Worlds of if Science Fiction, Volume 21, Number 01, Issue 156
September-October 1971
Big New Retief Novel, complete in this issue!

Until Retief wrapped things up, it was every Lumbagan against himself ...

THE ALL-
TOGETHER
PLANET
KEITH LAUMER

Chapters

I     II     III     IV     V     VI     VII     VIII     IX     X     XI

I

	DACOIT Street was deserted, the shops shuttered and dark. The yells of the demonstrators gathered before the entrance to the Grand Castle Complex of Lumbaga, three blocks to the east, where only a dull surf-roar here. Scattered brickbats and broken spears attested to the political activities of the day, but only a few candy wrappers and old newspapers blowing across the oily cobbles lent movement to the scene.

	Retief made his way unmolested along the narrow, crooked way; five minutes' brisk walk brought him to a rough-hewn door under a swinging signboard, adorned with a lumpy purplish free-form pierced by a pointed length of wood. Yellow light leaked from a small leaded-glass window beside the door.

	Retief took up his post under the spreading branches of a music tree. A gust stirred the leaves, evoking a rippling arpeggio of crystalline sound that mingled mournfully with the fluting of the night wind.

	A small wild creature resembling a disembodied blue eyeball with tiny bird feet hopped along a twig overhead, goggling at the Terran with an appearance of intentness heightened by the absence of an eyelid. A second free-lance ocular appeared, peeping from among glassy, needle-shaped leaves. Nearer at hand, another variety of the local fauna—this one a convoluted, three-inch ellipsoid bearing a remarkable resemblance to an oversized ear—perched in a froomble bush, pivoting slowly from left to right and back again as if tuning in on a faint sound in the distance.

	"You boys ought to get together with a nose and form a corporation," Retief murmured. "You'd be a dynamite vaudeville act."

	Both eyeballs whipped out of sight; the ear jerked and began to crawl hastily down the stem. A faint footfall sounded from the direction of a nearby alley mouth. Retief faded back against the bole of the ancient tree and eased his 2mm gun into his hand. A furtive five-foot figure wrapped in an ankle-length djellaba emerged from the alley.

	"Ignarp," Retief called softly. The newcomer jumped and emitted a sharp yelp.

	"Galloping gastropods!" he hissed. "You nearly scared me out of my epidermis." He advanced another step to peer closely at Retief from three large, watery eyes not unlike those concealed in the foliage above. "Are you the Terry I'm supposed to meet? Frankly, all you foreigners look alike to me."

	"An accusation I can't level against you, Ignarp," Retief said.

	"Didn't you have four eyes and a purple hide the last time I saw you?"

	"Yeah—I stopped by my place for a shower and change." Ignarp gave his rattling sigh. "I didn't know it was going to be such a rough evening. What are you doing out in the streets? The rallying cry of the mob is 'Get Terry.' "

	"It does seem the incidence of violence is escalating since the peace talks have been underway. Any idea why?"

	"We got a few ideas—but maybe it's not time to spill 'em."

	"Don't stall, Ignarp. Conditions have changed since this afternoon. My colleague, Mr. Magnan, has been kidnapped."

	"Wait a minute! You don't think I—"

	"Nothing like that. I just hoped you might be able to tell me who the likeliest suspect is—for a fee, of course."

	"Well—that sounds like a gracious offer. But let's get out of sight. I've got the feeling unfriendly eyes are upon us. Come on, the Stake and Kidney's a discreet bistro, if not too clean. All the regulars will be out rioting, so we'll have a modicum of privacy."

-

	THE local rapped a complicated tattoo on the heavy door, shifting from one of his six large feet to another and casting worried glances along the avenue until the door rattled and swung inward with a lugubrious creak. An undersized cranium adorned with an odd assortment of sensory organs poked out at belt level to look the callers up and down.

	"For Greep's sake, Fudsot, let us in before the City Guard sees us," Ignarp hissed. "This Terry's got diplomatic immunity, but those dupes of the power structure would like nothing better than to rearrange my internal integuments along what they consider more conventional lines."

	Grumbling, the landlord ushered them down three crooked steps into a long, low-ceilinged room smelling of fried zintx-patties and sour wine. He locked the door behind them and indicated a five-legged table in the corner.

	"Too conspicuous," Ignarp demurred. "How about the back room?"

	"That'll run you an extra five xots."

	"Five xots? You're as bad as the entrenched exploiters."

	"Except they'd charge you ten—and then report you. Pay up or get out, you and your offworld chum. It's all the same to me."

	"Okay—okay. The Goodies Redistribution Action Bunch will get around to you, you tool of the establishment!" Ignarp extracted a small-mouthed purse from his voluminous robes and handed over a triangular coin of green plastic. Fudsot subjected it to close examination under what seemed to be an olfactory organ before using a six-inch key to unlock the small door at the back.

	"It's all yours, gents," he grunted. "For the next half-hour anyway. After that it'll cost you another five xots."

	"Bring us wine," Ignarp ordered as he dusted off a three-legged stool.

	"Sure. Four xots for a quarter-zub o' the house brew. Six xots for bottled-in-bond. And I can give you a special deal on some aged Pepsi; I happened to get hold of a small consignment through a special contact down south. Five xots the flask, uncut."

	"Smuggler," Ignarp snapped. "Profiteer! Robber! We'll take the Pepsi—in sealed bottles, mind you!"

	"Sure—whatta you think I am, one o' these chiselers?"

-

	IGNARP waited in glowering silence until the landlord had delivered the refreshments and withdrawn.

	"That's what we're up against," he said gloomily. "You'd think Fudsot would be a loyal supporter of the movement—but no—he's out for the fast xot."

	"What's this movement all about?" Retief asked.

	"I should think it was obvious," Ignarp said sharply. "Even a foreigner can see that the entire planet's in the grip of an elite corps of self-serving reactionaries."

	"Curious," Retief said, puffing a Chanel dope stick alight. "I had the impression that anarchy was complete. In fact, that's why we Terries are here—"

	"I know all about your so-called Peace Commission, Retief. You Terries and those main-chance Groaci are all spinning your wheels. Sure, we fight a lot—we have ever since the dawn of recorded history, six years ago. And even before, if the old tribal legends mean anything. And that's jake—except lately it has taken a nasty turn. The old system of you break my back, I'll break yours, is falling apart."

