Authors: Keith Laumer
“Retief, you can’t hope to find her without being apprehended!
The city is swarming with armed Groaci!”
“I think I know the back streets better than they do; I’ll
stay out of sight. If I can reach Barnshingle before he signs anything, it may
save a lot of embarrassment all around.”
“Retief, as Chargé—”
“Don’t give me any instructions I can’t follow, Mr. Magnan,”
Retief took a hand-light from a desk drawer, clipped it to his belt. “Just lie
low and ignore whatever Fiss says to you. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Retief stepped from a doorless opening into the shadows of a
narrow alley running behind the Legation. He waited until a knob-kneed Groaci
in an elaborate helmet had strolled past the lighted intersection fifty feet
distant, then jumped, pulled himself up onto the low, tiled roof of the
adjacent building. In the light of the rising fourth moon, he moved quietly to
the far side, lay flat looking down on a side street littered with items
discarded by the looters. One or two windows showed lights. A single armed
Groaci stood under a corner street-lamp. Silently Retief worked his way along
the roofs, jumping gaps between buildings, until he reached a narrow space
leading back into darkness a few yards from the corner. He groped, found a chip
of broken tile, tossed it down into the alley. The Groaci cocked his eyes
alertly, swung his gun around and came over to investigate. Retief tossed down
another pebble; as the sentry entered the dark way, Retief dropped behind him,
yanked him backward off his feet, and caught the falling gun. He put the muzzle
against the Groaci’s pulsating throat sac.
“Tell me where the Terry female is being held,” he growled,
“and maybe I won’t tie knots in your eye-stalks.”
“Iiiikkk!” the Groaci said. “To unhand me, demonic one!”
“Of course, you may not know,” Retief said. “In that case I’d
have to regretfully kill you and strike up a new acquaintance, which would be a
nuisance for both of us.”
“The impropriety of assaulting an innocent tourist! To lodge
a complaint with the Travelers Aid Society!”
“No, that was this morning,” Retief corrected his prisoner.
“This afternoon you’re a peaceful homesteader. You can think of me as an
unpacified aborigine, if it will help any.” He jabbed with the gun. “Make up
your mind. I’m on a tight schedule.”
“The ghastliness of your fate,” the Groaci hissed.
“Well, I have to hurry along,” Retief said. “Pardon my
thumbs; shooting is such a messy business, and noisy, too.”
“To restrain yourself, prowler in the night! To show you the
way to the Soft She—and to savor the moment when you writhe on the hooks!”
“That’s right,” Retief said agreeably. “Think about something
cheerful.” He prodded the captive guard to his feet. “In the meantime—” he
switched to Groaci—“To play your cards right and maybe to live to see the
dawn.”
In a shadowy arcade running beside a rare two-story
structure, Retief studied the dark windows in the wall opposite. Faint light
gleamed behind two of the glassless openings.
“I’ll have to leave you here, I’m afraid, Tish,” Retief said
softly. “I’ll just pop you into one of these convenient garbage storage units;
they have nicely-fitted air tight doors, but you’ll be all right for an hour or
so. If your information is accurate, with luck I’ll be back in plenty of time
to let you out before you suffocate. Of course, if anything happens to delay
me—well, that’s just the little risk we have to run, eh?”
“To . . . to try the rear window first,”
Tish whispered.
“Whatever you say,” Retief opened the door to the refuse bin
and urged the Groaci inside. The alien clinched his olfactory sphincters tight
and perched disconsolately on a heap of fruit rinds, locust carapaces, and
pottery shards, his head ducked under the low ceiling.
“To remember this trusting one,” he said shakily. “To
carefully avoid being killed before returning to release me.”
“With a motivation like that, I’m sure to survive.” Retief
clamped the door shut, looked both ways, and darted across the street. The wall
tiles were deeply incised with decorative floral motifs; he found finger and
toeholds, climbed quickly to the level of the windows, eased through one into a
dark room. He paused to listen; there were faint Groaci voices somewhere. In
the dim-lit hall, they were more distinct. He moved silently along to the
nearmost room. The door opened at a touch.
