Authors: Keith Laumer
“Ah, the Ampassador is twints?” the Pope inquired, moving
toward the approaching pair.
“No, that’s Mrs. Straphanger,” Retief said. “If I were Your
Arrogance I’d ditch that saucer; she’s fierce when aroused.”
“Ah, the edernal female, ever conzerned with food
gonzervation.” The Pope tossed the crust of the plate back of a flowering bush.
“Ah, there, Ampassador Strakhumper!” he bellowed. “And your
charming cow! She will be litterink zoon, I trust?”
“Littering? How’s that?” Straphanger stared around in confusion.
“I azzume you keep your cows pregnant?” the Pope boomed. “Or
possibly thiz one is over-aged. But no matter; doubtless she was a gread
broducer in her day.”
“Well, I never!” Mrs. Straphanger snapped, bridling.
“By the way,” Ai-Poppy-Googy went on, “I hate to disguss
finanzes over food, zo I suggesd we deal with the proplem of an abbrobriate
kift ad once. I am of gourse quite brebared to vorget the drivial
misuntersdandink with the former ampassator ant agcepd any zum in egzess of one
million gredits withoud quibblink.”
“One million credits?” Straphanger babbled. “Gift?”
“Of
gourse, if you wish to avoid aguirink a reputation as a piker, an egstra
million would not be taken amiss.”
“A million credits of Corps funds?
But . . . but whatever for?”
“Ah, ah,” the Pope waggled an admonitory tactile member. “No
pryink into Hoogan internal matters!”
“Oh, no, indeed, Your Arrogance! I only
meant . . . what’s the occasion? For the gift, I mean.”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“Oh.”
The Pope nodded placidly. “Luggy you didn’t throw thiz
affaire on Wentsday; thad’s douple gifd day.” He plucked a glass from a tray
offered by a bearer, emptied the contents on the lawn, nipped a chip from the
edge with his polished metallic teeth, munched thoughtfully.
“Lackink in flavor,” he commented.
“My best crystal,” Mrs. Straphanger gasped. “All the way from
Brooklyn, yet, and like a goat he’s eating it!”
“A koat?” The Pope eyed her suspiciously. “I don’t belief I
know the term.”
“It’s a . . . a sort of gourmet,”
Straphanger improvised. Sweat was glistening on his forehead. “Known for its
discriminating tastes.”
“Now, about the matter of a bension,” the Pope continued. “I
zee no neet of oztentation. A mere thousant a day would suvvize as a token of
Corps esteem.”
“A thousand what a day?” the Ambassador inquired around a
frozen diplomatic grin which exposed old-fashioned removable dentures.
“Gredits, of gourse. And then there is the matter of
zupzidies to Hoogan industry; zay fifty thousand a month. Don’d give a thoughd
to atminisdration; just make the cheggs payable to me perzonally—”
“Hoogan industry? But I was given to understand there are no
industries here on Hoog—”
“That’s why we reguire a zupzity,” the Pope said blandly.
Straphanger hitched his smile in place with an effort.
“Your Arrogance, I’m here merely to establish friendly
relations, to bring Hoog into the mainstream of Galactic cultural life—”
“What
coult be frientlier than money?” the Pope inquired in a loud, final-sounding
voice.
“Well,” Straphanger conceded, “we might arrange a loan—”
“An oudright krant is zo much zimpler,” the Pope pointed out.
“Of
course, it would mean extra staff, to handle the
administrative load.” Straphanger rubbed his hands together,
a
speculative gleam in his eye. “Say twenty-five for a start—”
The Pope turned as a medium-sized Hoog in tight
black-and-silver vestments came up, growled in his ear, waving a rubbery arm
toward the house.
“What?” the Pope exploded. He swiveled on Straphanger. “You
are harporink tapoo greatures! Givink aid and gomfort to untesirable elements?
Sharink your zubstanze with minions of the Opposition?”
“Your Arrogance!” Straphanger’s voice quavered against the
rising roar of the outraged cleric. “I don’t understand! What did that fellow
say?”
The Pope bawled commands in Hoogan. His escort scattered,
began beating the bushes rimming the garden. The Ambassador trotting at his
side, the guest of honor strode to the laden refreshment tables, began stuffing
in fragile china, muttering to himself.
