Authors: Keith Laumer
“Then
get someone who speaks Terran!” he yelped. “At this moment my associate is
being savaged by the monster!”
Retief crossed quickly to the window, pulled the drapes aside
and unlatched a panel, letting in a draft of damp night air.
“This way out, fellow,” he said. “You’d better be going
before the cops arrive.”
The fluff-ball darted across the room, came to a shaky stop
before Retief, made quick motions. A folded square of paper fell to the floor
at Retief’s feet. Then the creature sprang for the opening and was gone as
Hoogan feet clumped at the door.
“Where
Spism?” a heavy voice demanded in thick Terran. A conical Hoogan head in a
flaring helmet swiveled to scan the room. Behind the guard, Magnan craned for a
view.
“Where is the beast?” he shrilled. “It was at least four feet
high, and its tusks were four inches long at the very least!”
The Hoogan advanced into the room, pointed to the open window
with his broad-headed seven-foot pike.
“It was a mouse after all,” Retief said. “It got away.”
“You let Spism ko?”
“Shouldn’t I have?” Retief inquired mildly, pocketing the
folded paper.
“Spism pad imp from nether rechions; might bite Terry, get
blood boisonink.”
“I think you’re being impertinent,” Magnan said sharply,
“biting Terrans is perfectly safe—”
The Hoogan turned to him, pike lowered ominously.
“You will gome with me,” it ordered. “The benaldy for
consortink with minions of Unterworlt is poilink in oil.”
“Here,”
Magnan said, backing. “Stand back, my man—”
The Hoogan reached for Magnan with a long, snaky hand; Retief
stepped up behind him, selected a spot, and struck a sharp blow with bunched
fingertips. The guard stumbled, fell past Magnan and hit chin first with a
resounding slam. His pike shattered against the wall.
“Retief!” Magnan gobbled. “What are you thinking of? You’ve
laid hands on a member of the Papal Guard!”
“I had the distinct impression this fellow hooked a toe on
the rug and fell down. Didn’t you notice?”
“Why, you know very well—”
“Just before he reached you, Mr. Magnan.”
“Ah . . . why,
yes, now that you mention it, he did trip,” Magnan’s tone was suddenly brisk.
“Nasty fall. I rushed up to support him, but alas, too late. Poor fellow.
Served him right, the brute. Shall we go through his pockets?”
“Why?”
“You’re right; there isn’t time. That crash was doubtless
heard throughout the palace—”
A second Hoogan appeared at the open door, his helmet bearing
the fanged angel indicative of officer rank. He eyed the fallen pikeman.
“You addacked this one?” he demanded.
Magnan glanced at the victim as though noticing him for the
first time. “He seems to have fallen down,” he observed brightly.
“Against rules to gill Hoogan,” the captain said ominously.
“He . . . ah . . . broke
his spear,” Magnan pointed out helpfully.
“Very bad crime, defile ceremonial spear,” the captain said
sternly. “Require burification ceremony. Very expensive.”
Magnan fumbled in a money pouch at one hip. “I’d love to
contribute a little something—”
“Ten Hoogan gredits, forget whole thing. For eggstra five
dispose of body—”
The felled Hoogan stirred, mumbled, sat up.
“Ha!”
the captain said. “Look like no teal. Put for another eggstra
five . . .” He lifted a short, ugly club from his belt. “Finish
off unfortunate victim of Terry violence.”
“Stop!” Magnan yelled. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Inzult to Overseer caste briest cosd you two more gredits.
For you I mage special brice, three for five—”
“Bribery?” Magnan gasped. “Corruption?”
“Three it is,” the Hoogan nodded. “How apout you?” he turned
to Retief. “You sport like other Terry?”
“Look here, I’m paying you nothing!” Magnan barked. “Just
assist this unfortunate chap out of here, if you please, and we’ll get on with
our dressing!”
“Small religious contributions fine old Hoogan gustom!” the
Overseer protested. “You want to fiolate local tapoos?”
“We Terrans have a few customs of our own,” Retief put in
smoothly. “We feel that graft should only be paid voluntarily.” He offered a
note which the officer palmed deftly. The guard was on his feet now, swaying;
the captain barked an order; his subordinate gathered up the spear fragments,
shot Magnan a poisonous look and departed, followed by the captain.
