Authors: Keith Laumer
"I'm sure he
does." Retief assisted the struggling Groaci to the chair, and with
Gloot's enthusiastic aid strapped him in position, fitting the cranial
attachments in place atop his cartilaginous skull amid his eyestalks, which
drooped dejectedly now.
"Alas for lost
opportunities," the officer mourned. "Had I but known of the
imminence of my downfall, I might at least have had the pleasure of making
plain to the abominable Nith my true assessment of his worth!"
"Too bad, Chish.
Maybe I'll find a chance to make it up to you," Retief said. "Now, I
believe this model has the automatic prevarication-suppressor, which shoots a
nice jolt through your trigeminal nerve if you accidentally stray into
inaccuracy. Just set it at max, Gloot, to save time."
"Base alien, thus
to serve an innocent official, harmlessly engaged in the performance of his
duties—"
"Later, Chish. Who
was the big shot?"
"One Swarmmaster
Ussh, a most prestigious official. You'll rue the day—"
"Probably. Where's
Omega Station?"
"I haven't the
faintest—yip! the faintest intention of lying, I was about to say—eek! On a
desert isle some leagues from here, drat all Soft Ones!"
"Which one?"
Gloot demanded. "Rumboogy? Delerion?"
"Sprook!"
Chish whispered. "I could wish you no more dolorous fate than to set foot
in its miasmic swamps!"
"The needles say
he's telling the truth," Gloot said.
"As he sees
it," Retief said. "Unfortunately, false information doesn't register
as long as he believes it. I have a feeling his boss wasn't keeping him fully
informed."
"It is you, vile
counterfeit—" Chish started, and broke off, listening. Faintly from afar a
clattering sounded. "Ha!" the Groaci hissed in triumph. "In
instants a squad of peacekeepers will be upon you, to put an end to your
presumptuous invasion of sacred Groacian symbolic soil, as well as to your
grotesque imposture!"
"What's he talking
about?" Gloot demanded.
"I refer to the
understandable aspirations of lesser races to the lofty status of
Groacihood—"
"He also means the
cops will be here any minute," Retief cut in. "I wonder if you'd be
kind enough, Chish, to direct us to the nearest exit."
"A door—at the end
of the passage there. A passage leads thence to a hidden egress—and good
riddance to you!"
"Well, we'll have
to be saying good night now, Leftenant. When Vump comes to perhaps he'll
unstrap you. In the meantime, you can while away the time by planning what you
should have said to Nith when you had the chance."
"True," Chish
whispered. "Gone are my dreams of early advancement. But I may yet get a
crack at that lousy civilian."
"Let that thought
sustain you in your hour of trial," Retief said.
Ten minutes later,
after carefully skirting the spot where Flunt guarded the trail, humming
tunelessly to himself in the moonlight, the party reached the rendezvous where
Booboo-boo and his villagers had lain in wait. A long-legged native
materialized from the mist.
"Well, you got
one," Zoof said, eyeing Smelch appraisingly. "Two if you count skinny
one." He prodded Magnan. "Hey—this one inedible like you, Retief. Not
count!"
"These are just
samples," Retief said. "The main course is right behind us."
In the pause in the
conversation, faint cries were audible from the rear.
"Well, delivery to
figurative door, real deluxe service, Retief," Chief Boobooboo said.
"Maybe you not bad monster deal with after all."
"Nothing like a
satisfied customer, Chief. And now I think we'd better be off and leave you to
your celebration. Which way to Sprook Island?"
"Funny time decide
end it all," Boobooboo said. "But to each his own. Just head for
river, follow down to shore. Sprook just across way, nice swim, give time to reflect
on misspent life before end. But look out for monsters, patrol river mouth
every hour on hour in magic fish."
"What's a magic
fish?" Gloot demanded.
"Local name for
light-weight straked dory with V transom."
"Boy, you natives
sure talk funny," Gloot commented.
