Authors: Keith Laumer
Retief and Yum crouched by the prone body of the Angel’s
victim.
“He’s a Terry, all right, Retief. I wonder what he was doing
Underside—alone?”
“Probably a tourist, out to see the sights—though I hadn’t
heard of any travelers registered with the consulate.”
“You may be right. We’re not far from the Tap Root; he was
headed that way, and he seemed to know where he was going.”
Retief checked the man’s equipment, noted his pulse and
respiration.
“He seems to be all right.”
“Sure. He just took a good jolt of current. We didn’t give
the Big Boy a chance to get his shredding hooks into him.”
“We’d better take him up.”
“Sure—soon as we stone out our Angel, before the Big Mouths
get him. There’s a Public Entry Well not far away; probably the one he used.
We’ll just tow him along with us. He’ll be OK.”
The vast bulk of the Angel drifted fifty yards from the
crowns of the coral trees. They swam to it, shooed off an inquisitive
scavenger, moved around to the red spot on the expanse of black hide. A short
spear stood, half its length buried dead center in the target. A second spear
protruded a foot away.
Yum whistled. “You work close, Retief. Nice shooting.” He
unclipped a slim-bladed knife, made an incision, plunged an arm into the
rubbery body, brought out a lumpy organ the size of a grapefruit. He whistled
again.
“This must be the beachmaster of all Angels! Look at the size
of that pouch!” He slit the leathery bag carefully, dipped in two fingers and
extracted a black sphere as big as a large grape.
“Retief, we make a great team! Look at those stones!”
“What do you use them for?”
“We grind them up and sprinkle them on our food. A great
delicacy.”
“Yum, what’s this Tap Root you mentioned?”
“Eh? Why, its—well, it’s the root that supplies the Mat.”
“Just one—for all this weed?”
“Sure; it’s all one plant—the whole Mat.”
“I’d
like to take a look at it. I can’t picture a Terry swimming around down here at
the height of a storm, just to rubberneck—not unless it’s a pretty spectacular
sight.”
“It doesn’t look like much; just a big, tough cable, running
down into the Big Deep.” Yum tucked the pearls into a pouch clipped to his belt
and led the way along the sloping weed surface, indicated a dark mass ahead.
“That’s
it—back in that tangle of rootlets there. The Tap’s a hundred feet in diameter
and over a mile long. It anchors the Mat, and feeds it, too.”
“Let’s take a closer look.”
Retief moved in among the waving rootlets.
“Say—what’s that?” Yum’s voice came over the earphones.
Ahead, a large dark shape nestled among the entwining roots. Retief swam up
alongside.
“It’s a scout boat—Terry design . . .” He swam
to the entry port, found it locked. “Let’s reconnoiter a little, Yum.”
The two moved over the waving mass of rootlets, cruising
beside the moss-grown, barnacled wall of the immense root. Retief caught a
glimpse of a white object, fluttering in the dark water. He headed for it. It
was a plastic tag, wired to a spike driven into the husk of the root. Below it
hung a small box, metal covered, with an insulated cable projecting from one
side.
“What is it? Who’d come here and tamper with the Root?” Yum
asked, puzzled.
“It’s a detonator,” Retief said. “The cable is designed to
plug into a packaged explosive charge—”
“Explosive! Here, by the Root?”
“How long would the weed last with the root cut?”
“Last? It wouldn’t last a day. You can cut a sprig of the
weed, it crumbles in a matter of minutes. Oh, the fruit, leaves, husks, are
tough enough—but the main mass would disintegrate like a sugar lump in a mug of
hot
roca
.”
“Somewhere
there’s a bomb to go with the detonator, Yum,” Retief said. “Probably aboard
the boat. Our swimmer was on the way to get it, I’d guess. Let’s check him for
keys.”
Yum fumbled over the limp body. “He’s clean, Retief. He must
have lost them in the fight.”
“All right; let’s get him to the surface and see what he has
to say . . .”
