"So?"
"So
I held out on you. Our slumbering pal had keys, all right. I went back and
opened up the boat. There sat the bomb—all labelled and ready to go."
"Except
for the detonator. That was wired to the root."
"Uh-huh.
A safety precaution. But I found another one. It wasn't hard to install. I had
an idea the owner would be along to see about it before zero hour, but I didn't
like the sight of the thing sitting out the middle of the floor, so I tucked it
away."
"Where?"
"In
the chart storage bin."
Retief
whirled to the discarded Terran uniform, jerked the communicator from the lapel
clip, keyed it on the official frequency.
"Klamper,
if you can hear me answer—fast!"
After
a moment, Klamper's voice came back, a thin piping in the miniature earphone.
Yum and Dools leaned closer.
"Klamper
here. Who're you?"
"This
is Retief, Klamper—"
"Oh,
yeah, the bright young official. Well, I predict a big change in the near
future for you. In about thirty seconds, to be exact."
"Klamper,
there's a bomb—"
"Well,
well, so you found out about that, too. Sorry I can't help you. So long,
su—" The earphones went dead.
"Klamper!"
Yum
looked at his watch. "Right on the button," he said.
"At
least," Dools said, "he lived long enough to exonerate Mr.
Retief."
There
was a patter of hurried footsteps. Retief and Yum turned. In the door,
Wimperton and Pird stood like ruffled birds, staring.
"I'm
afraid you lads missed the boat," Retief called. Yum signaled with his hand.
Half a dozen local citizens fanned out to hem in the newcomers.
"Oh,
why Mr. Retief ... What are you doing out of bed?" Pird squeaked.
"Oh,
I just dropped down to offer you boys a crack at a peachy new opportunity in
the Achievement Corps. Consul-General Dools here has need of two volunteers to
man the new wildlife census stations over on continents One and Two. I'm going
to give you first grabs at it. Weil go over to the Shelter and type out your
resignations from the CDT and a couple of five-year enlistment contracts in the
A.C.—on a noncompensatory basis, of course."
Wimperton's
mouth sagged open.
"And
I have a number of microtape recordings I'll contribute," Dools said.
"They're quite exciting. All about bombs and land claims and gold mines.
You can play them over during your leisure time—during sandstorms,
perhaps."
"But—Mr.
Retief," Pird cried. "We—we've found conditions here somewhat less
than congenial ..."
"What
if we refuse?" Wimperton gulped.
"In
that case, Yum and his associates would like to interview you on the subject of
homesteading."
"Your
pen or mine for the signature?" Pird said hastily.
"I'll
ask a couple of the boys to help these two philanthropists over to the
Consulate," Yum said. "Let the business wait till morning. You and I
have a bottle of Yiquil to finish, Retief."
"Show
Mr. Dools a few of those pearls we netted, Yum."
Yum
fished out the stones, handed them to Dools, who canted two pairs of eye-stalks
at the lustrous one-inch spheres.
"Gentlemen—this
is precisely the product I need to qualify Poon as a Class One commercial
world! Can these be supplied in any volume? Say, a dozen a month?"
"I
think it could be arranged," Yum said in heavily accented Terran.
"Why don't you join Retief and the boys and me in a snort?"
"Well,
I really don't think ..."
"I
know a barman who can concoct a suitable booze for any metabolism," Yum
urged. "And a hangover cure afterwards."
Retief
linked arms with the slender Groaci. "Come along Mr. Consul-General,"
he said. "We won't take no for an answer."
-
THE
HOOGAN chamberlain was tall, black-clad, and high-shouldered. He had an immense
dome-shaped head sloping on to his massive shoulders. His eyes were like
freshly shelled oysters in a leathery face and he had long, dangling arms.
He
turned to face the party of Terrestrial diplomats who stood clutching suitcases
under the lofty vaulted ceiling of the vast, dark hall. Shafts of eerily
colored light filtered through stained-glass loopholes, which were high in the
walls, shedding a faint glow on the uneven stone floor. The drab-colored murals
and hangings depicted the specialities of the seven Hoogan Hells. The mouths of
dark corridors radiated from the circular chamber with helmeted and kilted
Hoogan pikemen spaced between them, immobile as the gargoyles that peered from
high niches.
"His
Arrokanze the Pishop has graziously blaced at your dispozal theze cozy
quarters," the chamberlain said in a deep, hollow voice. "You may now
zelect rooms on the floors above and array yourselves in the karments
provided."
"Look
here, Mr. Odom-Glom," Ambassador Straphanger cut in, "I've been
thinking it over, and I've decided that my staff and I will just nip back over
to our ship for the night."
"His
Arrokanze will be egspectink you at the fete in the Ebiscobal Kardens in one
hour's time," the Hoogan bored on. "His Arrokanze tizlikes to be kept
waitink."