	"Uh-huh." Retief sampled his drink. "And where does your Bunch come into the picture?"

	"We've formed a third force to combat the special privilege groups. Of course, we're just getting started—only thirteen members at present—but we won't stop until the gross inequities of the system have been corrected."

	"You intend to divide up the wealth, an equal share for everyone?"

	"You think we're out of our brainpans? We'll keep the loot for ourselves, naturally!"

	"That's your idea of an equitable arrangement?" Retief inquired mildly.

	"Of course not." Ignarp looked puzzled. "It's just simple, old-fashioned greed, the noblest of emotions."

	"Sounds like a highly realistic program," Retief said. "And what about the rest of the population?"

	"We're planning on selling them into slavery, naturally. And say—maybe you Terries would like a slice of the action—"

	"What makes you think so?"

	"Well—aside from the fact that the mob is out to get both of us—I've heard you get your jollies out of taking things away from the original owners and handing them over to new management. I could never figure out why, but we members of GRAB are perfectly willing to get in on the redistribution."

	"That's a fair assessment of our foreign aid policy, Ignarp. But sometimes it's a little difficult to determine who the deserving parties are."

	"Simple enough: Possession is prima facie evidence of moral leprosy; have-nots are pure in heart by definition."

	"But if we hand the planet over to you fellows, then you'll be the haves—"

	"That's different," Ignarp stated crisply. "Now, when can we expect the first consignment of guns, tanks, bombers, some poisoned bodkins and the rest?"

	"Well, there may be a few administrative delays, Ignarp. Even a bureaucrat as dedicated to the spread of enlightenment as Ambassador Pouncetrifle may have some difficulty picturing a baker's dozen of malcontents as the authentic inheritors of the mantle of planetary dictatorship."

	"I had an idea you might try to stall," Ignarp said accusingly. "Fortunately we have a telling ideological point in reserve." He leaned toward Retief confidentially. "The situation," he stated solemnly, "has a very nasty—are you ready?—racial angle."

	"Tell me about it."

-

	"YOU don't sound very excited," Ignarp said in tones reflecting disappointment. "I heard all a fellow had to do was mention the word and you Terries automatically started writing checks."

	"A mild exaggeration. In any event, the syndrome hardly applies to Lumbaga. You fellows don't have any races."

	"Hey, what kind of a crack is that?"

	"I've noticed," Retief said, "that the eyeballs and lower lips hopping around in the underbrush don't look much different from the ones you and your fellow citizens employ in your daily activities—"

	"Now, hold it right there, Retief! I don't like the turn the conversation's taking—"

	"In fact," Retief went on unperturbed, "It seems that the higher forms of Lumbagan life are all evolved from the lower forms by combination—"

	"Don't come preaching your Godless evolutionary doctrines around here," Ignarp snapped.

	"Don't worry, I'm just making it up as I go along," Retief said soothingly. "If my theory is correct, you, for example, represent the end product of a whole series of combinations—"

	"Let's not get personal, Terry."

	"Just getting a few facts straight, Ignarp, no offense intended. Tell me, how old are you?"

	"That's none of your blasted business, Retief."

	"I thought you wanted Terran backing in your scheme to take over the world."

	"Yeah, that's right, but—"

	"Then it's my business."

	"Well—I don't know exactly," Ignarp muttered. "But the best theories give a figure around a quarter of a million. That's average, of course. After all, by the time you go back a couple centuries, things get kind of vague." The Lumbagan looked embarrassed, as attested by the purplish tinge mounting his wattles.

	"I think I understand," Retief said. "When a Lumbagan has a bad heart or a broken arm, he trades the injured member in on a new one. In time, he's completely replaced. Is that it?"

	"That covers most of it," Ignarp said hastily. "Now, back to practical politics—"

	"So in effect, a Lumbagan never dies. The question is, how does he get started?"

	"Cripes, Retief, is nothing sacred to you foreigners?"

	"My interest is purely scientific, Ignarp."

	"This racy conversation gets me all stirred up," the local said. "However, I guess it's all for the cause. You've got it right as it goes, but there are a few points you missed. Like the fact that the Singletons—you know, the free-living eyeballs and pituitary glands and the like—can only get together in bunches of up to ten. An ear might team up with a tentacle for mutual security, you know, and then later add on an esophagus—strictly by instinct, natch. Not all these teams work out, of course. Evolutionary dead ends, you might say. They break up again, no hard feelings, and maybe later the different parts join another accretion. In the end, after a few million years, you get quite a large number of working accretions swinging through the jungle or creeping around in the underbrush, as happy as clams. So okay. A tenner Singleton can't add any more free units—but what can happen is that two Singletons can link up to form a Dubb. Got it?"

	"I'm trying, Ignarp. Pray continue."

	"Right. Now, that's not the end of the trail. Two well-established Dubbs can get together and make up a Trip. Now, a Trip's a pretty complicated life form; with up to forty basic units to play around with, you can come up with some pretty successful combos. But Trips are a lot rarer than Dubbs, naturally."

	"Naturally. And I suppose two congenial Trips can join forces, to continue the process?"

	"Right. And when that happens, you get a Quad." Ignarp looked at Retief expectantly.

	"And two Quads can combine to make a still more complicated creature?"

	"Huh? Where'd you get an obscene idea like that!" Ignarp looked shocked, an effect achieved by rotating his eyeballs rapidly. "A Four-decker is the ultimate product of evolution—a Lumbagan—like me!"

	"I won't say it's clear, Ignarp, but it's not quite as opaque as it was. But you still haven't explained why you spend so much time disassembling each other— or just how you decide who's against whom."

-

II

	"THAT'S where the racial angle comes in. Now it's perfectly natural and wholesome when everybody is out to get everybody else; but when discrimination rears its ugly head—that's different. And even that wouldn't bother me," Ignarp added, "Except I happen to be a member of the persecuted minority."

	"A minority usually implies at least two people with a few characteristics in common," Retief pointed out. "Since every Lumbagan is unique—"

	"Except my kind," Ignarp said gloomily. "Somehow, due to a component nobody's isolated yet, we've got something nobody else has got."

