"Hi,
there, Mr. Retief. I see you made it."
"Freddy,
I'd like to see a listing of all cargoes imported by the Groaci Embassy during
the last twelve months."
The
clerk poked the keys of the data bank, frowned at the list it disgorged.
"Flimsy
construction they must have in mind," he said as he handed it over.
"Cardboard and pick-up-sticks. Typical."
"Anything
else?" Retief persisted.
"I'll
check equipment imports." The clerk tapped out another code, eliciting a
brief clatter and a second slip of paper.
"Heavy-duty
lift units," he said. "Funny. They don't need heavy duty units to
handle plywood and two-by's—"
"Four
of them," Retief noted. "With wide-aperture fields and gang
interlocks."
"Wow!
With that, you could pick up the Squalid-Hilton."
"You
could indeed," Retief agreed. "Thanks, Freddy."
Outside
dusk; the car was still waiting at the curb. Retief directed Chauncey to drive
back along the wet, tree-fern shaded avenues to the vacant edge-of-town site so
recently occupied by the stolen building. Stepping out into the steady, warm
rain, he entered the tent, circled the yawning excavation, studying the soft
ground by the beam of a hand light.
"Look
are you whatting for?" Chauncey inquired, ambling behind him on feet that
resembled dishpan-sized wads of wet magenta yarn. "Ardon my pasking—but I
taught you Therries lidn't dike feeting your get wet."
"Just
getting the lie of the land, Chauncey," he said. "It appears that
whoever pinched the theater lifted it out of here with grav units—probably
intact, since there doesn't seem to be any evidence of disassembly."
"I
goant dett you, chief," Chauncey said. "You lawk tight this roll
houtine isn't trust a jick Master Magnan add off to pulvertise the And
Gropening."
"Perish
the thought, Chauncey; it's just my way of heightening the suspense."
Retief stooped, picked up a pinkish dope-stick butt, sniffed at it. It gave off
the sharp odor of ether characteristic of Groaci manufacture.
"We
Squalians are no runch of boobs, you understand," Chauncey went on.
"We've treen a few sicks in our time. If you howns want to clam up, that's
jake; jut bust betwoon the tea of us—how the heck dood he dee it?"
"I'm
afraid that's a diplomatic secret," Retief said. "Let's go take a
look at the Groaci answer to our cultural challenge."
"Mot
nuch to owe seever there," the local said disparagingly as they squelched
back to the car, idling on its air cushion above a wide puddle. "Gothing
noing on; and if were thuzz, you souldn't key it; they got this buy foard hence
aplound the race and a tunch of barps everying coverthing up."
"The
Groaci are a secretive group," Retief said. "But maybe we can get a
peek anyway."
"I
bon't know, doss; there's a gunch of buards around there, too—with yuns, get.
They don't clett lobody net goase."
Steering
through the rain-sleek streets under the celery-like trees, Chauncey hummed a
sprightly little tune, sounding first like a musical comb, then a
rubber-stringed harp, ending with a blatter like a bursting bagpipe.
"Bot
nad, hey?" he solicited a compliment, "all but that cast lord; it was
subeezed to poe a tourish of flumpets, but my slinger fipped."
"Very
impressive," Retief said. "How are you on woodwinds?"
"So-so,"
Chauncey said. "I'm stretter on bings. Vile this getolin effect:" He
extruded an arm, quickly arranged four thin filamets along it and drew a
hastily improvised member across the latter, eliciting a shrill bleat.
"Gutty
pred, hey? I can't tay any plunes yet, but I lactice a prot; I'll pet it down
gat in toe nime."
"Groaci
nose-flute lover will come over to you in a body," Retief predicted.
"By the way, Chauncey, how long have the Groaci been working on their
ballpark?"
"Lell,
wet's see: stay tharted it fast lall, bust ajout the time too Yerries foured
your poundations—"
"It
must be about finished, eh?"
"It
hasn't changed such mince the worst feak; and a thunny fing: you sever seem to
knee any jerkers around the wob; gust the jards." Chauncey swung the comer
and pulled up before a ten-foot fence constructed of closely fitted plastic
panels, looming darkly in the early evening gloom.
"Earwehar,"
he said. "Sikel lezz, you san'tkey a thing."
"Let's
take a look around."
"Sure—but
we petter beep an eye keeled; those dittle levels can squeak up awful
niet."
Leaving
the car parked in a pool of shadow under the spreading fronds of a giant fern,
Retief, followed by the Squalian, strolled along the walk, studying the
unbroken wall that completely encircled the block. At the corner he paused,
looked both ways. The street lamp glowed mistily on empty sidewalks.
"Give
me a chord on the cello if you see anyone coming," he directed Chauncey.
He extracted a slender instrument from an inner pocket, forced it between two
planks and twisted. The material yielded with a creak, opening a narrow peep-hole,
affording a view of pole-mounted lights which shed a yellowish glow on a narrow
belt of foot-trampled mud stacked with 2 x 4's and used plywood, a fringe of
ragged grass ending at a vertical escarpment of duncolored canvas. A giant
tarpaulin, held in place by a network of ropes, completely concealed the
massive structure beneath it.
"Moley
hoses," Chauncey's voice sounded at Retief's elbow. "Looks like
they've been chaking some manages."
"What
kind of changes?"
"Well—it's
sard to hay, tunder that arp—shut the bape of it dooks lifferent. Wa've been
thirking on it, no bout adout that."