Retief closed the door behind the departing visitors, fished
out the scrap of paper dropped by the fleeing Spism, opened it out:
BY
THE OGRE FOUNTAIN AT SECOND
MOONRISE; WEAR A YELLOW DUNGFLOWER
Magnan, busy at the mirror again, heaved a deep sigh.
“Hardly an auspicious beginning,” he commented. Then:
“Heavens! It’s twenty thirty! We’re late!” He gave his sarong a final tug,
smoothed a thinning lock across his forehead, led the way along the echoing
hall and down a spiral stair to an archway debouching onto wide steps above a
ragged lawn. Blue lanterns hanging in the branches of skeletal trees shed a wan
radiance on the fungus-like ornamental plants, the sculptures representing
souls in torment, and the wide tables laden with Terran delicacies hastily
unloaded from the Corps transport for the occasion. A dozen grotesquely shaped
fountains spread a fine mist and an odor of sulphur across the festive scene.
Beyond the high, spike-topped wall, the ominous shape of an immense
brass-colored idol reared up half a mile away, its ferocious sculptured grin
glowing in the glare of spotlights, its right arm raised in the Hoogan royal
salute, elbow straight out, forearm pointing upward with fingers spread, the
left hand gripping the right biceps. Magnan shuddered.
“That beastly idol—it’s sub-Hoogan,” he commented. “Isn’t
that smoke coming out of its nostrils?”
Retief sniffed. “Something’s burning,” he agreed.
A
dark figure stepped up from dense shadow at Magnan’s elbow. “Only old
newsbapers you scent,” it rumbled. “Our Hoogan Kods are uzeful; they zerve as
gommunity inzinerators.”
“Oh-Doomy-Gloom! You startled me!” Magnan chirped. He slapped
at an insect that buzzed his face. “I do hope the evening is a big success. It
was so thoughtful of His Arrogance to allow the Corps to act as host tonight;
such a gesture of acceptance, sort of.”
“Reverze hosbitality is an old Hoogan gustom,” Oh-Doomy-Gloom
said. “It would be a good idea to know all our old Hoogan gustoms, so as not to
end up lige the last Derran Tiplomat.”
“Yes, it was unfortunate about Ambassador Straphanger’s
predecessor getting excommunicated, and all. But really, how was he to know he
was supposed to fill the Papal begging bowl with hundred-credit notes?”
“It wasn’t zo much not contributink; but pourink the canned
beans in spoiled the bill His Arrokanze had planted as a hint.”
“A bad scene,” Magnan agreed. “But I’m sure this evening will
smooth everything over.”
The orchestra was tuning up now; lugubrious notes groaned
across the lawn. Armed Papal guards were taking up their posts, and sarong-clad
diplomats were forming up a receiving line by the stone arch opening on the
drive through which the dignitaries would arrive.
“I must hurry alonk now and zee to the kun emplazements,”
Oh-Doomy-Gloom said. “One lasd suggestion: worldly goods of course mean nothink
to His Arrokanze, but the deadliest of the zinz is Stinchiness. His Arrokanze
detests a tightwad.” He moved off, chains clashing.
“The Ambassador’s not out yet,” Magnan noted nervously.
“Gracious, I hope he puts in an appearance before Pope Ai-Poppy-Googy arrives.
I dread the prospect of having to engage His Arrogance in light chitchat.”
“According to the Post Report, dealing with the Pope is very
simple,” Retief said. “Just give him everything in sight, and if that doesn’t
satisfy him, give him some more.”
“I can see that you’re getting the hang of diplomacy,
Retief,” Magnan said approvingly. “Still, I’m worried . . .”
“Since it’s your job as Protocol Officer to soften up
difficult guests,” Retief said, “why not meet the Pope at the gate and try out
a few racy stories on him?”
“I hardly imagine that the Chief of State of a Theocracy
would react favorably to biological anecdotes,” Magnan said stiffly.
“Oh, biology is a perfectly clean subject here on Hoog; but don’t
bring up cooking in polite conversation. According to the handbook, there’s an
unspoken agreement among the cultured element that the stork brings the
goodies.”
“Really? Heavens, and all the cookies are stamped ‘Made in
Hong Kong’! I’ll have to tell the cook to substitute blintzes. While I’m
attending to that, you’d best take your post at the gate. You’ll handle the
first shift tonight. I’ll send Stringwhistle along to relieve you in an hour.”