	"A disability?"

	"Heck, no, Retief—they'd forgive us that. We're vastly superior—that's what gravels 'em! Just a hint of our special skill, and the witch-hunt is on."

	"And just what is this trait that gives you the advantage—"

	"Aha! That's our Big Secret! You see—"

	A sudden sound of disturbance came from in the outer room: a dull clatter, a yelp, a thump that rattled the cups on the table. Something crashed against the door hard enough to splinter wood.

	"I might have known," Ignarp cried, leaping up. "Sold out by the vested interests!"

	Retief came to his feet, looking around the small, dimly lit room. The only visible opening was a small ventilator grill.

	"So long, Retief—I'll be in touch—"

	With a rending crash, the door burst inward. The creature that bounded through the opening was seven feet tall, had yellowish skin blotched with black and purple. Three gaunt, bristly, knob-kneed legs, terminating in broad rubbery webbed feet, made up two thirds of its height. Four left and two right arms of graduated lengths sprang from the hunched shoulders, protected by a carapace resembling the shell of a turtle adorned with twisted spikes. Atop a short, thick, tendon-corded neck rested a pointed head given over largely to a foot-wide, purple-lipped mouth crowded with needle-like fangs and situated below a pair of wide-set eyes the size of tennis balls. The eyes were a blood-shot yellowish white except for the off-centered, metallic-black pupils. A powerful prehensile tail ending in a three-fingered hand waved a gnarled steel-wood club aloft.

	The monstrosity charged with a bellow. Retief spun the table into its path, ducked a wild swing as the giant crashed into the obstacle with a plank-splintering impact. At the open door he turned; the intruder was threshing its way clear of the remains of the boards, but of the GRAB member there was no sign. Retief had time only to notice that the grill was missing from the register before the monster tossed aside a shattered timber and leaped toward him. Retief stepped out and slammed the door, dropping the heavy bar in place as the armored alien crashed against it.

-

	IN THE gloom of the outer room the squat figure of the landlord was dimly visible, scrambling for cover. Retief reached him in two strides, caught the back of his coarse-weave tunic, lifted him to tiptoes.

	"A slight double-cross, eh, Fudsot? Who paid you?" he inquired genially, as the door behind him resounded to the berserker's blows.

	"Let me go, Terry," the landlord screeched, "or I'll see to it you're broken down into surgical spares—"

	"What was the idea? Were you out to get me? Or was it Ignarp you were after—or both?"

	"You know so much—you tell me," Fudsot grunted.

	"But Ignarp fooled you," Retief said. "He separated into sub-assemblies of a convenient size and left by the ventilator, right?"

	"You Terries aren't supposed to know about that," Fudsot muttered. "A lousy fate, even for a trouble-maker like Ignarp."

	"So that's the last of Ignarp, eh?"

	"As Ignarp, yeah. His sweetbreads and tonsils are back where they started ages ago—free-living Freebies looking around for a partner to start up a new tenner." Fudsot wagged his head mournfully.

	"A sad end for a social reformer of his zeal," Retief said. "Still, there's much to be said for the carefree life of an adenoid. I'll be on my way now, Fudsot—but before I go, just what was that that broke up our drinking party? I've gotten accustomed to a certain pleasing variety in the local citizenry, but that chap was in an entirely new category."

	"I heard rumors, but—" Fudsot broke off.

	"But what?"

	"But it would be bad for my health to spread 'em. How's about getting him outa my back room now, Terry? I got to set the place to rights for the pre-dawn dust-up crowd."

	"No, thanks—I can't use him."

	"You mean—you're leaving that monstrosity on my hands?"

	"Certainly. Mind if I use the back entrance?"

	"No! That's where—I mean, there isn't one," the landlord finished sullenly.

	"That's where they're waiting to make the pickup, eh? Thanks for the tip."

-

	RETIEF pushed through a greasy door behind the bar, crossed a kitchen reeking of stale fat, slipped out into a narrow alleyway decorated with neglected garbage containers. A soft rustling came from a dense patch of shadow. A small, spindle-legged figure swathed in a dark cloak stepped forth. From the folds of the garment a gloved grasping member protruded, gripping a small power gun.

	"So—success attends my efforts. The moose has taken the bait and sprung the trap—"

	"Mouse, I think you mean, Wilth," Retief corrected. "What brings you out in the damp night air?"

	"Drat," the Groaci hissed. "Who informed you of my identity?"

	"Don't you remember? The Ambassador introduced us last week, at the Mother-in-Laws' Day reception."

	"I refer to the treacher who betrayed my disguise—"

	"Oh, he's the same fellow who's standing behind you now with a crater gun aimed at your dorsal suture."

	Wilth started violently, causing one of his government-issue eye-shields to clatter to the cobbles. "Undone!" he keened, as Retief stepped forward to relieve him of his weapon. "Unhappy Wilth! I rue the day the mound burst to expose me to the harsh external world!"

	"By the way, what did you have in mind doing with this?" Retief inquired, aiming the gun negligently at its former owner.

	 "My instructions—I assure you, my dear Retief, nothing personal was intended—were to intimidate you with the firearm, thereby causing you to accompany me to a designated place for an uninhibited interview with a Most Highly Placed Person."

	"Most highly placed in the Groaci hierarchy, I assume."

	"But of course. Do you imagine I'm in the habit of trepanning—if that's the word—fellow diplomats—even Soft Ones—for the convenience of members of lesser races?"

	"I shouldn't have asked. And what was to be the subject of this conference? Brain surgery?"

	"Do you further imagine I am privy to the machinations of MHPPs?" Wilth glanced nervously behind him. "As a courtesy to a colleague, would you kindly instruct your toady to point his piece elsewhere—" his faint voice faded. "Where is the creature?"

	"He couldn't make it," Retief said. "Liquor inventory, you know—but the intention was there. Now—"

	"Hoaxed!" Wilth whistled. "Hoodwinked by vile Terran duplicity!"

	"Don't take it so hard, Wilth. No harm done; it's always a rewarding experience to make the acquaintance of an MHPP of whatever persuasion. I'll go with you."

	"You'll—ah—accompany me to the rendezvous as planned?" Wilth goggled all five eye stalks at Retief.

