Retief at Large by Keith Laumer Page A

black hipcloaks, who silently
produced heavy particle-guns from sequinned holsters strapped to their thighs.
     
                "You
aren't planning—violence?" Magnan gasped. "Not against us!"
     
                "As to that," Fiss
whispered, "I was about to point out that naturally, a formal request for
diplomatic status addressed to the present regime would, of course, receive
consideration."
     
                "Tour
Director Fiss—" Magnan gulped.
     
                "Planetary
Coordinator Pro-Tern Fiss, if you please," the Groaci hissed. "It is
unfortunate that the large Soft One acted in such haste, but I am prepared to
overlook the incident."
     
                "Why,
ah, very good of you, I'm sure, Pla—"
     
                "You're
out of luck, Fiss," Retief cut in. "You'll have to conduct your
piracy without CDT sanction."
     
                Magnan
tugged at Retief's sleeve. "Here, Retief! This is hardly a time for
truculence!"
     
                "It's
as good a time as any, Mr. Magnan. And Minister Barnshingle might be irritated
if he came back and discovered that these squatters had been recognized as a
legal government."
     
                Magnan
groaned. "I ... I suppose you're right."
     
                "So?
But, no matter, Soft One," Fiss whispered. "Why treat with
underlings, eh? My scouts report a party of terrestrials in difficulty on an
awkward slope some leagues from here. Doubtless the person Barnshingle of whom
you speak will be grateful for relief. A timely rescue by selfless Groaci
homesteaders will establish a correct mood for initiation of formal
relations."
     
                "The
Minister's in trouble?" Magnan squeaked.
     
                "He
is at present dangling over a crevasse of awesome depth by a single strand of
rope. Diplomat muscles appear unequal to the task of drawing him up."
     
                There
was a rending crunch from a shop across the plaza as a barred door collapsed
under the impact of a power ram. Swarms of Groaci were systematically looting
the stalls already opened, loading foodstuffs, glassware and other merchandise
into wheeled vehicles.
     
                "This
is wholesale hijackery!" Magnan yelped. "Open pillage! Highway
robbery! You can't do this without a license!"
     
                "Curb
your tongue, sir!" Fiss hissed. "I shall for a while indulge your
arrogant preemption of Groaci property out of sentimental respect for the
niceties of diplomatic usage, but I shall tolerate no insults!"
     
                "Threats,
Mr. Fiss?" Magnan choked.
     
                "Call
it what you will, Soft One," Fiss said. "When you are ready to
acquiesce, send your word to me. Meantime, leave this building at your
peril!"
     
     
IV
     
                Dusk
had fallen. The sounds of shattering locks and maneuvering vehicles continued
in the streets outside.
     
                Beyond
the window, booted Groaci peace-keepers paced monotonously, heavy blast guns at
the ready. Now and then, in a momentary lull, the sound of Yalcan voices raised
in song could be heard from the bog, where torches flared, reflecting from the
mirror-dark waters. The two lesser moons were high in the sky in their slow
orbits; the third had risen above the horizon and cast purple shadows across
the floor of the silent Legation office.
     
                "It's
nearly dark," Magnan muttered. "Retief, perhaps I'd better accompany
you. Fiss may change his mind and batter the door down."
     
                "He
could come in through the window any time he decided to," Retief said.
"He's nicely bluffed for the present, Mr. Magnan. And someone has to stay
here to maintain occupancy of the Legation."
     
                "On
second thought, I'm changing my instructions," Magnan said decisively.
"You'd better not go. After all,