In the damp-smelling cavern of the Public Entry Well, Retief
stood over the unconscious man. Water dripped from him, puddled on the
heavy-duty rattan ramp that sloped up from the water. The attendant on duty
came forward, clucked at the sight of the inert body.
“He left here, not fifteen minutes ago. Wouldn’t accept my
offer of a guide. I warned him . . .”
“Where are his clothes?” Retief asked.
“On the shelf—there.” The attendant pointed to a coat, trousers,
boots, a tangle of heavy leather belts, and am empty holster in a neat pile.
“A cop?” Retief said. He examined the garments. “No
identification,” he said. “And no keys.”
“What happened?” the attendant asked.
“An angel hit him.”
“He’ll be out for hours, then,” the attendant said. “A big
angel gives a pretty good shock. Hah! These tourists are all alike.”
“Yum,
you don’t have a police force here—or an army . . . ?”
“No, what would we need with those?”
“Can you get a few friends together—volunteers, to watch the
patrol boat?”
“Sure, Retief. All you want.”
“Station about a dozen in the underbrush around the boat;
tell them to keep out of sight—we don’t want to scare anybody off. But be
careful—a spear-gun is no match for a Mark IV blaster.”
“I’ll
call the boys.” Yum went into the attendant’s office, emerged five minutes
later.
“All set,” he declared. “What about him?” he indicated the
sleeping cop.
“Have the fellow on duty watch him until your friends get
here—meanwhile, he’d better put him somewhere out of sight.”
“What about the bomb?”
“We’ll have to try to stampede somebody. Whoever sent our
friend here doesn’t know he didn’t make it.”
Retief looked at Yum, frowning in thought. “Yum, peel out of
that scare suit and put the uniform on.” He began stripping off the Striding
Devil disguise. “I’ll borrow some local garb.”
“You’ve got an idea?”
“Not much of one. Just a wild hunch.”
Yum kicked free of the last of the diving gear, pulled on the
shapeless patrol outfit. It hung ludicrously on his squat frame.
“Retief, I wouldn’t fool anybody in
this . . .”
“That’s just the point, Yum. Now let’s
move . . . !”
Yum stopped before a dark entry, pointed up at a lighted
floor above. “This is it,” he called over the howling wind. Retief’s long
violet cloak whipped at his ankles; Yum held onto his Patrolman’s cap with one
hand.
“All right.” Retief leaned close to Yum and shouted. “You
wait five minutes, Yum; then just move off down the street. Move as though you
were in a hurry. Then you’d better go back and help out the boys. If anybody
comes close, let him get the port open; then hit him fast.”
“Well—I guess you know what you’re doing.”
Retief climbed the trembling wicker stairway, gripping the
handrail as a violent gust bounced him against the swaying wall. Two flights up
he pushed aside a hanging lettered TERRESTRIAL CONSULATE-GENERAL—EMERGENCY
QUARTERS.
Wimperton and Pird looked up from a table on which a meal of
emergency rations was laid out in the bleak light of a feeble DC lamp.
Wimperton’s mouth opened wide. Pird scrambled up and stood wiping his fingers
on his pink vest.
“Hi, boys,” Retief said cheerfully. “Damnedest thing happened
to me. You’ll never guess.”
“Ah . . . you fell out a window?”
Wimperton hazarded.
“Close, but no dope-stick; the catwalk broke under me. Quite
a ride.” He strolled to the window. “Some wind out there.
Say . . .”
“Yes, indeed, quite a wind, you’re right,” Pird piped.
“Look here,” Retief said. “Is that a Patrolman? Wonder what
he’s doing out in the storm!”
Wimperton and Pird jumped to the window, craned. Below, Yum’s
ungainly figure waddled briskly along the pitching street, turned a corner.
“Hey, that’s—” Wimperton started.
“Yes, that’s strange, all right,” Pird cut in. “Poor weather
for a stroll.”
“But that wasn’t—”
“Wasn’t anything for us to worry about, ha ha,” Pird babbled.
He pretended to yawn. “Well, about time to turn in, eh?” He patted his mouth,
watching Retief.