	"Why not? The evening is still young." Retief snapped open the butt of the power gun, removed the energy cell, handed the weapon back to the Groaci.

	"Why, this is quite decent of you, Retief," Wilth whispered breathlessly. "What a pity all Groaci-Terran relations can't be conducted in the same spirit of amity."

	"They are, Wilth, they are," Retief said soothingly. "Shall we go? I wouldn't like to keep the MHPP waiting."

-

	IT WAS a brisk ten-minute walk through tortuously winding streets—hardly more than tunnels threading through the monumental jumble of Lumbagan architecture. Wilth halted at a small but massive door set in a deeply recessed niche, pounded stealthily on the dark panels. Weak grayish light leaked out as the door opened. A Groaci in the uniform of a Peace-keeper peered out.

	"Inside, Soft One," Wilth ordered curtly. Retief preceded his putative captor along a cramped passage papered in a pattern of puce and mustard lozenges to a highly varnished bile-green door that reflected the watery glow of the ceiling dimstrip. The guard rapped, thrust the door wide and motioned Retief through.

	A Groaci in jeweled eyeshields was seated behind a wide desk. He waved a negligent three-fingered hand at Retief, indicating a stool.

	"Any difficulties?" he inquired of his underling in Terran.

	"Your Excellency would be amazed at how easy it was," Wilth replied glumly. "I was even astonished myself."

	"To not accept the legends of Terry invincibility," the senior alien snapped, switching to the Groacian tongue, "lest you predispose yourself to quail in the breech!" He turned three eyes on Retief while holding the glare of the other two on Wilth. "I," he announced then, "am Hivemaster Shlush. You, I believe, are the fellow Retief?"

	Retief acknowledged his identity with a nod and seated himself.

	"You," Shlush continued ominously, "are not unknown to me by repute."

	"I'm flattered."

	"Don't be." Shlush hissed. "Your name, Soft One, is a byword for the Terran duplicity and meddling that have plagued Groaci foreign policy since the first intimations of our manifest Galactic destiny."

	"That's a rather uncharitable description of Corps policy, Hive-master," Retief commented. "By the way, what brings you here? I don't recall seeing your name on the last Foreign Office list."

	"Not to pry into matters of no concern to aliens," Shlush hissed.

	"In fact," Retief went on, "I seem to recall that you were rather suddenly retired to civilian life after that fiasco on Grabnark Four—"

	Shlush jabbed a digit at Retief, all five eyes canted alertly in his guest's direction now. "Your role in the humbling of the great is not forgotten, Retief, but now the era of Terry domination comes to an end. No more will we Groaci suffer graciously the intolerable interposition of foreigners between ourselves and the objects of our desires."

	"In the meantime," Retief suggested mildly, "I take it you'd like to have a little talk."

	"Indeed yes," Shlush whispered. "How perceptive of you, Retief."

	"Not at all," the Terran declared. "Wilth told me."

	"To have babbled of state secrets, litter-mate of drones?" the Hivemaster hissed at his underling.

	"Who, I, Excellency? Why, to have but hinted he'd best be on his metacarpals—"

	"To commit another indiscretion and to find yourself trussed by the polices alongside the Soft One!" Shlush turned back to Retief. "But I'm slighting my hostly obligations," he said smoothly. "Would you care for a little something while we chat?"

	"Brandy, thanks," Retief said.

	 "You." Shlush addressed the guard still hovering by the door. "To fetch brandy at once. Black Bacchus will do."

	"To congratulate your Excellency on your Excellency's taste," the Peace-keeper hissed unctiously. "But to wonder if your Excellency would amplify your Excellency's instructions to include data as to where I'm supposed to fetch it from."

	"The usual source, hive-fellow of defectives!"

	"To do as commanded, Exalted One—but don't you ink-thay the erry-tay ight-may recognize the abel-lay?"

	"To assume you have it-way enough to oar-pay it in the itchen-kay!" Shlush favored Retief with the Groaci equivalent of a sour smile. "I've instructed the fellow to serve our refreshments in a VIP decanter reserved for important guests," he translated.

	"I'm sensible of the honor," Retief said. "Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?"

	"Tell you? My dear Terry, you fail to grasp the full implications of the situation. It is you who are going to tell me!"

	"What would you like to know first?" Retief said promptly.

-

	"YOU may begin with full details of secret Terran armament schemes, overall invasion strategy, D-day tactical plans and close-support logistical arrangements."

	"I can cover that in a very few words," Retief said. "There aren't any."

	"Pah! You expect me to believe that an organization of the sophistication of the CDT intends to play it by ear?"

	"Play what by ear?" Retief inquired interestedly.

	"The take-over. What else?"

	"The take-over?" Retief tipped an inch of cigar ash onto Shlush's polished desk top. "What of?"

	"Of this plague-spot known as Lumbaga, naturally."

	"Who's taking it over?" Retief inquired interestedly.

	"We are—that is to say, you are. I mean to say, of course, having gotten wind of the perfidious schemes laid by you treacherous Soft Ones under the cynical guise of pretended participation in bogus peace talks, we Groaci have naturally been compelled to take appropriate steps to safeguard the endangered lives, property and sacred self-determination of the indigenous autochthones."

	"Remarkable," Retief said. "And I suppose that to properly protect the Lumbagans, it will be necessary for Groac temporarily to garrison a few troops here. And perhaps take over a certain number of islands for official use. And possibly to requisition a modest percentage of the planetary production and manpower for the fight against foreign exploitation. And a reasonable tax levy to support a portion of the expense of this selfless action is to be expected."

	"I see you have a grasp of the realities of interplanetary do-goodism," Shlush acknowledged. "Now, as beings-of-the-world, why not just give me a brief rundown on your own development plans? Don't bother going into detail; I have specialists on my staff who'll assist you later in dredging up the odd unremembered trifle from the depths of the subconscious. For now, just limit your exposition to the high points."

	"You're too shrewd for me, Hivemaster," Retief conceded. "Did you think up this scheme yourself?"

	"Ah-ah," Shlush chided his prisoner. "No prying, Retief. Not that it matters, of course, inasmuch as you'll soon be occupying a shallow excavation under the dungeon floor—but it's bad form tipping one's opponents off to the details of one's operations, particularly as I have no time to waste. Now—"

	"On a tight schedule, eh? Tell me, Hivemaster, is Ambassador Jith in on the plan?"