“I could delay the Pope a few minutes for you,” Retief offered,
as they crossed to the gate. “Suppose I start by demanding to see his
invitation—”
“None of your ill-timed japes, Retief! After the last
mission’s fiasco, establishing a friendly rapport with the Pope tonight could
mean promotions all around.”
“I think the traditional lawn party is a little too subtle
for a fellow like the Pope. We should have used a simpler symbolism—like a few
rounds of heavy artillery lobbed into the palace grounds.”
“Hardly the diplomatic approach,” Magnan sniffed. “For
centuries now it’s been understood that if enough diplomats go to enough
parties, everything will come right in the end.”
“I wonder if the Hoogans understand that tradition?”
“Certainly; after all, we’re all fellow beings—brothers under
the skin, as it were.”
“In this case, the skin is an inch thick and tougher than
armorplast. I’m not sure we can penetrate to the brotherhood layer in time to
save bloodshed.”
“Actually, I rather look forward to matching epigrams with
His Arrogance tonight,” Magnan said loftily, turning to scan the gardens. “As
you know, I’m always at my sparkling best with high-ranking guests—and of
course, mere size and strength fail utterly to intimidate me—” Magnan turned at
a sound behind him, uttered a strangled yelp, and trampled a Hoog waiter’s foot
as he leaped back from the spectacle of a seven-foot-high, six-foot-wide Hoog
wrapped in cloth of gold. The monster’s gilded features included one-inch nose
holes, huge watery, reddish eyes and a wide mouth set in a formal grimace to
display polished gold-capped teeth. Two clusters of ringed fingers gripped the
hilt of an immense two-edged sword.
“Somethink smells pat!” the apparition bellowed. He leaned
forward, sniffed vigorously at Magnan and snorted.
“Horriple!” he announced, elbowing Magnan aside. “Ko away,
vellow! You’re invested with an acute P.O.!”
“Why, Your Arrogance—it’s just a touch of skin bracer back of
my ear—”
“It smelts like pargain night in a choy house. Where’s
Ambassador Hapstrinker? I drust you have blenty of food reaty. I understant you
Terries take a kreat interesd in gooking.” The Pope winked a damp pink eye,
rammed Magnan under the ribs and guffawed comfortably.
“Oof!” Magnan said. “Why, Your Arrogance!”
The
Pope was already striding toward the nearest table, his escort of armed and
helmeted guards trailing behind, fingering scimitars and eyeing the diplomats
suspiciously.
“I . . . I think I’ll just scoot along
and see to the refreshments,” Magnan bleated. “Retief, you accompany His
Arrogance and keep him amused until help arrives—I mean, until the Ambassador
puts in an appearance!” He fled.
The Pope dipped a boneless finger into a large crystal
container of cheese sauce, studied it at arm’s length, sniffed it, then, with a
flick of a limber wrist, spattered it across the ruffled shirt-fronts and
glassy smiles of the diplomats strung out in the receiving line.
“Who are these loavers?” he demanded loudly. “Bropaply
relatives, waitink arount for handouts. I have the same proplem. Or had the
same proplem, I should zay. Two weeks ako was Self-Denial Festival. I made the
subreme sagrifize ant offered the entire lot to the anzestral spirids.”
“Giving up your relatives for Lent is quite an idea,” Retief
said. “It could catch on.”
The Pope picked up a plate of dainty sandwiches, spilled the
food off, sniffed the plate, and took a small bite. “I’ve heard a kreat teal
about Terran tishes,” he said, chewing noisily. “A bit too crizp, but not bat.”
He took a second nip from the thin porcelain, offered it to Retief.
“Have a bite,” he invited genially.
“No thanks, I filled up on a beer bottle just before Your
Arrogance arrived,” Retief countered. “Try the dinner plates. They’re said to
be an epicure’s delight.”
There was a sudden stir from the vicinity of the wide terrace
doors. Ambitious diplomatic underlings sprang to positions of eager
anticipation, delighted smiles ready. The squat figure of Career Minister
Straphanger, Terrestrial Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary
to Hoog, waddled into view, stylishly decked out in a short but heavily
brocaded Hoogan longhi, a brilliant red sash which all but dragged the ground,
and jeweled sandals. At his side puffed a companion of almost identical build
and garb, distinguished only by a mop of vivid orange hair. Magnan trailed by
two yards.