“I’m glad you suggested that,” Retief said. “I was afraid
you’d want to sit up and talk.”
“Just take that first room there,” Pird said eagerly. “Lovely
room. Just lie right down and drift right off. Wimperton, you show Mr. Retief
the room and I’ll just . . . ah . . . check a few
things.”
Retief glanced back from the door, caught a glimpse of Pird
darting past the outer hanging. He stepped into the room. There was a tidy
bunk, an easy chair, a rug, a tri-D set.
“This is dandy.” He patted the bed. “Well, Wimperton, have a
pleasant night.”
“Yes indeed—you too . . .” Wimperton
disappeared. Retief flipped the light off, lay back and waited. A minute
passed. The door curtain twitched aside for a moment, dropped back. Lights
winked off in the outer room.
Retief rose, glanced out. The shelter was deserted. He
crossed to the outer hanging, went down the swaying wicker stairs three at a
time, stepped out into the storm-whipped street. Pird and Wimperton, each
dragging a suitcase, staggered out of sight around the corner. Retief wrapped
the cloak close and followed.
Standing in the shadows by the straining wicker-work wall of
a Public Entry Well, Retief watched Wimperton and Pird as they paced the ramp.
Pird glanced at a finger watch.
“ . . . any time
now . . .” the words came faintly through the hammer of the wind
and the groaning of wicker. Pird stopped before Wimperton, apparently asking a
question.
Wimperton reached inside his coat, brought out a thick packet
of papers restrained by a red rubber band, waved them at Pird, put them back.
Retief edged closer.
“ . . . don’t like it either,”
Wimperton’s nasal voice stated. “Either the locals are wise—or they’ve got a
deal with . . .” The wind whirled the words away.
Retief stepped back into the street, saw the pink glow of a
public phone fifty yards distant. He fought his way to it through the wind,
dialed, asked for Yum.
“No action here yet,” the native said. “How did the routine
go over?”
“Our
pigeons flew the coop, all right. They know they’ve got troubles, but they’re
not sure just what kind. They’re at a Public Entry near the consulate, waiting
for a pick-up.”
“They’ll have a long wait; their driver’s still asleep.”
“Yum, I have a feeling the bomb’s timed to go off at the peak
of the storm. How long will that be?”
“Oh, about two hours, I’d say.”
“What will conditions be like at the top of the consulate
tower now?”
“Rough.
The towers lean to the wind. The ceilings fold right down against the floors in
a good blow—and this one’s a dandy.”
“We’re about out of time, Yum—and there are two parties still
unaccounted for. I’m afraid I have one more trip in this wind.”
“You’re coming back here?”
“I’m going up—and I’d better get moving while there’s still
crawl space in the consulate.”
A howling gale struck Retief’s head as he hauled himself up
from a dark opening onto the thirtieth-floor balcony, looked up the long slant
of the tower face. Forty feet above, the guard rail lining the terrace of the
consulate penthouse was dimly visible in the murk.
Under
Retief, the tower wall trembled and moved like a living thing. He reached for a
handhold, started up the thirty-degree slope. Gusts tore at him; he rested,
hugging the surface, then went on. Ten minutes later he pulled himself over,
lay full length on the steep slope of the tower roof.
The wind was less, here in the shelter of the canted floor.
Retief slid down, then jumped, tumbled through the wind-tattered entry hanging,
caught himself and blinked through the gloom of the deserted office.
From the far wall, a grunt sounded. Retief made his way
across the room, flicked a wall switch. Dim light glowed, showed him the
trussed form of Consul-General Jack Dools huddled in the angle of wall and
floor. Five bloodshot eye-stalks quivered appealingly at Retief.
He went to a tilted desk, extracted a letter knife from a
clip, came back and sawed at the cords binding the Groaci, then pulled the gag
free of the mandibles.
“Ah, the shining of the sun on your ancestral egg-hill,”
Dools gasped in Groaci. “To express heartfelt gratitude; to vow eternal
chum-ship . . .”