	"Jith is a dependable civil servant of considerable seniority," Shlush said smoothly. "It was deemed unwise to burden him with excessive detail regarding operations outside the sphere of his immediate concerns."

	"Just who is your boss in this operation, Shlush?"

	"Ah-ah—mustn't pry, Retief," the Groaci wagged an admonitory digit at the Terran. "Suffice it to say he's a most unusual chap, a virtual Super-Groaci of most uncompromising kidney, not the sort, as he himself declares, to stand idly by while Groac is cheated of her Lumbagan patrimony. You'll meet him soon enough."

	"Let me see," Retief mused aloud. "As I recall, it was a Terry tramp captain who first put Lumbaga on the star maps. He stayed long enough to peddle a few gross of glass beads and take on a cargo of salted glimp eggs. Oddly enough, his report made no mention of the natives' warlike tendencies."

	"Doubtless he fortuitously happened along between massacres," Shlush said tersely. "But—"

	"The next time Lumbaga cropped up in an official dispatch, ten years later, was on the occasion of a run-in between a Terry survey crew and a Groaci gunboat. It appears your people were well established here by then."

	"Yes, yes—and naturally enough, they took appropriate action to discourage unauthorized tourism. Now—"

-

	"SHOOTING up an unarmed survey craft was the wrong way to go about it, I'm afraid," Retief said philosophically. "Our sociological teams couldn't pass up a challenge like that. They came swarming in—with suitable escorts of Peace Enforcers, of course—to ferret out the unhappy incidents in the collective Groaci childhood that were responsible for your aggressions and—"

	"I well recall the incident—an unexampled instance of Groaci restraint in the face of Terran provocation."

	"—and found a planetwide riot in progress," Retief continued. "They also turned up the fact that your boys were running a rather dubious traffic in hearts, lungs, and a few other negotiable commodities—"

	"Specimens destined for Groaci zoos," Shlush snapped. "Our Groacian interest in exotic wildlife is well known."

	"—which raised certain questions among the coarse-minded. There was even a theory afoot that you were disassembling the natives, shipping them out as Free-bies and putting them back together for use in the sand mines."

	"A baseless allegation. Besides, the practice was at once discontinued out of deference to the prejudices of the unenlightened."

	"A far-sighted move, in view of the number of guns lined up on you at the time. The Interplanetary Tribunal for the Curtailment of Hostilities moved in then, and the war for peace has raged ever since."

	"I am not in need of a toenail sketch of recent Furthuronian history," Shlush hissed. "The manifold iniquities of the CDT are well known to me—" The excited Hivemaster broke off as the door opened abruptly.

	"To forgive this intrusion, Exalted One," the underling who had gone to fetch brandy hissed. "But—"

	"To better have an explanation of surpassing eloquence," Shlush screeched, "or to dangle inverted from a torture frame ere tiffin-time!"

	"The best, Excellency," the unfortunate fellow whispered, advancing into the room, closely followed by a hulking Lumbagan with a single eye, three legs, an immense grin, and a large, primitive needle gun in his fist.

	"To shoot him down!" Shlush hissed in his native tongue to Wilth, who stood frozen against the wall.

	"To—to—have apparently forgotten to load my piece," the latter whispered and let the impotent weapon fall with a clatter.

	"Which one of you aliens is the head Groaci around here?" the newcomer demanded.

	Wilth's eye-stalks tilted toward his chief. The latter scrooched back in his chair, eyeing the aimed pistol. "Ah—why do you ask?" he inquired cautiously.

	"On account of there's a Big Shot that wants to see him," the Lumbagan stated, studying the four foreigners in turn. "Better hurry. I don't know what assorted innards are bringing in the open market, but it will be less if they're full of steel splinters."

	"Merely—ah—a social call, I assume?" Shlush said hopefully.

	"Assume anything you like—only snap into it. The Big Boy don't like to be kept waiting." The caller glanced at the timepiece strapped to his lower left wrist. "Besides, I change sides in half an hour and I don't like unfinished business hanging around."

	"Well, I suppose one must observe the amenities," Shlush said with a certain lack of conviction, rising slowly.

	"It's all right, Shlush," Retief spoke up. "It's noble of you to cover for me, but we can't fool this fellow. I'll go quietly."

	"Ha? Trying to pull a fast one?" The Lumbagan pointed the gun at the Hivemaster's head and squinted his lone eye along the barrel. "I've got a good mind to plug you for that. But to heck with it. I got to make my own loads for this popper, so why waste one?" He motioned with the bulky weapon at Retief. "Let's go, big boy." He paused. "Hey, you aliens all look alike to me, but it seems like you got a little different look to you, somehow." He studied Retief, comparing him with Wilth and the guard with quick side-glances.

	"Two legs," he muttered. "One torso, one head—ah! Got it! They got five eyes each, and you only got two, kind of sunk-in ones. How come?"

	"Birth defect," Retief said.

	"Oh, excuse me all to heck, pal. No offense. Okay, pick 'em up. We got a brisk walk ahead and the streets are full of footpads."

III

	TWO of Lumbaga's small pink moons were in the sky when Retief and his captor, after traversing a passage hollowed in the thick walls of the pile housing secret Groaci Headquarters, emerged into the street.

	"This seems to be my night for meeting the local civic leaders," Retief commented as they turned west, toward the waterfront. "Whom are you taking me to?"

	"A high-pay customer on Groo-groo island," his guide said shortly, swiveling his asymmetrical head from side to side so as to bring his single eye to bear first on one side of the route ahead, then the other. "If anybody jumps us, it's every guy for hisself," he notified the Terran.

	"You expecting to be attacked?" Retief inquired easily.

	The alien nodded. "Naturally," he said glumly. "Why should tonight be any different from any other time?"

	"I understand street battles are the Lumbagan national pastime," Retief commented. "You sound a little unenthusiastic."

	"Oh, a little rumble now and then, a friendly fight in a bar, a neighborly clash in the alley, sure. I'm as normal as the next guy. But the pace is getting me down. Frankly, Mr.—what was that handle again?"

	"Retief."