"Suppose
we cruise over and pay a call at the Groaci Embassy," Retief suggested.
"There are one or two more points that need clearing up."
"Boor,
shoss—but it don't woo you any good. They pard that glace like it was the
legendary Nort Fox."
"I'm
counting on it, Chauncey."
It
was a ten-block drive through rain-soaked streets. They parked a block from the
fortresslike structure, prowled closer, keeping to the shadows. A pair of
Groaci in elaborate uniforms stood stiffly flanking the gate in the high
masonry wall.
"No
hole-poking this time," Retief said. "We'll have to climb over."
"That's
bisky, ross—"
"So
is loitering on a dark comer," the Terran replied. "Let's go."
Five
minutes later, having scaled the wall via an overhanging slurb-fruit tree,
Retief and Chauncey stood in the Embassy compound, listening.
"Don't
their a hing," the Squalian muttered. "Now what?"
"How
about taking a look around, Chauncey," Retief suggested.
"Okay—dut
I bon't like it—" Chauncey extended an eye-tipped pseudopod, which snaked
away around the corner. Two minutes ticked past. Suddenly the chauffer
stiffened.
"Giggers,
the Joaci!" he exclaimed. "Let's cho, gief!" The eye-stalk
retracted convulsively.
"Bammit,
a dacklash," Chauncey yelped. Retief turned to see the driver struggling
to untangle the hastily retracted eyestalk, which had somehow become snarled
around one of it's owner's feet, which was in turn unraveling, an effect
resembling a rag rug unknitting itself.
"Dart
thid it," Chauncey grunted. "Bam, scross, I'll never let goose in
time—"
Retief
took two swift steps to the corner of the building. The patter of soft-shod
feet approached rapidly. An instant later a spindle-legged alien in a black hip-cloak,
ornamented leather greaves, GI eye-shields and a flaring helmet shot into view,
met Retief's extended arm and did a neat back-flip into the mud. Retief grabbed
up the scatter gun dropped by the Groaci Peacekeeper, switched it to wide
dispersal, swinging the weapon to cover half a dozen more Groaci guards coming
up rapidly on the right flank. They skidded to a halt. At the same moment a
yell came from behind him; he glanced back, saw Chauncey struggling in the
grasp of four more of the aliens, who had appeared from a doorway.
"To
throw down the gun and make no further move, Soft One," the captain in
charge of the detail hissed in Groaci, "or to see your minion torn to
vermicelli before your naked eyes."
Broodmaster
Shinth, Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary of the Groacian
Autonomy to the Squalian Aristarch, lolled back at ease in his power swivel
chair, a pirated Groaci copy of a Terran diplomatic model. A cluster of aides
hovered behind him, exchanging sibilant whispers and canting multiple eyes at
Retief, who stood at ease before them, flanked by guards whose guns prodded his
kidneys. Chauncey, pitiably trussed in his own versatile limbs, lay slumped in
a corner of the underground office of the Groaci Chief of Mission.
"How
charming to see you, Retief," Shinth whispered. "One is always
delighted to entertain a colleague, of course. You'll forgive CaptainThilf's zeal
in insisting so firmly on your acceptance of my hospitality—but he was quite
carried away by your demonstration of interest in Groacian affairs."
"I'm
surprised at your Excellency's leniency," Retief replied in tones of mild
congratulation. "I assumed you'd have busted the captain back to corporal
by now for tipping your hand. There's nothing like diplomat-napping to cause
vague suspicions to congeal into certainties."
Shinth
waved a negligent member. "Any reasonably intelligent being—I include
Terry diplomats as a courtesy—could have deduced a connection between the
vanished structure and myself."
"Oh-oh—I
nink I thow what was tunder that arp!"
Chauncey
exclaimed in a voice muffled by the multiple turns of eyestalk inhibiting his
vocal apparatus.
"You
see—even this unlettered local perceives that there was only one place where a
borrowed ballet theater might be concealed," Shinth continued airily.
"Specifically, under the canvas stretched over my dummy stadium."
"Since
we agree that's obvious," Retief said, "suppose you assign a squad to
untying the knots in Chauncey, while Captain Thilf and ourselves enjoy a hearty
diplomatic chuckle over the joke."
"Ah,
but the punchline has yet to be delivered," Shinth demurred. "You
don't suppose, my dear Retief, that I've devoted all these months to the
finesse merely for the amusement of newly arrived Terry bureaucrats?"
"It
seems rather a flimsy motivation," Retief concurred. "But you can't
hide half a million cubic feet of stolen architecture forever."
"Nor
do I intend to try. Only a few hours remain before the full scope of my coup
bursts upon the local diplomatic horizon." The Groaci adjusted his facial
plates in an arrangement expressing bland self-satisfaction. "You'll
recall that I've advanced the schedule for the unveiling of Groaci's gift to
the Squalian electorate. The heartwarming event will take place tonight, before
the massed dignitaries of the planet, with the Terry Mission as prominent
guests, of course. Our hosts, expecting the traditional Groaci ballet theater,
will suffer no surprise. That emotion will be reserved to the Terrans, to whom I've
carefully leaked the erroneous impression that a ballpark was rising on the
site. At a stroke, I will reveal you Terries for the Indian givers you are,
while at the same moment bestowing on the local bucolics imposing evidence of
Groacian generosity—at the expense of you Soft Ones! A classic gambit, indeed,
as I'm sure you'll agree, eh, Retief?"