Retief Unbound (25 page)

"Looks like we're
first on the scene," Retief noted. "Let's pick an inconspicuous spot
and wait for developments."

"Retief,"
Magnan gasped, breathing hard from his exertions. "What in the world do
you suppose . . . ?"

"This afternoon
someone hired Ignarp to gather us in. Later on, Lilth seemed to have the same
idea. Somebody seems to have an urgent desire to own a Terry."

"But—if that's
true—aren't we playing into their hands?"

"Sometimes it's
the only way to get a look at the other fellow's cards."

"But what if they
catch us here! I suggest we go back at once and file a written report—"

"Too late
now," Retief said softly as the door through which they had emerged was
thrust rudely open. A short, plump figure emerged, sputtering, closely
accompanied by a trio of hefty individuals in floppy hats and trailing
hemlines.

"Why—it's the
ambassador—and the ladies from DAMP!" Magnan chirped. "Gracious, what
a relief—" Ashe started to step out, Retief pulled him back.

"One more sound
out of you, Terry, and we deliver you in do-it-yourself-kit form," one of
Pouncetrifle's escort barked at the chief of mission in the native tongue.

"Why—they're not
DAMP members at all!" Magnan whispered. "They're not even ladies! In
fact"—he gulped as one of the trio tossed aside a voluminous frock and
followed it with the hat—"they're not even human!"

"Sit tight, Mr.
Magnan," Retief said, "the party's not complete yet. . . ."

Overhead a soft
whap-whap-whap became audible, grew swiftly louder. A dark shadow floated
across the lesser moon; dust swirled up as a small copter settled gently in at
the far side of the roof.

"No navigation
lights!" Magnan blurted. "That's a violation of the provisional
traffic code!"

As the bogus pacifists
hustled the ambassador toward the copter there was a clatter from the door,
accompanied by a clink of medals. Colonel Warbutton appeared, turned back to
assist a slighter figure through.

"Remarkable view
from up here, my dear," the military attaché said expansively. "Just
savor a lungful of that fresh air!"

"It smells like
turbo fumes to me," Miss Braswell's voice replied. "But I thought you
said we were going up to your office for some emergency dictation. . . ."
Her voice trailed off into a yelp as two dark shapes loomed suddenly beside her
and her escort.

"Here, what's the
meaning of this!" Warbutton boomed, struggling in the grip of what
appeared to be a portly matron. "Are you ladies out of your minds?
Attacking a military man is no way to wage pacifism!"

"It's an
ambush," a Lumbagan voice yelled. "Over the side with the both of
'em!"

"Don't shoot,
Retief!" Magnan blurted as Retief stood and snapped his needier into his
hand. "You'll hit His Excellency!"

As the kidnappers
thrust Warbutton toward the parapet, Retief jumped toward the lone alien
manhandling the ambassador toward the copter. The ersatz dowager whirled to
intercept him; he palmed the gun and rammed a right hook into the local's
midsection, grabbed the ambassador's arm and spun him toward the open door. One
of Warbutton's captors whirled with a yell and dived after the escaping
dignitary, only to trip over Magnan's outthrust foot. Warbutton wrenched
himself from the grasp of the other, dived for the door, bulldozing Miss
Braswell aside into the embrace of the first of the three thugs, now back on
his feet; he lifted her, sprang toward the parapet as the second Lumbagan
caught Warbutton's ankle, bringing the military man down with a resounding
crash. Retief reached the parapet in the same instant that Miss Braswell's
captor, with a hearty heave, tossed her over the side. He dived, caught her hand
as she fell, her weight dragging him half across the parapet. Instantly, horny
hands seized his ankles, lifted, and shoved. As he went over, Retief grabbed
for the coping, hooked his fingers over the edge. With a bone-wrenching shock,
he was brought up short, the girl dangling below him. The Lumbagan appeared
above him, fist raised to smash at his fingers; then Magnan's narrow features
were visible over the alien's shoulder as he brought an elevator shoe down on
the local's skull.