	"I'm Gloot. Like I was saying, Retief—between you and me, I'd as lief take a break—a long break—from the fray. I got enough lumps to last me, you know? And there's plenty others feel the same."

	"Then why do you go on squabbling?"

	"That's kind of hard to explain to a foreigner. I'm just sashaying along, minding my own business, and all of a sudden—zop! The old fighting frenzy hits me—you know what I mean?"

	"I'm striving to grasp it," Retief said.

	A ten-minute walk brought them to the water front. An odor of ripe seafood and rotting wood rose from a lateen-rigged junk wallowing as if half sunk at its sagging wharf. A bulky Lumbagan with the usual random placement of facial features stepped out of the shadows to bar Gloot's way as he boarded.

	"Hi, Snult," the latter called in guarded tones. "This here is Retief. You can put him on my tab."

	"Yeah?" Snult replied without detectable enthusiasm. He barked a command over his shoulder. Two large locals with exceptional tricep development stepped forward.

	"Dump this spy in the drink," Snult grunted, pointing to Retief. "And then hang Gloot to the yard-arm for half an hour for reporting in late." He turned his back and sauntered off. The two Lumbagans advanced, reaching for Retief in a businesslike way. He leaned aside, caught the proffered arm of the nearer and gave it a half twist, causing its owner to spin around and bow from the waist, at which point an accurately placed foot propelled the unfortunate chap off the pier. The second enforcer lunged, met a chop to the neck, followed by a set of stiffened fingers to the midriff. As he doubled over, Retief turned him gently by the elbow and assisted him over the side, where his splash mingled with that of his partner.

	Ten feet away, Snult paused.

	"Quick work," he said over his shoulder. "But—two splashes?"

	Gloot stepped to his departing chief, seized him by the back of the neck and unceremoniously pitched him into the water.

	"Three," he corrected and thrust a large, six-fingered hand at Retief. "The cruise is off to a good start. We've been needing a change of administration around here. Come on, let's hoist anchor before a platoon of cops comes pelting down the dock to rescue you."

	He swaggered down the gangplank, bawling orders.

-

	THERE were few questions from the crew, who quickly adjusted to the change in management, assisted by a number of sharp blows from a belaying pin wielded by the new captain. In a matter of minutes the ancient vessel had cast off and was threading her way out across the garbage-strewn waters of the bay.

	"A shipment of foof bark," Gloot advised his guest, pointing out a passing barge as they relaxed on the high poopdeck at the stern, quaffing large mugs of native ale and admiring the view of the moonlit jungle isle past which they were sailing. "It comes from Delerion, another few islands to the west. Potent stuff, too. A pinch of foof in your hookah and you're cruising at fifty thousand feet without oxygen." "Dope traffic, eh? Is that legal?" "No law on the high seas," Gloot said. "And damn little on land. I guess you'd call the foof trade semi-legit. They pay taxes—if the free-lance Customs boys are sharp enough to collect 'em. And they place a few bribes here and there."

	"You seem to know a lot about the opposition's movements," Retief commented.

	"I ought to—I heard all about it last week when I was a foof-gatherer."

	"I didn't know you Lumbagans changed islands as well as affiliations."

	"I was a prisoner of war down there. I managed to escape during the changing of the guard. By the way, keep a few sharp eyes out for a low-slung boat with a big carbon-arc light on deck. Interisland Police. They're supposed to be up at the other end of the line now, but you never can tell."

	"I can see you've done your homework, Gloot."

	"Sure. I got the schedules down pat last time I was on the force."

	"Don't these rapid changes of allegiance become confusing?" Retief inquired. "I'd think you'd run the risk of accidentally shooting yourself under the impression you were on the opposite side."

	"I guess you can get used to anything," Gloot said philosophically.

	"There's Groo-groo coming up on the starboard bow," Retief said. "Isn't it about time to start tacking in?"

	Gloot yawned. "Later, maybe," he said. "I decided maybe it's too much trouble trying to ransom you. I prefer life on the briny deep to floundering around in the creepers—" He was interrupted by a shout from the masthead; jumping up, he aimed a spyglass toward a dimly seen shape gliding closer across the dark water.

	"Oh-oh—get set. That looks like—yep, it's the patrol. Hey, Blump!" Gloot sprang to the companionway. "Hard aport. And keep it quiet."

-

	AS THE unwieldy craft came sluggishly about, a dazzling, yard-wide shaft of smoky blue light laced across the water, etching the privateer's crew a chalky white against the velvet black of shadows.

	"Heave to, you bilge-scum," an amplified voice bellowed from the direction of the light, "before I put a solid shot into your water-line!"

	"We're in trouble," Gloot rapped. "That's old Funge on the bullhorn; I'd know his voice anywhere. One of the best pirate captains around when he's working the other side of the street."

	"Do we strike, Cap'n?" a crewman called from amidships.

	"Remind me to keel-haul you when this is over!" Gloot roared. "Strike, nothing. Swing our stern-chaser around and run it out over the port rail." He charged across the deck, which canted sharply as the sailors dragged the small cannon into position. "Load with canister—double-charge. Get a firepot up here. Hold her steady on a course of one-eight-oh and stand by to come about fast." He turned to Retief who was standing nearby, observing the preparations for action. "Better get below, mister," he snapped. "This is no place for noncombatants!"

	"If you don't mind, I'll stick around on deck. And if I may make a suggestion—it might be a good idea to steer for shore."

	"For shore? You must be hysterical with panic. Everybody knows Groo-groo's swarming with carnivores that are all stomach and teeth, with just enough legs to let 'em leap on their prey from forty feet away."

	"In that case, I hope you're a strong swimmer."

	"Don't worry, Retief, those revenue agents are lousy shots—" Gloot's reassurances were interrupted by a flash, a boom and the whistling passage of a projectile that sailed high overhead to raise a column of water a hundred yards to starboard.

	"I see what you mean," Retief said. "Nevertheless, I think you're about to lose your command." He pointed with his cigar at the water sluicing across the buckled planks of the deck. "We're sinking."

	Cries rose from the crew, who suddenly found themselves ankle deep in water. Gloot groaned.

	"I guess I took that last corner too fast—she's opened her seams—"

	A breaker rolled across the deck.