Miss Braswell jumped up from a long, low Yalcan couch, her
mouth open for a scream, cut off as she recognized Retief in the gloom.
“Why—Mr. Retief—”
“Shhh.” He crossed to her. A length of rope was tied firmly
to her ankle and looped around a massive clay sculpture. She was barefooted,
and her brown hair was in a state of mild disarray; there was a streak of dirt
along one cheek.
“What in the world is it all about?” she whispered. “I was
just about to buy the darlingest hand-decorated chamber pot, when all of a
sudden a whole bunch of these nasty little creatures popped out of nowhere
waving their eyes at me—”
“How many are in the building now?” Retief attacked the heavy
knots in the rope.
“Heavens, I have no idea. It’s been pretty quiet for the last
hour.” She giggled. “That tickles. I tried to untie it, but I only broke a
fingernail.”
The knot yielded and Retief tossed the rope aside.
“Do you feel equal to a short climb?”
Miss Braswell came close to Retief. “Whatever you say, Mr.
Retief,” she murmured.
“Where are your shoes?”
“I kept kicking them when they were tying me up, so they took
them. Ugh! Those creepy, damp hands!”
“If we should get separated, head for the Legation. Mr.
Magnan is holding the fort.”
“You mean—these awful little Groaci are there, too?”
“Haven’t you heard? They’re colonizing the place.”
“Why, the nerve!”
There was a sudden hiss of nearby voices. Retief flattened
himself against the wall just inside the door. Miss Braswell whirled and sat on
the chaise lounge. There was the soft clap of Groaci feet. A small figure
stepped into the room.
“Ah, young woman,” a soft Groaci voice hissed. “Time to be
going along.”
“Where?” the girl demanded loudly.
“To more comfortable quarters in more attractive
surroundings—”
“If it wasn’t so ridiculous, I’d think you were on the make,
you sticky little monster. Keep away from me!”
“You mammals are all alike,” the Groaci whispered. “But it’s
pointless to flaunt those ugly udders at me, my girl . . .” Two
more Groaci had followed the first, who signaled. “To make fast its arms,” he
snapped. “Mind its talons—”
Miss Braswell jumped up and swung an open-handed slap that
sent the flimsy alien reeling back; Retief stepped quickly behind the other
two, cracked their heads together sharply, thrust them aside and chopped a hand
across the leader’s neck.
“Time to go,” he breathed. At the window, he glanced out,
then swung a leg over the sill. “It’s easy; just hang on with your toes.”
Miss Braswell giggled again. “It’s so sort of sexy, being
barefooted, isn’t it?”
“That depends on what’s attached to the feet,” Retief said.
“Hurry up, now. We’re in enemy territory.”
“Mr. Retief,” she said from above, “do you think I flaunt my
ah . . .”
“Certainly not, Miss Braswell. They flaunt themselves.”
There was a sudden drumming from the shadows of the arcade
across the way.
“It just occurred to my friend Tish to use a little
initiative,” Retief called softly. He dropped to the street a few feet below.
“Jump—I’ll catch you.”
The thumping continued. Miss Braswell squealed and let go,
slammed against Retief’s chest. He set her on her feet. “The Groaci have good
ears. Come on—” They dashed for the nearest dark alley as a squad of armed
Groaci Peace-keepers rounded a corner. There was a weak shout, a clatter of
accouterments as the four aliens broke into a run. Gripping Miss Braswell’s
hand, Retief dashed along the narrow way. Ahead, a wall loomed, blocking the
passage. They skidded to a halt, turned to face the oncoming pursuers.
“Get to the roof,” Retief snapped. “I’ll slow them down—!”
Between
Retief and the Groaci, a six-foot-long grating set in the pavement suddenly
dropped open with a clank of metal. The leading Groaci, coming on at a smart
clip, plunged over the edge, followed an instant later by the second. Retief
brought his light up, shone it in the eyes of the other two as the third Groaci
reached the pitfall, dropped from sight. As the last of the four faltered,
sensing something amiss, the long, sinuous form of a Yalcan native glided from
a door set in the wall, gave the Groaci a hearty push, dusted both sets of
hands, and inclined its head in a gracious nod.
