Authors: Keith Laumer
“I wouldn’t make any announcements just yet,” he said. “The
results aren’t all in.”
“Who are you?” The Hoogan sidled toward a corner cabinet.
“If that’s where you keep your prayer books, better let them
lie for a while yet.”
“Loog here, berhabs you are unaware that I am His Voracity
the Arjpishob Um-Moomy-Hooby, and I have gonnegtions—”
“Doubtless. And don’t try for the door; I have a confederate
out there who’s noted for his ferocity.”
Magnan came through the door, panting. Um-Moomy-Hooby backed
away.
“Whad—whad to you wand?”
“I understand the god is about to utter oracular statements,
as the high point of the Wednesday services,” Retief said.
“Yez—I was jusd going over my sgribt. Now if you’ll eggsguze
me—”
“It just happens that it’s the script we want to talk about.
There are a couple of special announcements I’d like to see inserted—”
“Whad? Damper with holy sgribture?”
“Nothing like that; just a good word for a group of
associates of ours and possibly a short commercial for the CDT—”
“Plasphemy! Herezy! Refishionism! Nefer will I pe a barty to
zuch zagrileche!”
Retief clicked off the pistol’s safety catch.
“—Put, on the other hant, bossiply somethink gould pe
arranched,” the Archbishop said hastily. “How much did you have in mind
offering?”
“I wouldn’t think of attempting to bribe a man of the cloth,”
Retief said smoothly. “You’re going to do this for the common welfare.”
“Jusd whad is it you hafe in mind?”
“The first item is the campaign you’ve been waging against
the Spisms—”
“Ah, yez! And a wontervul jop our lats hafe peen toing, doo.
Uk-Ruppa-Tooty willink, zoon we will zee them stambed oud endirely, and virtue
driumvant!”
“The CDT takes a dim view of genocide, I’m afraid. Now, my
thought was that we could agree on a reasonable division of spheres of
influence—”
“A teal with the Bowers of Tarknezz? Are you oud of your
mind?”
“Now, now,” Magnan put in, “a more co-operative attitude
would do Your Voracity greater credit—”
“You zugchesd that the jurch should gombromize with zin?”
“Not exactly compromise,” Magnan said placatingly. “Just work
out a sort of peaceful coexistence plan.”
“Nefer will I, as arjpishob, gome oud in vafor of dogetherness
with Zatan’s Imps!”
“There, there, Your Voracity; if you’d just sit down across
the table from them, you’d find these imps weren’t bad fellows at
all . . .”
There was a soft sound from the door. Jackspurt, a jaunty,
two-foot sphere of red bristles, appeared, waving his eye-stalks exultantly. A
looming blue Spism peered over his shoulder.
“Nice going, Retief!” he called. “I see you caught one. Pitch
him down after the other one, and let’s clear out of here. This little
diversion will give us time to get clear before the smoke starts.”
“Jackspurt, do you suppose your fellows could do a fast job
of shifting a few hoses around? You’ll have to block off the sewers and feed
the smoke off in some other direction.”
“Say, that’s an idea!” Jackspurt agreed. “And I think I know
just the direction.” He gave instructions to the big blue Spism, who hurried
away.
The Archbishop had retreated to a corner, eyes goggling, his
hands describing mystic passes in the air. More Spisms were crowding into the
room now: tall blue ones, tiny darting green ones, sluggish purple
varieties—all cocking their eye-stalks at the prelate.
“Help!” he croaked weakly. “The minions of the netherworlt
are ubon me!”
Magnan drew out a chair from the table. “Just have a seat,
Your Voracity,” he said soothingly. “Let’s just see if we can’t work out a
modus
vivendi
suitable to all parties . . .”
“Gome to terms with the Enemy? Id will mean the ent of the
jurch!”
“On the contrary, Your Voracity; if you ever succeeded in
eliminating the opposition, you’d be out of a job. The problem is merely to
arrange matters in a civilized fashion so that everyone’s interests are
protected.”
“You may hafe somethink there,” Um-Moomy-Hooby seated himself
gingerly. “Put the nevarious agtifities of these goplins musd pe kebt unter
sdrigd gondrol—Babal gongrol, thad is.”