"Oh,
we're all keenly aware of the honor His Arrogance has paid us in offering
accomodations here in the Episcopal Palace, but—"
"One
hour," Odom-Glom repeated, his voice echoing across the hall. He turned
away, the symbolic chain attached to his neck clanking as he moved. He paused,
turned back.
"By
the way, you are instrugted to iknore any small ah ... indruzions. If you zee
anything ... unusual, zummon a guard at onze."
"Intrusions?"
Straphanger repeated querulously. "What kind of intrusions?"
"The
balace," Odom-Glom said, "is haunted."
-
Four
twisting turns of a stone staircase above the reception hall, Second Secretary
Magnan tiptoed at Retief's side. They went along an echoing corridor, past
black iron-bound doors and mouldy tapestries which were dimly visible in the
light of a flambeau.
"Quaint
beliefs these bucolics entertain," Magnan said in a tone of forced
heartiness. "Haunted indeed! How silly! Ha!"
"Why
are you whispering?" Retief inquired.
"Just
out of respect for the Bishop, of course." Magnan came to an abrupt halt,
and clutched Retief's sleeve. "Wha-what's that?" he pointed.
Along
the corridor, something small and dark slipped from the shadow of a pilaster to
the shelter of a doorway.
"Probably
just our imagination," Retief suggested.
"But
it had big red eyes," Magnan protested.
"They're
as easy to imagine as any other kind."
"I
just remembered—I left my shower cap in my hold baggage. Let's go back."
Retief
moved off. "It's just a few doors farther. Six, seven ... here we
are." He inserted the key Odom-Glom's aide had provided. The heavy door
swung open with a creak that descended the scale to a low groan. Magnan,
hurrying forward, paused to stare at the nearest wall-hanging which showed a
group of Hoogans suspended head-down from spikes above leaping flames, while
goblins of various shapes prodded them with long barb-tipped spears.
"Curious
how similar religious art is from one world to another," he commented.
Inside the room, he stared around in dismay at the damp stone walls, the two
spartan cots and carved devils which stood in the corners.
"What
perfectly ghastly quarters!" He dropped his suitcase and went over to prod
the nearest bunk. "Why, my spine will never endure this mattress! I'll be
a physical wreck after the first night! And the draft—I'm sure to catch a
chill. And ... and ..." He broke off.
Magnan
raised a shaky finger to point at the darkest corner of the narrow chamber
where a tall, bug-eyed demon carved from pale blue stone winked garnet eyes.
"Retief!
Something moved over there—it was just like the devils in the pictures! All
fuzzy red bristles and eyes that glow in the dark!"
Retief
opened his suitcase. "If you see another one, throw a shoe at it. Right
now, we'd better be getting into costume; compared with an aroused ambassador,
a few devils are just friendly pets."
Half
an hour later, after having sponged off at a stone sink, Magnan's eyes were
still rolling nervously. He adjusted the folds of his Hoogan ceremonial sarong
before the tarnished, rippled mirror.
"I
suppose it is just nerves," he said, 'it's all the fault of that Odom-Glom
fellow and his quaint native superstitions! I confess his remarks quite
unnerved me for a moment."
Across
the room, Third Secretary Retief was loading match-head sized charges into the
magazine of an inconspicuous handgun.
"Probably
just his way of warning us about the mice," he said.
Magnan
turned and caught a glimpse of the gun. "Here, Retief! What's that?"
"Just
a quaint native cure for spooks—if they get too noisy." He tucked the gun
out of sight under the Hoogan sarong. "Just think of it as a sort of good-luck
charm, Mr. Magnan."
"A
knife up the sleeve is an old diplomatic tradition," Magnan said
doubtfully. "But a power pistol under the sarong ..."
"I'll
have it along in case something jumps out of the stonework and yells boo!"
Retief said reassuringly.
Magnan
sniffed, admiring himself in the dark glass.
"I
was rather relieved when the ambassador insisted on native dress for the staff
instead of ceremonial nudity for tonight's affair." He turned to study the
hang of the uneven hemline that exposed his bare shins. "One of his finer
moments, I fancied.
Hedoes
cut an impressive figure, once his jowls get
that purplish tinge. Not even Odom-Glom dared stand up to him. Though I do wish
he'd gone just the one step further and demanded the right to wear
trousers—" He broke off, his eyes on the black drapes covering the high,
narrow window.
The
heavy cloth twitched.
"Retief!"
he gasped. "There it is again!"
"Shhh,"
Retief watched as the curtain moved again. A tiny red-glowing bead appeared at
its edge, a foot above the floor; a wire-thin leg emerged, and then another. A
body like a ball of reddish fluff came into view, it's red-bead eyes on
two-inch stalks which tilted alertly to scan the chamber. Its gaze fixed on
Retief; it moved clear of the curtain, paused, then started toward him on
skittery legs—