Authors: Keith Laumer
The priest who had accompanied Retief bowed unctuously before
the Papal throne. “Your Arrokanze, the Zoon-to-pe-Elefated One is here,” he
indicated Retief with a wave of the hand.
“Is
he . . . ah . . . ?” Ai-Poppy-Googy
looked inquiringly at the escort.
“A glassig gase of hypervasgulations of the thinkamapops,” a
pikeman spoke up.
“Poil thad one in oil,” the Pope said, frowning. “He dalgs
doo mudge.”
“You appear a bit peaked, Retief,” Straphanger commented. “I
trust you slept well last night? Comfortable quarters and all that?”
Retief stared absently past the Ambassador’s left ear.
“Retief, the Ambassador’s addressing you,” Magnan said
sharply.
“Brobably he’s losd in metitations,” Ai-Poppy-Googy said
hastily. “On with the zeremony—”
“Perhaps he’s sick,” Magnan said. “Here, you’d better sit
down—”
“Ah-ah,” Ai-Poppy-Googy held up a limber hand. “The mosd
imbortand bortion of the zeremony yed remaints to pe zeleprated.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” Straphanger sat back. “I’d quite
forgotten, Your Arrogance.” He glanced around. “We’ll have a magnificent view
of the proceedings from here . . .”
At a prod from a Papal Guard, Retief turned—and found himself
staring directly into the vast brass smile of the Hoogan idol.
*
* *
From Retief’s elevated viewpoint atop the two-hundred foot
high ziggurat, the head of the god reared up another fifty feet, an immense
stylized Hoogan face of polished yellow metal, the vast hand upraised beside
it. The eyes were deep hollows at the back of which a sullen red glow gave an
impression of malignant intelligence. The nose-holes, a yard each in diameter,
drooled a thin trickle of smoke which coiled up past soot-streaked cheeks to
dissipate in the clear air. The mouth which split the massive head gaped in a
crocodile smile set with spade-shaped teeth with spaces between them, beyond
which was visible a curve of polished esophagus agleam with leaping reflections
from inner fires below.
Two lesser priests stepped forward to hang assorted ornaments
on Retief’s shoulders and neck. Another took up a position before him, began
intoning a repetitious chant. Somewhere, drums commenced a slow tattoo. A
murmur passed over the crowd packing the slopes of the ziggurat and the plaza
below. Standing at ease, apparently ignoring his surroundings, Retief noted a
two-foot-wide trough cut in the stone platform at his feet, deepening and
slanting down as it ran to the abrupt drop-off ten yards distant. An acolyte
was busy pouring oil into the hollow and spreading it with swipes of his hands.
“Just what does this phase of the ceremonial involve?”
Straphanger inquired in a tone of synthetic diplomatic interest.
“Waid and zee,” Ai-Poppy-Googy said shortly.
“Mr. Ambassador,” Magnan whispered hoarsely. “His hands are
chained!”
“Part of the ceremony, no doubt.”
“And that groove,” Magnan went on. “It runs from Retief right
over to the edge . . . just above that horrible ig-bay
outh-may . . .”
“Yes, yes, you needn’t play the part of a tourist guide,
Magnan. By the way,” Straphanger lowered his voice, “you didn’t happen to bring
along a hip flask, I suppose?”
“Why, no, Mr. Ambassador. I have a nice anti-viral nasal
spray, if that would help. But about that chute—”
“Warm, isn’t it, Your Arrogance?” Straphanger turned to the
Pope. “A bit dry, too . . .”
“You ton’t lige our Hoogan weather?” the Pope asked in an
ominous tone.
“No, no, it’s fine. I love it when it’s nice and hot and
dry.”
“Ah, Your Arrogance,” Magnan spoke up. “Just what is it you
have in mind doing with Retief?”
“Is kreat honor,” the Pope said shortly.
“I’m sure we’re all delighted at this opportunity for one of
our group to get an inside view of the Hoogan religious philosophy,”
Straphanger said sharply. “Now kindly sit down and stop that infernal
chattering,” he added behind his hand.
The Pope was speaking quickly in Hoogan; the attendant
priests urged Retief forward a step, grasped his arms and deftly placed him
face-down in the oiled channel. The rattle of the drums rose to a crescendo.