“Look, my boys got to make a living,” Jackspurt started.
“Zellink a vew love-botions, zerdainly,” the Archbishop said.
“And the jurch is willink to zmile at a modest draffic in aphrodisiags, dope,
and raze-drack tips. But beddling filthy menus to teen-agers, no! The zame goes
vor sdealing withoud a licenze, and the zale of algoholic peferaches, with the
eggzebtion of small amounts of broberly aged sduff for medicinal use py the
glerchy, of gourse.”
“OK, I think we can go along with that,” Jackspurt said. “But
you priests will have to lay off the propaganda from now on. I want to see
Spisms getting better billing in church art.”
“Oh, I think you could work out something lovely in little
winged Spisms with haloes,” Magnan suggested. “I think you owe it to them, Your
Voracity, after all this discrimination in the past.”
“Tevils with winks?” Um-Moomy-Hooby groaned. “It will blay
hop with our zympolisms—put I zubboze it can be tone.”
“And you’ll have to have guarantees that everything from two
feet under the surface on down belongs to us,” Jackspurt added. “We’ll leave
the surface to you, and throw in the atmosphere, just so you dedicate a few
easements so we can come up and sight-see now and then.”
“Thad zeems egwidaple,” the Archbishop agreed. “Supchegd to
vinal approfal py His Arrokanze, of gourze.”
“By the way,” Jackspurt asked casually, “who’s next in line
for the Pope’s job if anything happens to Ai-Poppy-Googy?”
“Az it habbens, I am,” Um-Moomy-Hooby said. “Why?”
“Just asking,” Jackspurt said.
A loud thumping started up from the wide floor below.
“What’s that?” Magnan yelled.
“The pumps,” the Archbishop said. “A bity so many Spisms will
tie, but it is manivesdly the will of Uk-Ruppa-Tooty . . .”
“I guess old Uk-Ruppa-Tooty had a last-minute change of
heart,” Jackspurt said callously. “We shifted the pipes around to feed the
fumes back up into the city plumbing system. I guess there’s black smoke
pouring up out of every john in town by now.”
“Touble-grozzer!” the Archbishop leaped up, waving his arms.
“The teal’s off—”
“Ah, ah, you promised, Your Voracity,” Magnan chided. “And
besides, Mr. Retief still has the gun.”
“And now, if you’ll just pick up the microphone, Your
Voracity,” Retief said. “I think we can initiate the era of good feeling
without further delay. Just keep our role quiet, and take all the credit for
yourself.”
“A pity about poor Ai-Poppy-Googy falling off the ziggurat
when the smoke came boiling out of Uk-Ruppa-Tooty’s mouth,” Ambassador
Straphanger said, forking another generous helping of Hoogan chow mein onto his
plate. “Still, one must confess it was a dramatic end for a churchman of his
stature, shooting down the slide and disappearing into the smoke as he did.”
“Yez,
alrety the canonization papers are peing brepared,” His newly-installed
Arrogance, Pope Um-Moomy-Hooby, shot a nervous glance at the Spism seated
beside him. “He’ll pe the batron zaint of rehabilidated tevils, imps, and
koplins.”
“A
pity you missed all the excitement, Magnan,” Straphanger said, chewing. “And
you, too, Retief. While you absented yourselves, the Hoogan philosophy
underwent a veritable renaissance—helped along, I humbly assume, by my modest
peace-making efforts.”
“Hah!” the Pope muttered under his breath.
“Frankly,
what with all the smoke, I hadn’t expected
the
oracle’s pronouncement to be quite so lucid,” Straphanger
went on, “to
say nothing of its unprecedented generosity—”
“Chenerosity?” interrupted Um-Moomy-Hooby, his heavy features
reflecting rapid mental recapitulation of his concessions.
“Why, yes, ceding all minerals rights to the formerly
persecuted race here on Hoog—a charming gesture of conciliation.”
“Mineralts right? Whad mineralts?”
Jackspurt, splendid in the newly tailored tunic of Chief Representative
for Spismodic Affairs to the Papal court, spoke up from his place along the
table set up on the palace terrace.