	A crewman, swept off his feet, went under with a despairing cry. As the vessel wallowed the waters surged, rushed back across the half-submerged planking, swirling around Retief's shins. The crewman was no longer in evidence; instead, a swarm of disassociated parts splashed in the brine, as the Lumbagan's formerly independent components resumed their free-swimming status, making instinctively for shore.

	"Well, so long, Retief," Gloot cried. "Maybe our various limbs and organs will meet up again in some future arrangement—" he broke off. "Ah—sorry. I forgot your hookup is a one-time deal. Tough lines, Retief. Take a last look around. Here we go—"

	"Let's swim for it—it's not far."

	"Well, I guess you could do that if you want to prolong the process. As for me, I'd as soon get it over with—"

	"And miss finding out if the superstitions are true? Come on, Gloot, last one ashore's an amputated leg."

-

	RETIEF dived over the side. He stroked hard against the suction created by the sinking hulk, surfaced in time to see the tip of the mast descend slowly from sight amid vigorously boiling water strewn with flotsam. Multitudes of Singletons, which had formerly constituted the privateer's complement, churned the waves, heading instinctively for shore. A ragged cheer went up from the revenue cutter.

	Gloot bobbed up a few yards away. "She was my first command," he said sadly. "I guess maybe she was put together a little too much like us Lumbagans."

	"A melancholy moment," Retief acknowledged. He shrugged out of his jacket, pulled off his shoes and thrust them into his side pockets and set off at an easy crawl, Gloot dog-paddling beside him. The evening was cool, but the water was pleasantly warm, mildly saline. Groo-groo congealed from the darkness ahead, resolving itself into a cluster of rhubarb-shaped trees above a pale streak that widened into a curving beach. They rode the breakers in, grounding a coarse coral sand, waded through tidal pools to shore.

	Dark jungle loomed ahead, impenetrable in the dim light of the moons. Retief scanned the beach, noted a small keg half buried in the pink sand, the word RUM stenciled on the end.

	"At least we won't want for basic supplies," he commented as he extricated the container. "You're about to sample Terry booze, Gloot."

	"Not bad," the local commented five minutes later, after the puncheon had been broached with a lump of coral and the contents sampled. "It burns, but my stomach kind of likes it. In fact—" he paused to hiccup. "I like it all over. Actually, I just suddenly realized life is just a bowl of bloopberries, now that my vision has improved—"

	"I see you're one of those affectionate drunks," Retief said as Gloot flung an arm about his shoulders. "Better take it easy, Gloot. You may need all your faculties intact for the evening ahead."

	Gloot grabbed inaccurately at a small free-flying gland.

	"Kootchie-koo—ain't it cute, Retief?" he asked as it landed on his head.

	"A most appealing organ," Retief agreed. "But I think you'd better lower your voice."

	"What for? Somebody snoozing?" Gloot stood, weaving slightly, "Tell the little guys with the hammers to go away," he mumbled, groping at his scalp; there was a sudden flutter as the visitor departed hurriedly. Gloot sat down hard on the sand.

	"Tell 'em to turn off the sireens and the bright lights," he moaned, "and take the stewed gym shoes out of my mouth—"

	"Congratulations, Gloot," Retief said. "I think you broke the Galactic speed record for hangovers."

	"Wha? Oh, it's you, Retief. Lucky you happened along. I just been set upon by a strong-arm mob and worked over with lead pipes. Which way'd they go?"

	"You were too much for them," Retief reassured his companion. "They fled in various directions."

	"Yah, the yellow-bellies," Gloot muttered. "Oh, my skull."

	"Where on the island does this Big Shot hang out?" Retief asked.

	"Beats me. I was to of been met on the beach."

	"Let's take a look around," Retief suggested, studying the looming woods above them. "You check that way—" he pointed to the south—"and I'll look up here."

	Gloot grunted assent and moved off. Retief followed the curve of the shore for a distance of a hundred yards before the beach narrowed and was pinched out by a rocky ridge extending down from the forest-clad slope above. There were no tracks, no empty beer bottles, no signs of animate life. He returned to the starting point. Gloot was nowhere in sight. He followed the Lumbagan's boot-prints as they wove unsteadily across the sand, then turned toward the nearest tongue of forest. The trail ended directly under a stout branch extending from the mass of foliage. Above, barely visible among the obscuring leaves, was the freshly cut end of a coarsely woven rope.

IV

	RETIEF studied the ground. Other footprints were visible here, but Gloot's were not among them. The marks leading away from the spot he noted, were deeply impressed in the sand, as if the owners had been burdened by a heavy weight—presumably that of the Lumbagan.

	Retief started off along the clearly marked spoor leading into the deep woods. The darkness here was almost total. Creatures of the night creaked, chirred and wailed in the treetops. An intermittent wind made groaning sounds among the boughs. Nearer at hand, something creaked faintly. Retief halted, faded back against the knobby-barked bole of a giant tree.

	A minute passed in silence. Just ahead of him a small figure emerged cautiously from the underbrush—a curiously truncated Lumbagan, advancing in a stealthy crouch. Gripping a stout club in a cluster of fists, the native sneaked along, crouched, peering under bushes and behind trees as he came. Retief silently circled the sheltering trunk, stepped out behind the stranger and cleared his throat. With a thin yell the native sprang straight into the air. He struck the ground running, but with a quick grab Retief snared him by the garland of teeth circling his neck.

	"I'm looking for a friend of mine," Retief said in the native tongue. "I don't suppose you've seen him."

	"Him monster like you?" the terrified captive squeaked, hooking a finger under his necklace to ease the strain.

	"Another type of monster entirely," Retief said; he gave a succinct description of his traveling companion.

	"Negative, Sahib. Tribe belong me not nab monster fitting that description. By the way, how about letting go ceremonial collar before I suffer embarassment of bite own head off."

	"You'd be more comfortable if you'd stop tugging," Retief pointed out.

	"Against instinct not try get away from monster," the native explained.

	"Curious. A moment ago I had the distinct impression you were trying to get closer to me."

	"Iron maiden on other foot now. You eat now—or save for snack?"

	"I'll wait, thanks. Is your village near here?"

	"Usually don't stop to chat with stranger," the captive muttered, "but in this case looks like best bet to increase longevity. Monster right, I citizen of modest town half mile up trail."

