The Return of Retief (12 page)

            "To
assure you, it will go no further," Retief assured the Ree warlord.
"Now, about that delegation: I myself have assumed the responsibility of
requesting your reception of such a party, at your convenience, on the third
day of the Moon of Impeccable Treachery, a salubrious season for your clever
plan, eh?"

            "Suits
me, Snith. Make it between one-thirty and six pee em. Better have the old
credentials in order, too."

            "To
assume lunch will be served in the waiting room," Retief suggested.

            "They'll
have to wait in the baggage shed, which has a gribble-grub dispenser and a
Pepsi machine," Slive replied harshly. "Why waste VIP eats on
alimentary tracts that won't be around long enough to digest em?"

            "Splendid,"
Retief said in Snith's breathiest, most enthusiastic tone. "Since the
gribble-grub dispensers were a gift of the Groacian people to Ree, to enjoy a
sense of participation in the scheme."

            "Don't
go grabbing the credit, Mr. Consul," Slive came back sharply. "After
all, you boys are Easterners, too, like the Terries, and to tell you the truth,
I don't see why you'd want to lend us West Arm fellows a hand to take over your
own turf."

            "To
pretend not to have heard that, Slive," Retief replied stiffly. "An
opportunity to wipe the eye of the vile Terries is at any cost not to be
allowed to pass me by."

            "Just
don't get any ideas you're getting cut in for a slice of the action,"
Slive warned. "I agreed to tolerate you boys and give you preferential
status when it come to doling out menial jobs, is all."

            "The
litter-mate of nest-fouling drones is too arrogant by half!" Snith hissed
from his position in the waste receptacle. "To perhaps reconsider my rash
agreement to aid him in his aggressive designs."

            "I
heard that, Snith," Slive yelled. "Stand a little closer, I almost
lost you on that last transmission. Reconsider, eh? Better get your fleet out
of mothballs!"

            "On
that note, Mr. Consul," Retief said to the excited Groaci, "I shall
take my leave. Ta."

            Leaving
the Groaci Legation, Retief found his taxi awaiting him.

            "I
figgered in case you came out of there alive, you wouldn't be in no condition
for no long walk," Jake confided.

            "Take
me to the best hotel in town," Retief specified, to the amusement of his
chauffer.

            "That'd
be the Prutian Hilton," Jake offered when his hilarity had subsided.
"Funny," he added, "a hotel can be the best without being
good."

            After
half an hour's limping progress through crowded streets in which a shabby
elegance steadily deteriorated, the vehicle wheezed to a stop before a peeling
polystyrene facade ornamented with new neon letters six feet high, in the
crabbed Prutian script, identifying it as an outpost of Hilton enterprise.

            Inside,
Retief found his way along a corridor which was either still under construction
or in the final stages of collapse—he was unable to determine which—up rickety
stairs to a door painted a dull turnbuckle dun, adorned with a yellow 6, and
hanging by one hinge. The interior of the chamber fulfilled the rich promise of
its context. An almost-clean spot on the lone, tarnished window afforded a view
of the street, where a squat, black-enameled vehicle parked before the hotel
was disgorging three Prutian Cops who hurried inside in a purposeful manner.

            Retief
returned to the narrow hall, took up a position behind heaped crates at the
head of the stairs. As the first of the local cops arrived, puffing, Retief
stepped out suddenly, causing the squat Prutian to shy violently; Retief saved
him from a painful tumble back down the steps by a quick grab.

            "Hi,
there," Retief said casually. "Good of you to come. What I wanted was
directions to the VIP entrance to the Port Departures area."

            "Thanks,
pal," the cop muttered, readjusting his tunic, by the collar of which
Retief had hauled him to safety. "You want to find the VIP gate, what you
do, you go right past the public entry, that's figgering you're coming up along
Condemned Parkway, and hang a right. Straight past the baggage-smashing
department, over the NO PASSAGE BEYOND THIS POINT barrier, or maybe through it,
if you're driving a heavy vehicle, and through the door marked Prutian Ladies
Only, and there you are. You'll never find it. Come on, the boys and I'll run
you over."

            Retief
ambled downstairs after his guide.

            Back
in the street, the lieutenant greeted his minions, "Yeah, this is the
Terry Retief we were supposed to pick up. But I don't lean over backwards to
pick guys up for the Groaci, and this one gave me a hand when the grand
stairway collapsed. Saved my life, maybe. He's in a hurry, got to catch Ten
Planet Flight 79 at three o'clock. Let's rush him there—and we've no time to
waste."

            Accompanied
by his escort, Retief arrived at the Ten Planet check-in station at 2:59, to be
greeted wanly by a string-thin Prutian who glanced a Retief's ticket, supplied
by the Transport Officer at Sector some days earlier, and said off-handedly:

            "Must
be some foul-up, Terry. You've got no reservation. Wouldn't have mattered if
you had, actually. Flight 79 lifted ten minutes ago." The clerk patted
back a yawn and looked past Retief, who commented mildly, "Jumped the gun,
didn't it?"

            "You
don't have to get
nasty!"
the counterman protested, his pinched
face pale with rage. "How else do you think T-P can maintain its rep for
punctual arrivals? Besides, you were actually booked on the
Irresponsible,
which
was lost in space a week ago. Probably shot up by the Ree. They pretend they're
palsy-walsy, but I don't trust the dastards," the travel agent elaborated.

