief proposed. “That way it won’t interfere with my thinking nice thoughts about you, just in case my side wins.”
“Confidentially,” the welder said in a low voice. “Just how strong are you boys?”
“Well, let’s see,” Retief considered. “There are five billion Quoppina on Quopp; subtract two million Voion, and that leaves—”
“Wow!” a gaping guard said. “That’s better’n two to one, pretty near—”
“Shut up, Vop!” the warder buzzed. “Stick out that stilt, Stilter!” Retief complied, watched as the Voion threw two loops of stout chain around his ankle, welded the links together.
“That ought to hold you until Hish-hish gets through arguing with the major and comes down to work you over.” The Voion snapped off his portable welder. “If you need anything, just yell. The exercise’ll do you good.”
“What time is breakfast served?” Retief inquired.
“Oh, I’ll throw a couple slabs of over-aged Dink in to you after a while—if I think of it.” The guards filed from the cell, taking their torches with them, the warder bringing up the rear. He looked back from the door.
“That bad?” he queried. “Five billion of youse?”
“Worse,” Retief agreed solemnly. “Some of us vote twice.”
* * *
There was silence after the door clanked shut. Along the narrow gap between the top of the excavation and the sagging log ceiling half a dozen inquisitive Voion faces were ducked down, staring in at the dark pit; they saw nothing, tired of the sport, rolled off to other pastimes. Retief picked a relatively dry spot, sat down, quickly unsnapped the leather soled foot-covering from his chained leg, pulled off the shoe, then unbuckled the greavelike shin armor, worked it out from under the loops. A moment later his leg was free. He resumed the leg- and foot-pieces, shook out the chain and arranged a slip noose for use in the event of sudden callers, then scouted the small room. The metallo-wood posts were deep-set, six inches apart. He chipped at one with the clawed gauntlet on his right hand; it was like scratching at a fireplug. The air space above the wall was hardly more promising; the clearance under the ceiling was no more than eight inches, and the gap between verticals hardly a foot . . .
A movement beyond the barrier caught Retief’s eye; a pattern of glowing, greenish dots danced in the air a few yards distant, bobbed, came closer.
“Tief-tief!” a tiny voice peeped. “Tief-tief caught-caught!”
“Well—you know my name.” Something small and bright green buzzed through the opening, hovering on three-inch rotors.
“Save-save George-George,” the tiny flyer said. “Tief-tief pal-pal!”
Retief held out his hand. The six-inch Quoppina—a Phip—settled on it, perched like a jeweled ornament, its head a deep green, its short body a brilliant chartreuse with forest green stripes, its four straw-thin legs a bright sunshine yellow.
“Phip-phip help-help,” it stated in its tiny voice.
“That’s a very friendly offer,” Retief said. “There might be something you could do, at that. How about rounding up a couple of your friends and see if you can find a few things for me . . .”
* * *
Retief studied the six-foot-long, two-foot-deep trench he had scooped in the stiff clay of the cell floor, rimmed on one side by a low parapet heaped up from the excavated material.
“That will have to do,” he said to the half dozen Phips who perched along the sill, watching the proceedings. “Old Hish will be hotfooting it down here any time now to see if durance vile has softened me up.”
A last flight of Phips buzzed in through the wall opening, deposited their bean-sized contributions in the small heaps laid out on a mat of leaves flown in for the purpose.
“All-all,” one hummed. “Gone-gone.”
“That’s all right,” Retief assured the small creature. “I’ve got enough now.” He lifted a wide leaf heaped with shredded bark selected by the Phips for its high cellulose content, placed it atop the heaped-earth revetment beside the foxhole. “Somebody give me a light,” he called. A Phip settled in, struck its rear legs together with a sound like a file on glass. At the third try a spark jumped. Retief blew gently on it, watched as the fuel glowed, burst into a bright green flame. He covered the small blaze with another broad leaf; yellowish smoke boiled out. He held the damper in place until the low-oxygen combustion was complete, then lifted it to reveal a double handful of black residue.
“That ought to do the job; now let’s prepare the rest of the ingredients.”
He picked up a rough-surfaced slab of ironwood previously split off a post, began grating sourballs into a fine powder.
* * *
Half an hour later, Retief packed the last pinch of the finely divided mixture into the container he had improvised from nicklewood leaves, carefully wrapped with lengths of tough wire-vine. He crimped down the top, inserted a fuse made from a strip of shirt-sleeve impregnated with the home-made gunpowder.
“Now, when I give the word, light it off,” he instructed the hovering Phips. “Just one of you; the rest will have to stand back at a good distance. And as soon as it’s lit—head for the tall timber, fast! Don’t wait around to see what happens.”
“Kay-kay, Tief-tief,” a Phip chirped. “Now-now?”
“In just a minute . . .” He hefted the bomb. “A good point and a half; that ought to have a salutary effect.” He placed the rude package on the ledge against an upright, pressed it firmly in position, then packed clay around it, leaving the fuse clear.
“That’s it,” he said. He stepped into the trench, settled himself face-down.
“Light it off, fellows—and don’t forget to hightail it . . .”
There was the busy humming of small rotors, then a harsh rasping as the selected Phip struck a spark. A brief sputtering followed, accompanied by the hasty whine of the departing Phil, then silence. Retief waited. He sniffed. Was there a faint odor of burning rag . . . ?