The boom! lifted Retief bodily, slammed him back against the floor of his retreat under an avalanche of mud and screaming wood fragments. He thrust himself clear, spat dirt, his head ringing like a giant gong. There was a harsh stink of chemicals, a taste in his mouth like charred sneakers. Cool air blew from a gaping cavern where the wall had been. A timber sagged from above; beyond it he could see smoke swirling in a room littered with shattered lumber.
A Phip buzzed close. “Fun-fun,” it shrilled. “Gain-gain!”
“Some other time,” Retief said blurrily. “And remind me to use smaller amounts . . .” He ducked under the fallen ceiling beams, went up the blast-gouged slope, emerged into the open. Voion shot past him, inaudible in the shrill ringing in Retief’s ears. Out of the smoke haze, the slight figure of General Hish appeared, arms waving. Retief straight-armed the Groaci, saw him go end over end, one artificial wheel bouncing free to go rolling off into the brush. He sprinted, dodged a pair of Voion who belatedly skittered into his path, plunged into the dark wall of the jungle.
Seven
The trail left by the fleeing prisoners was not difficult to follow; bits of lacy cloth, dropped hankies, candy wrappers, and the deep prints of spike heels served to indicate their direction of flight as plainly as a set of hand-painted signposts. The girls had pushed through dense thickets for a hundred yards, then encountered a well-defined trail leading in an approximately westward direction. It was now after Second Jooprise, and Retief moved along in multicolored gloom beneath towering trees of a thousand varieties, each bearing metal-bright leaves in gay tones, which rustled and tinkled, clashing with soft musical notes as the arching branches stirred to the wind.
Half an hour’s walk brought him to a stream of clear water bubbling over a shallow, sandy bottom bright with vivid-colored pebbles. Small aquatic Quoppina the size of Phips darted to and fro in the sun-dappled water, propelled by rotating members modified by evolutionary processes into twin screws astern.
The water looked tempting. Retief hung his sword on a convenient branch, lifted off the helmet he had been wearing for the past eighteen hours, unstrapped the leather side-buckles and shed the chest and back armor, then splashed into the stream and dashed cold water over his face and arms. Back on shore, he settled himself under a mauve-barked tree, took out one of the concentrated food bars Ibbl had provided.
From above, a plaintive keening sounded. Retief looked up into the tree, saw something move in the Jooplight, striking down through branches and glittering dark foliage—a flash of vivid purple among the blackish-red leaves. There was a second movement, lower down. Retief made out the almost invisible form of a wiry, slender Quoppina, gorgeous violet where the light struck him, decorated with white-edged purple rosettes, a perfect camouflage in the light-mottled foliage. The creature hung motionless, wailing softly.
Retief jumped, caught a branch, pulled himself up, then climbed higher, avoiding the knife-edged leaves. From a position astride a stout limb twenty feet up, he could make out the cleverly concealed lines of a narrow-mesh net in which the captive—a Flink, Retief saw—hung, a tangle of purple limbs, twisted ropes, and anxiously canted oculars.
“What happened, fellow? Pull the wrong string and catch yourself?”
“I’m laughing,” the Flink said glumly, in a high, thin voice.
“So go ahead, gloat,” a second Flink voice called from above. “Rub it in.”
“Just a minute and I’ll cut you down,” Retief offered.
“Hey, me first,” the upper Flink called. “It was him started the trouble, remember? Me, I’m a peaceful Flink, bothering nobody—”
“It’s a different Stilter, you lowlife,” the nearer Flink called hastily. “This ain’t the one from before.”
“Oh, you’ve seen other Stilters around?” Retief inquired interestedly.
“Maybe; you know how it is. You meet all kinds of people.”
“You’re not being completely candid, I’m afraid. Come on—give.”
“Look,” the Flink said. “Such a crick I’ve got: How about cutting me down first and we’ll chat after?”
“He’s got a crick,” the other Flink shrilled hoarsely. “Ha! In his lousy net I’m hanging! Six cricks I’ve got, all worse than his!”
“You think this noose is maybe comfortable?” the first came back hotly. “Rope burns I’m getting—”
“Let’s compare notes later,” Retief interrupted. “Which way did the Stilters go?”
“You look like a nice, kind sort of Stilter,” the nearest Flink said, holding his oculars on Retief as he swung in a gentle arc past him. “Let me down and I’ll try to help you out with your problem. I mean, in such a position, who could talk?”