Flabby Hoogan hands shoved Retief forward down the steepening slope.
“Mr. Ambassador!” Magnan’s voice rose to a shrill bleat. “I
do believe they’re feeding him to that monster!”
“Nonsense, Magnan!” Straphanger’s suety voice countered.
“It’s all symbolic, I’m sure. And I might point out that you’re hardly
conducting yourself like a seasoned diplomat—”
“Stop!” Retief, sliding rapidly toward the edge, heard
Magnan’s yelp, the scuffle of rapid footsteps—
There was a wet splat! and bony elbows slammed against him.
He twisted, caught a glimpse of Magnan’s white face, open mouth and clutching
hands as together they shot over the edge and out in a graceful arc toward the
waiting jaws of Uk-Ruppa-Tooty.
Keep your arms and legs tucked in
,
Jackspurt had said; Retief had time to grit his teeth—then he was hurtling past
the tombstone sized fangs, Magnan’s hands still clutching his legs, dropping
down into a blast of searing heat and light, then suddenly, stunningly,
slamming against and through a yielding, shredding network of filaments as fine
as spiderwebs. He came to a stop, rebounded, caught at a heavier cable that
brushed his hand, and was clinging to a coarse rope ladder, Magnan’s weight
dangling from his heels.
“Bull’s-eye!” a tiny voice screeched almost in his ear. “Now
let’s get out of here fast, before they dope out what happened!”
Retief found a foothold in the snarl of rope, reached down
and hauled the rag-limp Second Secretary to his side. The heat from below was
scorching, even here in the shelter of a bulge in the god’s throat.
“Wha-what-bu-bu—” Magnan babbled, groping for a handhold.
“Hurry up, Retief!” Jackspurt urged. “Up here by the tonsils!
It’s a secret passage!”
Retief assisted Magnan in scrambling up, boosted him into the
narrow, circular burrow that ran back through the solid metal. The Spism in the
lead, they moved hurriedly away from the sound of priestly voices raised in
puzzled inquiry, reached a set of cramped steps leading down.
“We’re OK now,” Jackspurt said. “Take a breather, and then
we’ll go down and meet the boys.”
They
were in a cavern, floored with rough masonry, lit by a burning wick afloat in a
shallow bowl of aromatic oil. All around, twitching Spism eye-stalks stared at
the intruders; the close-packed red goblin-forms of Jackspurt and his clan
moved restlessly like giant fiddler crabs on some subterranean beach; behind
them, tall, pale blue cousins poised on yard-long legs watched from shadowy
corners; in niches and crannies in the walls, tiny green Spisms and sluggish
orange forms with white spots clung, gazing. Dark purple Spisms, dangling from
the ceiling like tumerous stalactites, waved their free legs hypnotically,
studying the scene.
Magnan’s fingers dug into Retief’s arm. “G-great heavens,
Retief!” he gasped out. “You—you don’t suppose we’ve died and that my Aunt
Minerva was right all along . . . ?”
“Mr. Retief, meet the boys,” Jackspurt clambered up to perch
on a ledge overlooking the gathering. “A lot of them are pretty shy, but
they’re a good-natured bunch, always a thousand laughs. When they heard you was
in trouble, they all joined in to help out.”
“Tell them Mr. Magnan and I said thanks,” Retief said. “It
was an experience we wouldn’t have missed. Right, Mr. Magnan?”
“I’d certainly never miss it,” Magnan swallowed audibly.
“H-how is it you can talk to these hobgoblins, Retief?” he hissed. “You
haven’t . . . ah . . . made some sort
of pact with the powers of darkness, I trust?”
“Hey, Retief,” Jackspurt said. “Your friend got some kind of
race prejudice or something?”
“Heavens, no,” Magnan said in a strangled voice. “Some of my
best friends are fiends—I mean, in our profession, one meets—”
“Mr. Magnan is just a little confused,” Retief put in. “He
didn’t expect to be playing such an active role in today’s events.”
“Speaking of active, we better get you gents back to the
surface fast,” Jackspurt said. “The pumps will be starting up any minute now.”
“Where are you going when the fumigation begins?”
“We got an escape route mapped out through the sewers that
ought to bring us out in the clear a couple miles from town. We’re just hoping
the Hoog don’t have the outfall staked out.”