The hue and cry had
drawn near by the time the refugees found the stream. They followed its course
as it wound across mud flats to the north shore of the island. A mile across
the water, the low shape of the next land mass was barely visible in the pink
moonlight.
"Surely you aren't
thinking of going
there?"
Magnan said querulously. "At this
hour of the night?"
"Just long enough
to keep an appointment with a VHPP," Retief reassured his superior.
"Well, in that
case—but how will we get there?"
"I expect our
transportation will be along soon."
"Hey, I just
remembered," Smelch said. "Sprook Island is where the wizards hang
out. Guys which they can be in two places at once—or so the older boys told
me."
"Nuts," Gloot
scoffed. "Everybody knows Sprook is where the walking dead get their
exercise."
"H-how do you know
that?" Magnan said.
"I got a uncle
that's an eye, ear, nose, and throat man over there."
"He cures
them?"
"Naw, he sells
'em."
"I understood you
Lumbagans didn't die in an ordinary sense," Retief said.
"Yeah—but when
spare parts go west, Sprook is where they get together and make new friends.
Picture it, Retief: phantom Lumbagans, made out of the odd ectoplasmic leg and
the discarded ghostly elbow, prowling around in the mist looking for a spectral
pancreas to make up a complete set."
"A curious
superstition," Magnan commented with a shudder. "One might almost
wonder if it's home-grown or imported."
"Superstition
nothing," Smelch said. "I know a guy who has a chum whose pal
distinctly overheard a fellow say he saw a familiar face peeking out of the
stranglemoss one time when a squall blew him aground off Sprook. It was a face
he wouldn't likely forget, he said, on account of he chopped it off a stranger
in a barroom brawl the week before."
"Maybe it was
lucky enough to strike up a new friendship with a lonely head—"
"It don't work
that way, Retief. Once a Four-Decker breaks up, it's all the way back to
Freebies: eyes, ears, cerebellum, the works—and the whole lousy job to do over
again."
"Presumably Nith's
alien components won't interest the local haunts."
"Yeah—it's OK for
you foreigners," Gloot said. "But us Lumbagans are fair game."
"Then it looks as
if Mr. Magnan and I will be going alone," Retief said. "Thanks for
your help, fellows—"
"Hey—what's the
idea? What about my investment?" Gloot protested. "Besides, I got no
particular hankering to hang around this place for those five-eyed little
devils and their overgrown hatchetmen to beat the brush for, come sunup!"
"Gosh, I'd sure
like to go on a sea voyage," Smelch said. "I always wanted to see the
bright lights and all. But I got a feeling if I don't get back to my post my
career as a alert sentry is at a end."
"The brightest
light we're likely to see on Sprook is a will-o'-the-wisp, or maybe a little
burning swamp gas," Gloot said gloomily. "But I guess even that's
better'n the one Chish'll put you under when he gets his mitts on you."
"Yeah."
Smelch sighed. "Well, so long, fellers. I hope you enjoyed your stay. Drop
in again some time."
"It was a
pleasure, Smelch," Retief said. "I don't know when I've been as
efficiently guarded."
"Gee, thanks,
Retief. If you'd drop a line to my boss, I might get a pay raise out of
it."
"I'll keep that
thought in mind, Smelch."
As the oversized
Lumbagan moved off, Retief, Magnan and Gloot made their way out through a dense
stand of reeds sprouting from the mud to a hummock giving a clear view of the
creek mouth. Ten slow minutes passed.
"Get set,
gentlemen—here it comes," Retief said. A small, dark shape came into view
downstream: a boat, crowded with oversized Lumbagans sliding silently toward
them across the black water.
Retief moved quietly
forward, wading out into the stream until the waters rose neck-deep, the reeds
rising well above his head. Through the thickly scattered stems he could catch
only glimpses of the approaching craft. Quite suddenly it was directly above
him, sliding past. He ducked under water, rose noiselessly just aft of the
rowers' station, grasped the gunwale of the overloaded skiff, and heaved hard.