“Cut him down, and he’s gone like a flash,” the other called. “Now, I happen to like your looks, so I’ll tell you what I’ll do—”
“Don’t listen,” the roped Flink said in a confidential tone. “Look at him—and he claims to be number one tribal woodsman, yet. Some woodsman!”
“A woodsman like you I shouldn’t be, even without you was hanging in my noose,” the other countered. “Take it from me, Stilter, Ozzl’s the biggest liar in the tribe, and believe me, competition he’s got!”
“Fellows, I’m afraid I can’t stay for a conference after all,” Retief cut in. “Sorry to leave you hanging around in bad company, but—”
“Hold it!” the Flink called Ozzl screeched. “I’ve thought it over and I’ve decided: A nice fellow like you I want my family to meet—”
“Don’t trust him! I’ll tell you what: Get me out of this lousy rope, and I’m your Flink—”
“You expect this Stilter—such a fine-looking Quopp—he should believe that? As soon as I’m loose, everything I own is his!”
“So what’ll he do with a pile of empties? My deal is better, believe me, Mister; you and me, such a talk we’ll have, you wouldn’t believe—”
“You’re right; he wouldn’t. Him and me, together a long chat we’ll have—”
There was a flash of green, a sharp humming; the Phip was back, hovering before Retief’s face.
“Tief-tief, flip-flip,” it churped. “Flip-flip Flink-flink!”
“Don’t listen!” Ozzl screeched. “What does this midget know?”
“Flip-flip Flink-flink!” the Phip repeated.
“Hmmm. I seem to remember hearing somewhere that a Flink’s word is good as long as he’s standing on his head,” Retief mused. “Thanks, partner.” He gripped Ozzl’s lower arms—in his species specialized as landing gear—and inverted the captive tree-dweller.
“If I cut you down, will you tell me where the Stilters are?”
“OK, OK, you got me,” the Flink chirped glumly. “Cut me down and the whole miserable story I’ll give you.”
Retief extracted a similar promise from the second Flink.
“Look out, now,” the latter cautioned. “All around is nets.”
Retief made out the cleverly concealed lines of other nets and nooses, some small, some large enough to gather in a fair-sized Quoppina.
“Thanks for the warning,” Retief said. “I might have walked right in to one of those.”
Five minutes later both captives had been lowered to the ground and cut free. They sprawled, groaning, working their arms and experimentally revving up their rotation members: small pulleylike wheels which they customarily hooked over vines or branches for fast travel.
“Well,” Ozzl sighed. “Me and Nopl, first class trappers we’re supposed to be. Such a picture, the two of us in our own ropes hung up!”
“Nothing’s busted,” Nopl said. “Boy, such a experience!”
“Don’t stall, gentlemen,” Retief said. “The time has come to tell all: Where did you see the Stilters, how long ago, and which way did they go when they left?”
“A promise is a promise—but listen—you won’t tell, OK?”
“I won’t tell.”
Ozzl sighed. “All right. It was this way . . .”
* * *
” . . . so I turned around, and zzzskttt! The Stilter with the copper-colored head filaments—the one the others called Fi-fi—pulls the trip wire—such a dummy I was to explain it—and there I am, downside up. It was humiliating!”
“Under the circumstances, a little humility seems appropriate,” Retief suggested. “And after the Stilter tricked you into your own net, what then?”
“Then the two-timer cuts down the rest of the Stilters, and off they go—thataway.” Ozzl pointed.
“Yeah,” the other Flink said aggrievedly. “So there we hung until you come along—and all because we try to be polite and show that Stilter how the nets work, such an interest it was expressing.”
Retief nodded sympathetically. “We Stilters are a tricky lot, especially when anybody tries to violate our tribal taboo against being eaten. And on that note I must leave you—”
“What’s the rush?” Ozzl demanded. “Stick around awhile; a little philosophy we’ll kick around.”
“What about a drink, fellows?” Ozzl proposed. He took a hip flask from the flat pouch strapped to his lean flank, quaffed deeply, rose to his full three foot six, flexed his arms. “A new Quopp that’ll make out of you,” he announced and passed the bottle to Retief. He took a swallow; like all Quoppina liquors, it was thin, delicately flavored, resembling dilute honey. He passed the flask to Nopl, who drank, offered sulphurous sourballs which Retief declined.