“Where are these smoke pumps located?” Retief asked.
“Up above—in Uk-Ruppa-Tooty’s belly.”
“Who’s manning them?”
“A couple of priests. Why?”
“How do we get there from here?”
“Well, there’s a couple passages—but we better not waste any
time sight-seeing—”
“Retief, are you out of your mind?” Magnan blurted. “If the
priests see us, our goose will be cooked, along with the rest of our
anatomies!”
“We’ll try to make it a point to see them first. Jackspurt,
can you get a couple of dozen volunteers?”
“You mean to climb up in that brass god? I don’t know,
Retief. The fellas are pretty superstitious . . .”
“We need them to make a diversion while Mr. Magnan and I
carry out the negotiation—”
“Who, me?” Magnan squeaked.
“Negotiation?” Jackspurt protested. “Jumping Jehosaphat, how
can you negotiate with a Hoog?”
“Ahem,” Magnan cleared his throat. “That, Mr. Jackspurt, is
after all one’s function as a diplomat.”
“Well . . .” Jackspurt buzzed briefly to his
fellows, then hopped down from his perch as a dozen Spisms of assorted sizes
and colors came forward.
“We’re game, Mr. Retief. Let’s go!”
The dull gleam of the metal walls of the vast chamber that
was the interior of the god Uk-Ruppa-Tooty loomed out of dense shadow where
Retief and Magnan crouched with their hob-goblin crew. At the center of the
gloomy chamber, low-caste Hoogans labored before the open door of a giant,
red-glowing furnace, tossing in armloads of rubbish, old shoes, bundled
magazines, and broken plastic crockery. A layer of harsh, eye-watering smoke
hung in the air. Jackspurt snorted.
“Boy, when they start pumping that stuff into the burrows . . .”
“Where are the priests?” Retief inquired in a whisper.
Jackspurt pointed to a small cubicle at the top of a flight
of steps. “Up there, in the control room.”
Retief studied the layout. “Jackspurt, you and your men
spread out around the room. Give me five minutes. Then take turns jumping out
and making faces.”
Jackspurt gave instructions to his crew; they faded away into
the darkness.
“Maybe you’d better wait here,” Retief suggested to Magnan.
“Where are you going?”
“I think I’d better have a chat with the ecclesiastics up in
the prompting box.”
“And leave me here alone, surrounded by these ghoulish
Spisms?”
“All right, but keep it quiet or the smoke of burning
diplomats will be added to the other fumes.”
Fifty feet above the floor, Retief gripped narrow handholds,
working his way around to the rear of the control box, through the dusty
windows of which a blue-robed Hoogan priest lounged in a bored attitude,
studying a scroll, while a second Hoogan, in the familiar black, stood nervously
by. Suddenly the silence below was broken by a mournful wail.
“What’s that!” Magnan jumped, slipped, grabbed for a secure
grip on a projecting angle-iron supporting a narrow catwalk.
“Our co-workers going into action,” Retief said softly.
Beside the furnace door, the Hoogan workers were staring round nervously. There
was another doleful moan. One of the Hoogans dropped his shovel and muttered.
Retief ducked back as the blue-robed priest came to the window, peered down
below, then motioned to the other, who went to the door of the tiny chamber,
opened it, stepped out on the catwalk, shouted down to the workers. One
answered in defiant tones. Two of the workers started toward a door dimly
visible at the far side of the furnace room. The priest shouted after them; as
his bellow faded and echoed, the thin hoot of a Spism sounded, like the last
wail of dying hope. The priest jumped, whirled to dart back inside the control
room, slipped, fell from the catwalk, grabbed frantically, caught it and held
on by one hand, found himself staring directly into Magnan’s startled face. He
opened his mouth to roar—
Magnan whipped off his mauve cummerbund and thrust it into
the gaping mouth. With a muffled grunt, the Hoogan lost his grip, fell, slammed
into the heaped rubbish with a tremendous slam. The stokers fled, shouting. The
lone priest flattened his face against the window, peering down into the gloom.
With a quick movement, Retief gained the catwalk, stepped through the door. The
priest whirled, gaped, leaped for a microphone-like device on the corner table.
Retief eased the power pistol from his sarong, aimed it negligently at the
priest.