With startled yells, the near-side passengers grabbed for support, missed, and
struck the water with resounding splashes. On the return oscillation, Retief
thrust upward, sending the remaining passengers over the far side. Bubbling
sounds rose all around him; abruptly a swarm of Freebies were making for shore.
Half a minute later, the refugees were aboard the craft, Gloot manning the
sweeps, Retief in the bow scanning the open sea ahead, Magnan crouched
shivering in the stern.
"Heavens, I'm sure
I've caught a chill," the first secretary said. "Can't this
appointment wait, Retief? As you know, I'm a stickler for punctuality, but. . .
."
"So is our host, I
suspect," Retief said. "And we wouldn't want him to start without
us."
Twenty minutes' brisk
effort brought the boat within a hundred yards of the light surf breaking on
Sprook's windward shore.
"We'll take her
around to the far side," Retief said. "No use making it too easy for
the leftenant."
Gloot eyed the dark
shore without pleasure. "In there, a guy would be lucky to find his head
with both hands—if he once happened to drop it, I mean. How're we supposed to
get a line on which way the bum went?"
"I suspect we'll
encounter a clue," Retief said.
"Gracious!"
Magnan said excitedly. "I see the bright lights, way up in the middle of
the air!"
"Yeah—there's a
lone peak sticking up from the middle of the island," Gloot said gloomily,
turning to stare at the faint glow shining through the mist. "According to
rumor, that's ghost headquarters."
They rounded a low
headland, saw a shallow bay ahead. At Retief's suggestion, they steered for
shore at a point where the mangrovelike water trees seemed thinnest. Rubbery
stems bent and snapped with damp popping sounds as they forced the boat
through. When it grounded on mud, the three passengers stepped out, waded
through ankle-deep water to shore.
"Well," Gloot
said dubiously, "we could sure use that clue about now . . ."
A sharp click sounded
from the darkness ahead.
"All right, just
stand still until the moon comes out," a coarse voice ordered from the
shadows, "so I can see to shoot you."
"Well, there's our
clue, right on schedule," Gloot said in an undertone to Retief. "But
I never heard of a zombie needing a gun." He raised his voice: "What
do you mean, shoot us? How do you know we're not friends?"
"Easy. We don't
have any."
"You're likely to
get yourself in a peck of trouble," Gloot said, edging closer to the
source of the voice. "I happen to be a pretty influential fellow—"
"One more teeny
little step and you'll influence me to blaze away ready or not. With the spread
I get with this sawed-off, there won't be a piece of you that'll survive long
enough to stomp on."
With dramatic
suddenness, the larger moon swam clear of the obscuring cumulonimbus. The
Lumbagan who stood twenty feet away, aiming a large and efficient-looking gun,
was of medium height, equipped with four arms, two legs, two eyes, a single
mouth of modest dimensions. Behind him stood a second Lumbagan of identical
aspect, clothed in an identical tunic of dun and chicle drab, differing only in
its simple ornamentation.
"Jeez—old Smelch
said you wizards could be in two places at once," Gloot muttered.
"But I didn't expect it to be the same place."
"Don't bother your
misshapen head," the gunner snapped. "Stand closer together, no use
wasting a round." He gestured impatiently with the gun.
"Now, just a
minute," Gloot temporized, pointing to Retief and Magnan. "You don't
want to shoot these foreigners here. They got diplomatic immunity."
"Does that mean
bullets won't punch holes in them?"
"It means anybody
that tries it gets the whole Groaci Navy landing on him like a barge-load of
chopped liver!"
"Did you
say—Groaci?"
"Right. This here
one is, ah, Superhivemaster Retief, head Yumpity-yump of the whole Groaci
show!"
"Well, that's
different." The receptionist lowered the brak-gun. "Why didn't you
say so? We've been expecting a VHHP visit—"
"Because it's a
secret, Dum-dum!" Gloot explained. "Oh. Well then, why'd you tell
me?" the captain challenged.