“Oh, he’s just talking about the deposits of gold, silver,
platinum, radium, and uranium, plus a few boulders of diamond, emerald, ruby,
and so forth that are laying around below ground. The planet’s lousy with the
stuff. We’ll use our easements to ferry it up to the surface where the
freighters will pick it up, so we won’t put you Hoogs out at all.”
The Pope’s alligator-hide features purpled. “You—you knew
apout these mineralts?” he choked.
“Why, didn’t His former Arrogance mention it to you? That was
what brought the mission here; the routine minerals survey our technical people
ran from space last year showed up the deposits—”
“And we built our Brincible Kod oud of prass—imborted prass
at thad,” the Pope said numbly.
“Too scared of a few Spisms to dig,” Jackspurt said in a
stage whisper.
There was a flicker of lightning in the sky to the east.
Thunder rolled. A large rain-drop spattered on Straphanger’s plate, followed by
another.
“Oh-oh, we’d better head for cover,” Jackspurt said. “I know
these flash squalls; lightning out the kazoo—”
A brilliant flash cast the looming figure of the god
Uk-Ruppa-Tooty into vivid silhouette against a blue-black sky. Dishes rattled
on the table as sound rumbled across the sky on wooden wheels. The Pope and his
guests rose hastily, as a third jagged electrical discharge ripped across the
sky—and struck the giant idol full on the shoulder. A shower of sparks flew;
the mighty right arm, raised in the Hoogan gesture of salute, pivoted slowly at
the elbow. The yards-wide hand, seen-edge-on with the fingers extended, swung
slowly in a great arc, came to rest with the extended thumb resting firmly against
the snub nose. Sparks flew as the digit was welded firmly in place.
The Pope stared, then tilted his head back and looked up at
the sky, long and searchingly.
“Chusd pedween us men of the worlt,” he said hoarsely, “do
you zubbose thad phenomenon has any sbezial zigniviganze?”
“I think if I were you, Your Arrogance, I’d watch my step,”
Jackspurt said in an awed tone. “And, uh, by the way, on behalf of the Spisms,
I’d like to make a contribution to the Papal treasury.”
“Hmmm. Have you ever thought aboud tagink inzdruction?” the
Pope inquired. “I’m sure it could be arranged, and as for the little
contribution you sboge of, dwenty bercend of the take would
zuvvice . . .”
They strolled off along the corridor, deep in conversation.
Ambassador Straphanger hurried away to prepare his dispatches to Sector HQ,
Magnan at his heels. Retief stepped back out onto the terrace, lit up a
dope-stick. Far away, Uk-Ruppa-Tooty loomed, solemnly thumbing his nose at the
Papal Palace.
Cheerfully, Retief returned the salute.
“The
interposition of the stern Corps presence, unflinching champion of underdogs,
has more than once frustrated the colonial-imperialist urges of
expansion-minded states.
At
Yalc, Minister Barnshingle, braving every peril in single-handed confrontation
with the forces of tyranny, gallantly reaffirmed the hallowed principle of fair
play for all.”
—Vol. II, reel 161, 481 AE (AD 2942)
Retief
scaled his pale burgundy afternoon informal beret across the office, narrowly
missing the clothes tree, and dumped the heavy carton he was carrying on his
desk. A shapely brunette with a turned-up nose appeared at the connecting door
to the next office.
“Miss Braswell,” he said before she could speak. “I have here
two handsome half-liter wine glasses which I’m about to field-test. Will you
join me?”
She made a shushing motion, rolling her eyes toward the inner
office. A narrow, agitated face appeared over her shoulder.
“Retief!” Consul-General Magnan burst out. “I’ve been at
wit’s end! How does it happen that every time catastrophe strikes you’re out of
the office?”
“It’s merely a matter of timing,” Retief said soothingly,
strip
ping paper from the package. He pulled out a tulip
-shaped
goblet which seemed to be made of coils of jewel-colored glass welded together
in an intricate pattern, held it up to the light.
“Pretty, eh? And barely cool from the glass-blower—”
“While you idled about the bazaar,” Magnan snapped, his face
an angry pink above a wide, stiff collar of yellow plastiweave, “I’ve been
coping single-handedly with disaster! I suggest you put aside your baubles; I’m
calling a formal Emergency Staff Meeting in two minutes!”