“Your
Arrogance,” Straphanger panted. “If I could just have some explanation! I’m
sure it’s all just a ghastly mistake! What are these men searching for? I
assure you—”
“Out of the gootnezz of my heard, I welgomed you to Hoog!”
the Pope roared. “As a great gompliment to you, I abzorbed your language! I was
even ready to agzept cash, the zubreme chesture! And now I find that you openly
gonzort with the enemies of the Kods!”
Standing on the sidelines of the verbal fray, Retief glanced
around the garden, spotted a fountain in the shape of a two-headed Hoogan dwarf
with oversized teeth and belly. He moved over to it, turned and surveyed the
gesticulating group at the table. There was a tug at his sandal-lace. He
looked down. Two bright eyes at the ends of wire-like stalks stared up
appealingly from a clump of grass. He glanced around; all eyes were on the
Pope.
“Are you looking for me?” Retief asked softly.
“Right!” a squeaky voice piped. “You’re a hard man to have a
quiet chat with, Mr. Ahh.”
“Retief.”
“How do, Retief. My name’s Jackspurt. The boys appointed me
spokesmen to tell you Terries about what’s going on. After all, I guess us
Spisms got a few rights, too.”
“If you can explain what’s going on in this filbert factory,
I’ll be forever in your debt, Jackspurt. Speak your piece.”
“It’s the Hoogans; they don’t give us a minute’s peace. Talk
about persecution! Do you know those psalm-singing hippos are blaming us for
everything from sour milk to loss of potency? It’s getting where it’s not safe
to take a stroll after sundown—”
“Hold on, Jackspurt. Maybe you’d better fill me in one some
background. Who are you? Why are the Hoogans after you? And where did you learn
to speak Terran with that flawless enunciation of consonants?”
“I used to be a mascot on a Terry trader; I stowed away when
she landed here for emergency repairs. It was a good life; but after a while I
got homesick for good old Hoog—you know how it is—”
“You’re a native of this charming world?”
“Sure—us Spisms have been around longer than the Hoogs. And
we got along for thousands of years with no trouble: the Hoogs took the
surface, and we settled in nice and comfy underground. Then they got religion
and it’s been Hell ever since . . .”
“Hold on, Jackspurt: I always heard that religion exercised a
beneficent influence on those fortunate enough to possess it.”
“That depends on which side you’re on.”
“That’s a point.”
“But I haven’t given you the big picture yet. These Hoogan
priests launched a full-scale propaganda campaign: painted up a lot of
religious art with pictures of Spisms poking pitchforks at Hoogs, and pretty
soon it got so even the average Hoog in the street started jumping and making
X’s in the air and mumbling spells everytime one of us came up for a breath of
fresh air. The next thing we knew, it was full-scale war! I’m telling you, Retief,
us Spisms are in bad shape—and it’s gonna get worse!”
A guard was working his way toward the ogre fountain.
“Jiggers, the gendarmes,” Retief said. “You’d better get out
of sight, Jackspurt. They’re beating the bushes for you. Why don’t we continue
this later—”
The Spism whisked back under cover. “But this is important,
Retief!” Jackspurt’s voice emanated from the brush. “The boys are counting on
me—”
“Shhh! Watch me and take your cue . . .”
Magnan had turned and was eyeing Retief suspiciously. He stepped to his
junior’s side.
“Retief, if you’re mixed up in this
mix-up . . .”
“Me, Mr. Magnan? Why, I just arrived this afternoon the same
time you did—”
“Magnan!” Straphanger’s voice cut through the hubbub. “The
Pope informs me that some sort of demonic creature was seen here on the Embassy
grounds this evening! Of course we know nothing about it, but His Arrogance has
drawn the unfortunate implication that we’re consorting with denizens of the
netherworld!” He lowered his voice as Magnan drew close. “Superstitious
poppycock, but we’ve got to play along; you and the others spread out and go
through a show of looking for this mythical imp. I’ll pacify His Arrogance.”
“Certainly, Mr. Ambassador.
But . . . ah . . . what if we find it?”
“Then you’re an even greater idiot than I suspect!”
Straphanger twisted his working smile into position and turned back to the
Pope.