As the Lumbagan
crumpled, Retief pulled himself up, hauling Miss Braswell over the parapet
beside him, to see the other two Lumbagans wrestling Warbutton toward the
copter. He charged them, hurled one aside—and collided with Warbutton as the
colonel tore free and dashed for freedom.

"Help!"
Warbutton yelled, grappling Retief. "I demand protection!

Retief thrust him
aside, lunged for the copter as it lifted suddenly, rotors beating furiously.
He was too late; the machine rose swiftly, bore away to the west across the
dark rooftops. As he turned back, the two still-present Lumbagans plunged
through the door a scant inch in advance of Warbutton. Retief caught the colonel
by the collar and dragged him back, too late. The fugitives were gone.

"I'll have you
court-martialed for this, you whippersnapper!" Warbutton yelled.

"Oh, Mr. Retief,
you were wonderful!" Miss Braswell sighed, and sagged against him.

"I'd have nabbed the
lot of them if you hadn't interfered with my pursuit just now!" Warbutton
ranted. "Actually, I've been well aware of the ruffians' plans for some
weeks now—"

"In that case,
maybe you know where they're taking him," Retief cut in. "Taking
who?" the colonel snorted. "Magnan," Retief said. "They got
him."

"Out of the
question, Mr. Retief," Ambassador Pouncetrifle snorted, yanking his
rumpled lapels into line. "No one leaves the embassy until the present
crisis is past! Having lost one diplomat, through no fault of my own. I have no
intention of blotting my copybook further!"

"Why, even while I
was manning the barricades on the roof," Warbutton stated indignantly,
"a coup, by the way, which would have succeeded brilliantly but for the
interference of Retief—even as I manned the barricades, I say, a mob of
irresponsibles invaded the courtyard and pelted the chancery's north facade
with overripe frinkfruit!"

"It would be as
much as our lives were worth to sally forth in the midst of the
disorders," an Information Service man spoke up. "I say let's
acknowledge the failure of the mission and get busy concocting an alibi—"

"Conducting an
analysis in depth of the unforeseen factors necessitating a rethinking of Corps
policy anent the timetable for Lumbagan unification, I presume you mean,"
Biteworse amended. "Make a note of that phrase, Miss Braswell. It will do
nicely as a title for my report."

"I'll handle the
report end, Fenwick," Pouncetrifle snapped. "I hereby assign you the
chairmanship of a task force to turn up evidence proving me blameless in the
fiasco."

"I think you're
all mean," Miss Braswell spoke up, netting shocked stares from the great
men present. "Poor Mr. Magnan was just marvelous when he conked that big,
ugly brute over the head—"

"He assaulted
Colonel Warbutton?" Pouncetrifle barked. "Obviously the man's in the
pay of the enemy!"

"How perfectly
silly!" Miss Braswell exclaimed. "Those big bullies dragged him into
that copter and took off while Mr. Retief was trying to unglue the colonel from
his neck! He—"

"That will do,
Miss Braswell!" Pouncetrifle barked. "The situation is deteriorating
hourly, gentlemen." He turned a choleric gaze on his staff. "And if
Mr. Retief's to be believed, the Groaci are back of the skulduggery, as
usual—"

"Don't believe a
word of it," Warbutton snapped. "The fellow's making a transparent
attempt to cover up—"

"Be that as it
may, Colonel—I decree no further contact with our Groaci colleagues. Also, no
contact with Lumbagans. In addition, no contact with offworld representatives
of any stripe!"

"W—will it be all
right if I cable Sector?" the communications officer inquired diffidently.
"Just to keep them informed?"

"Better not,"
Warbutton said. "We don't know how far the rot has spread."

"I'm not certain
I'd go that far," Pouncetrifle said sternly. "However, I see no point
in unduly alarming the department with premature reports which my critics might
distort so as to imply some culpability on my part. We'll wait for cheerier
tidings."

"B—but if the
embassy is surrounded by hostile mobs . . . and under air attack by native
commandos . . . and threatened from within by fifth columnists . . . and we
can't even tell anyone . . . how in the world are we going to get any cheery
tidings—to say nothing of getting ourselves out of this pickle?" the
political officer queried.