“Ah, Retief-Tic—and Braswell Ticcim! What jolly surprise!
Please do honor to enter humble abode for refreshing snort before continuing!”
“Nice timing, Oo-Plif,” Retief said. “I thought you’d be off
to the festival by now.”
The Yalcan reached inside the door, fumbled. The grating
swung back in place. “I was busy with brisk trade when Five-eyes arrive,” he
explained. “Decide stick around keep eye on store. Plenty time make scene at
bog yet.”
Miss Braswell shuddered as she crossed the grate. “What’s
down there?”
“Only good honest sewage, nice change for Five-eyes. After
brisk swim, fetch up in bog, join in merry-making.”
“I thought you Yalcans were pacifists,” Retief commented,
stepping inside a roughly-finished passage running parallel with the outer wall
of the building.
“All Yalcan love peace. More peaceful now noisy Five-eyes
enjoying swim. Besides, only open drain cover; visitors dive in of own free
will.”
“I had the impression you helped that last fellow along.”
“Always try to be helpful when possible. Now for snort.”
They
followed Oo-Plif along interior passages to emerge behind the bar of the
darkened dram-shop, took seats at a low bench and accepted elaborate glasses of
aromatic liquor.
“Oo-Plif, I’d appreciate it if you’d see Miss Braswell back
to the Legation,” Retief said. “I have to leave town on an urgent errand.”
“Better stay close, Retief-Tic, come along to bog in time for
high point of Voom Festival; only couple hours now.”
“I have an errand to run first, Oo-Plif; I’ve been delegated
to find Minister Barnshingle and notify him that the Legation’s under siege and
that he shouldn’t sign anything without reading the fine print.”
“Barnshingle Tic-Tic? Skinny Terran with receding lower
mandible and abdomen like queen ripe with eggs?”
“Graphically put, Oo-Plif. He’s supposed to be hanging around
a mountain somewhere, if the Groaci haven’t yet swooped down to the rescue.”
Oo-Plif
was wobbling his head, now enameled in orange and green holiday colors, in the
Yalcan gesture of affirmation.
“Barnshingle Tic-Tic here in city at present moment; arrive
half-hour ago amid heavy escort of Five-eyes.”
“Hmmm. That simplifies matters, perhaps. I was expecting to
have to steal a Groaci heli and hunt him down in the wilds. Did he seem to be a
prisoner, Oo-Plif?”
“Hard to say, not get too good look. Busy helping Five-eyes
find way to bog.”
“Via the sewer, I take it?”
“Sure; plenty gratings round town. Must be fifty Five-eyes in
swim now; plenty company.”
“Are you sure they can swim?”
“Details, details,” Oo-Plif said soothingly. “You want go
now, pay visit to Barnshingle Tic-Tic?”
“As soon as Miss Braswell’s taken care of.”
“I’m going with you,” the girl said quickly. “I wouldn’t
dream of missing the excitement.”
“This system of hidden passages is certainly handy,” Retief
said. “How much farther?”
“Close now. Not really hidden passages; just space in double
walls. Yalcan like build plenty strong.”
They emerged into another of the innumerable alleys that
characterized the town, crossed it, entered another door. Oo-Plif cautioned
silence. “Place swarm with Five-eyes. We sneak up and get lie of land, find way
of rescue Barnshingle Tic-Tic from rescuers.”
Five minutes later, crowded into a narrow, dusty passage in
the heart of the sprawling building, Retief heard the booming tones of
Barnshingle’s voice nearby, and the breathy reply of a Groaci.
“Opening in back of closet just ahead,” Oo-Plif whispered.
“Get earful of proceedings there.”
Retief edged forward. Through the half-open closet door he
caught a glimpse of Minister Barnshingle seated awkwardly in a low Yalcan easy
chair, dressed in dusty hiking clothes. Half a dozen Groaci in vari-colored
mufti surrounded him.
“—an exceedingly hairy experience, to be sure,”
Barnshingle
was saying. “Most gratifying to see your heli appear, Drone-master Fiss. But I
don’t quite grasp the import of the present situation. Not that I’m suggesting
that I’m being held against my will, you understand, but I really must hurry
back to my office—”