            "I
put you on stand-by for 79, which you missed. Hardly
my
fault."

            "Anything
else going that way?" Retief asked.

            "Certainly
not!"
was the reply. "No one with good sense would want to go
out to any of those frontier hell-holes with all these Ree infiltrating,
anyway."

            "Right,"
Retief said firmly. As he turned away, an elderly Yill bystander with the
appearance of a soup-kitchen regular put out a scrawny gray hand and said in a
ratchety voice:

            "Hold
hard, Terry. Happens my vessel is bound for Tip space. Might be able to help
you out, if you've got no objection to riding with a cargo of glimp eggs which
I admit I held a bit too long, waiting for the market to go up."

            "Thanks,
Captain," Retief replied. "When are we lifting?"

            "Well,"
the old spacedog replied, "See, I've got this bad leg, so if you want to
take the load in for me, I'll see you get ten percent, plus of course it's a
free ride. I'll need about a hundred Guck for port fees."

            Retief
handed over a hundred-Guck note and accompanied his new acquaintance, Captain
M'hu hu by name, to the transport bar, where the old fellow downed a dozen
stiff shots of Hellrose before Retief had finished his Bacchus black.

            "
Feller'd hafta be crazy to go out there in these here parlous times," the
captain commented. His bleary gaze fell on Retief. "Figger to get me drunk
and con me into letting you ride along without no visa, eh, Terry? Well, you
picked the wrong pigeon; 'Cap M'hu hu can hold his booze' is a saying that's
knowed from Azoll to Zoob: So you can just dust off, Terry, after you buy me
one more."

            Retief
took the old fellow by his bony elbow, led him out along a service passage to
the glass wall fronting the wind-swept ramp where space-scarred hulls in
fantastic variety stood festooned with service cables. Captain M'hu hu pointed
out one of the shabbiest, parked well down the line, as his own command,
Cockroach
III.

           
"Fine a
little embargo-buster as ever run a load of Feeb seed into Groac, and the
five-eyed little beggars are allergic to it," he stated proudly.

            Retief
requested and received, not without protest, the undocking codes and master
electro-key, the captain grumpily accepting a second hundred-Guck note in
return.

            "Place
she's programmed for they call Goblin-rock; you hear a lotta superstitions
about the place. Actually, it's jest about deserted; watch out for some big
gray cactus things, is all. You'll get there OK, maybe," M'hu hu guessed,
"but getting back out's somethin else. So long, sucker."

            Retief
bade M'hu hu farewell, but as he started through the door leading outside, the
old fellow set up an outcry like a gut-shot dire-beast, yelling that he hadn't
been paid. Retief up-ended the noisy old grifter in a handy public convenience,
and boarded the ancient vessel without further complications. After a few
minutes devoted to scanning the operating manual, he used the electrokey, and
lifted off.

            The
rattles, buzzes, clatters, knocks, thumps and wails of the old tub, Retief soon
noticed, were more noisy than threatening. The thousandtonner lifted smoothly;
the autopilot, already programmed, maneuvered the craft through the intricate
departure pattern and took up course, Retief noted, in the general direction of
Gold-blatt's remote world.

            Days
passed without incident, other than a half-hearted pass by a Ree torpedo boat
whose peremptory hail Retief ignored. A few hours later, a heavy gunboat
bearing the Ree blazon closed course with the tramp freighter and hailed:

            "All
right, M'hu hu, don't get any big ideas. What's the idea trying to cut the boys
on the PT out of the action?"

            "The
fun's over, fellows," Retief replied. "Captain M'hu hu has retired,
and the run has been taken over by the Terran Space Arm. Better clear space to
port, because this is where I try out my new evaporator beams. I wouldn't want
to vaporize you by accident."

            The
gunboat, which had fallen in alongside at ten miles, edged away and fell
slightly astern. Meanwhile, red alarm lights had flashed on all across the
freighter's board. On the forward screen, a meteorite-pocked body of irregular
shape had come into view dead ahead.

            "Now,
Terry," the Ree vessel resumed transmission, "I don't know what
you've got in mind, but I guess you know enough to sheer off and give
Goblinrock a wide berth."

            The
gunboat fired a shot in parting, and fell farther astern. At the same time, the
freighter's innards began to groan, and the big DISASTER IMMINENT light glared
angrily. Retief made adjustments to the autopilot to steer directly for the
rock ahead.

            The
gunboat had backed off to fifty miles without further comment or gunfire.
Retief's forward screens showed the pinkish orb of the barren moon at extreme
range but coming up fast. A few moments later, the first tentative
thump!
s
of atmosphere contact shook the elderly vessel, setting off the master
alarm systems which shrilled and
bung!
ed
and flashed red letters
reading ALL SYSTEMS IN FAILURE MODE.

            Retief
rode the disintegrating hulk down to ten thousand feet before ejecting. The
escape pod's air system was inoperative, he noted, but a quick resetting of
valves expelled the foul air and allowed the fresh, thin air of Goblinrock to
fill the cramped space only moments before the pod's landing jacks made violent
contact with the satellite's surface.

            The
pod wobbled, but stabilized at last. Retief forced the hatch open and emerged
into breathlessly hot, but breathable air. He found himself in a hard-baked
desert of dun and ochre mud reticulated by heat-cracks.