“Retief, you start along there,” Magnan indicated the front
of the house. “I’ll go poke about in the bushes. And whatever you do, don’t
turn up anything—like that ghastly creature we encountered upstairs—” A
startled look spread across his face. “Good lord, Retief! Do you suppose—?”
“Not a chance. I picture something more like a medium-sized
dragon.”
“Still . . . perhaps I’d better mention
it to the Ambassador . . .”
“And confirm the Pope’s opinion? Very courageous of you. Mind
if I stick around and watch?”
“On the other hand, he’s a busy man,” Magnan said hurriedly.
“After all, why bother him with trivia?” He hurried off to take up a position
near the Pope and make a show of stooping and peering among the conifer-like
hedges. Retief sauntered back to the table, deserted now except for a lone
Hoogan bearer at the far end gathering empties onto a wide tray and tossing
damp paper napkins into a capacious waste paper receptacle. Retief picked up an
empty sandwich plate said hsst!; the Hoogan looked up as Retief tossed the
plate. The Hoogan dropped the big paper bag and caught the tossed crockery.
“Here’s some more,” Retief offered helpfully. He gathered up
and handed over a pair of saucers, three empty glasses and a couple of cheese
sandwiches each minus one bite. “You’d better hump along now and police up
behind His Arrogance,” he suggested. “He’s leaving a trail of saucer rims
behind him; doesn’t seem to like the floral design.”
“You dry dell me my chop?” the Hoogan demanded truculently as
Retief fumbled a spoon, let it drop to the grass just under the edge of the
hanging table cloth.
“Certainly not, old boy,” Retief reassured the glowering
local. He stooped for the spoon, caught a glimpse of an eye peering from the
shadows.
“Get in the bag,” he hissed from the corner of his mouth.
“Who you talg to?” the servant ducked and stared under the
table. Behind him, the paper trash container rustled softly as the Spism whisked
into it.
“Just addressing a few words to the spoon god,” Retief said
blandly. “Bad luck to drop a spoon, you know.”
“Yez?” the Hoogan said. He leaned against the table, got out
a much-used toothpick and began plying it on his unpolished teeth. “You
voreigners kot grazy iteas. Efrypoty know kood lug trop sboon, bat lug trob
forg.”
“Back home, falling from a ten-story building is considered
an inauspicious omen,” Retief rambled on, watching the armed Papal Guard as
they worked closer. One came over to the table, gave Retief a sharp look,
thrust his head under the table, then reached to check the trash container.
“How about a little refreshment?” Retief picked up a cup, dipped it full from a
bowl of thick purple punch, took a step toward the warrior and seemed to trip;
the sticky fluid struck the Hoogan just below the clasp holding the
rainbow-hued cape, spread out in an interesting pattern across his polished
breastplate. The bearer grabbed up his tray and bag and backed off hurriedly as
the spluttering guard slapped limber fingers at the mess.
“Itiot! Clumpsy oaf!” he choked—
“What, boozink on duty?” a vast voice boomed. The Pope
bellied past Retief, planted himself before the confused Hoogan. “The benalty
is boilink in oil!” he roared. “Take him away!”
Other guardsmen closed in, grabbed their unfortunate fellow.
“That was my fault, Your Arrogance,” Retief started. “I
offered him—”
“You would inderfere with the Babal administration of
justize?” the Pontiff bellowed, turning on Retief. “You have the demerity to
sugchest that the Babal judgment is fallible?”
“Not exactly; you’re just wrong,” Retief said. “I spilled the
punch on him.”
The Pope’s face purpled; his mouth worked. He swallowed.
“It’s ben zo long zinze anyone contradicted me,” he said
mildly, “that I’ve vorkotten the bunishment.” He waved two fingers in blessing.
“You are apzolved, my zon,” he said airily. “In vact, I apzolv you for the
whole weekent. Have fun; it’s on the house.”
“Why, isn’t that gracious of His Arrogance?” Magnan chirped,
popping up beside the Pope. “What a pity we didn’t find the demon; but I—”
“That reminds me,” the Pope said ominously. He fixed an eye
on Ambassador Straphanger as the senior diplomat came up. “I’m still waitink
for results!”