"We'll employ a
wait-and-see strategy," Pouncetrifle decreed. "We'll retire to the
air-raid shelters and wait a few days, and see if they'll go away. Possibly not
the most dynamic program open to us"—he forestalled objections with a
plump palm—"but one hallowed by centuries of bureaucratic tradition. Now.
. . ." He favored the assembled staff with a frosty twinkle. "I've
decided to advance the schedule for the checkers tournament so as to fully
occupy our time underground. And as an added fillip, I personally will make
available to the winner an autographed photo of myself admiring my plastic
doily collection for a modest charge barely covering expenses." He fixed
Retief with an icy glare. "And as for you, sir—you may regard yourself as
under close house arrest pending a full investigation by Colonel Warbutton into
your conduct during the raid."

"The old
meany," Miss Braswell commiserated with Retief after the meeting had
dispersed. "He's going to let poor Mr. Magnan fend for himself without
lifting one of his pudgy little fingers to help him—and blaming it all on
you!"

"His Excellency is
a bit distraught at the moment," Retief soothed the girl. "I suspect
he'll revise this morning's pronouncements in his dispatch to Sector after this
is all over."

"But—what good
will that do Mr. Magnan?"

"I agree something
needs to be done in the meantime to lend substance to his retrospections.
Actually, I have one or two errands to run in that connection. Will you convey
my regrets to the checker team?"

"But—he put you
under house arrest! Doesn't that mean you can't leave the complex?"

"Not quite; it
just gives him grounds to disavow me in case things don't work out."

"You mean—he
expects
you to go AWOL?"

"Let's just say
he's prepared to risk it."

"But you—you're
risking your life, going out there! You can hear the mob howling around the
front entrance!"

"I'll use another
route to avoid the autograph fans."

"Mr. Retief—take
care," Miss Braswell whispered; she kissed him quickly on the cheek and
fled.

Five minutes later,
wrapped in a dark cloak, Retief opened the hidden door behind the dumbwaiter
and descended into the catacombs.

Dacoit Street was
deserted. The yells of the demonstrators gathered before the grand entrance to
the Castle complex were a dull surf-roar here. The shops were shuttered and
dark; scattered brickbats and broken spears attested to the activities of the
day, but only a few candy wrappers and old newspapers blowing across the oily
cobbles lent movement to the scene, pitch dark but for a weak glow from a
sputtering flambeau at the next corner.

Retief made his way
unmolested through the narrow ways; five minutes' brisk walk brought him to a
corner half a block from a rough-hewn door under a swinging signboard adorned
with a lumpy purplish shape pierced by a pointed length of wood. Yellow light
leaked from a small leaded-glass window. As Retief took up his post under the
spreading branches of a music tree, a gust stirred the leaves, evoking a
rippling arpeggio of crystalline sound that mingled mournfully with the fluting
of the night wind.

A small wild creature
resembling a disembodied blue eyeball with tiny bird feet hopped along a twig
overhead, goggling at the Terran with an appearance of intentness heightened by
the absence of an eyelid. A second free-lance ocular appeared, peeping from
among glassy, needle-shaped leaves. Nearer at hand, another variety of the
local fauna— this one a convoluted three-inch ellipsoid bearing a remarkable
resemblance to an oversized ear—perched in a froomble bush, pivoting slowly
from left to right and back again as if tuning in on a faint sound in the
distance.

"You boys ought to
get together with a nose and form a corporation," Retief murmured.
"You'd be a dynamite vaudeville act."

Both eyeballs whipped
out of sight; the ear jerked and began to crawl hastily down the stem. A faint
footfall sounded from the direction of the nearby alley mouth. Retief faded
back against the bole of the ancient tree and eased his 2mm gun into his hand.
A furtive five-foot figure wrapped in an ankle-length djellaba emerged into
view.

"Ignarp,"
Retief called softly. The newcomer jumped and emitted a sharp yelp.