	"I'd like to pay it a visit. How about acting as guide?"

	"I got choice in matter?"

	"Certainly," Retief said. "You can either lead me there or take the consequences."

	"Most likely lead monster there and take consequences. Chief not like stranger poking around."

	"In that case you can introduce me. Retief's the name. What's yours?"

	"Zoof—but probably change to Mud, once chief get eyeful of humiliating circumstances attending surprise visit."

	"Actually, Zoof, it's not absolutely necessary that I lead you there by the neck if you'll promise not to run out on me."

	"Got funny feeling monster run faster than me anyway. Okay, it's deal. I lead you to village; when you get there, you look over menu, maybe pick choicer specimen."

	"It's a promise." Retief said. "Nice teeth," he added as he disengaged his hand from the necklace. "Local product?"

	"Nope, fancy imported, guaranteed solid plastic." Zoof started through the dense woods, Retief close behind. "No catch-um real tooth these days. Life in woods going to hell in handcart. Monsters ruin hunting; lucky chief make deal with Five-eyes for steady supply grits and gravy."

	"The Five-eyes you refer to wouldn't by any chance be Groaci?"

	"Could be. Skinny-leg city slicker, same big like me, all time whisper, like offer deal on hot canoe."

	"That's Ambassador Jith to the life. But I wasn't aware his interests extended this far back into the brush."

	"Sure, small monster go everywhere, do everything. All time ride giant bird, make stink, noise, pile up stone, while big monster trample underbrush, rig net, hunt, eat—"

	"What do these big monsters look like?" Retief inquired.

	"Take look in mirror sometime, see for self."

	"They're Terrans—like me?"

	Zoof twisted his head to study Retief. "Nope, not exact same, maybe. Not so much eyes. Some got more. Some two time so big like you, tear head off, eat one bite—"

	"Have you seen the monsters yourself?"

	"You bet; see you, see Five-eyes, hear plenty rumor fill in gaps in information."

	"Are there any Groaci at your village now?"

	"We find out," Zoof said. "Home town just ahead." He led the way another fifty feet and halted.

	"Well, what monster think of place?"

-

	RETIEF studied the gloomy forest around him, insofar as he could see it was in no way different from the previous half mile of woods.

	"It's unspoiled—I'll say that for it," he commented. "Is this Main Street?"

	"Monster kidding? Is snazzy residential section, plenty tight zoning, you bet. Come on, we find chief and boys over at favorite hangout, Old Log." "A bar?"

	"Nope, just swell place root for grubs."

	"I take it the Grubs aren't a ball team?"

	"More like hors d'ouvre," Zoof corrected. He led the way through a dense stand of forest patriarchs, emerged in a small, open glade where half a dozen Lumbagans, differing wildly in detail, wandered apparently aimlessly, gazing at the ground. One pounced with a sharp cry, came up with a wriggling creature, which he thrust into a sack at his waist.

	"My grasp of Lumbagan zoology is somewhat hazy," Retief said. "How do these grubs fit into the general biological picture?"

	"Play essential role," Zoof replied. "Grub grow up be kidney, jawbone, kneecap, you name it."

	"So much for future generations. Still, it's no worse than eating eggs, I suppose."

	"Not eat 'em," Zoof corrected. "Collect, sell to skinny-leg monster, get plenty Colonel Sanders fried chicken and other exotic chow, you bet."

	The grub hunters had interrupted their search to stare inhospitably at Retief.

	"Hey, Chief," Zoof greeted his leader, "this monster name Retief, express desire meet jungle big shot. Retief, shake grasping member of Chief Boobooboo, son of Chief Booboo, son of Chief Boob."

	"Grandpa name Boo, not Boob," the chief corrected sternly. "Why you want me, monster? Zoof not look tender?"

	"Actually I was looking for a friend—"

	"Hmm, neat switch. Usual custom eat enemy, but after all, why be prejudice? Eat chum too, get varied diet." Boobooboo looked appraisingly at Zoof.

	"As it happens, I've already eaten," Retief said. "The friend I'm looking for seems to have gotten involved with a rope."

	"Monster bark up wrong flagpole," the chief stated. "Unsophisticated aborigine unequal to technical challenge of make rope." 

	"Any idea who might have snared him?"

	"Sure."

	"Possibly you'd confide in me." "Why?"

	"I don't suppose the simple desire to do a good turn would be sufficient motivation?"

	"Not that unsophisticated," Boobooboo said flatly. "Good time remember ancient folk wisdom embodied in old tribal saying: What's In It For Me?"

	"What about a firm promise of a year's supply of pizza pies?"

	"Not much nourishment in promise," the chief pointed out. "Got better idea—" Boobooboo lowered his voice. "Know where big supply eatables located; you help collect, maybe I get big-hearted and tell all."

	"I think I'd prefer a more definite commitment," Retief said. "Strike out the 'maybe' and we might be able to get together."

	"Sure; just stuck 'maybe' in so have something to concede."

	"I see I'm dealing with a pro," Retief acknowledged. "En passant, where is the food supply located?"

	"Half mile that direction." The chief pointed. "Enough chow for whole tribe from now to next St. Swithin's Day."

	"I take it you've actually seen the groceries for yourself?"

	"Sure, same time deliver."

	"I see. You plan to hijack the supplies you've been selling to the Groaci."

	"Hijack loaded word. Just say decided to share wealth with underprivileged. Monsters got wealth—we got underprivileged."

	"At the present rate, Chief, I predict your supply of unsophistication won't last out the winter. But why do you need my help? You have enough troops to stage a raid on your own."

	"Monster not get big picture. Skinny-legs spoil-sport hide comestibles away inside magic cave, patrol perimeter with plenty fearsome monster, tear simple tribesman apart with two hands while hunt fleas with rest."

	"And you think I can penetrate this fortress?"

	"Maybe not; but better you than me and boys; we just simple pastoral types; hunt, fish, steal, not go in for heavy work."

	"On the whole, Chief, the proposition doesn't sound overwhelmingly attractive."

	"I figure maybe you feel that way; so save snapper for end: you come here ask about missing buddy? Monster in luck; get economical combination deal. Kidnapped pal same place victuals. Get two for price of one."

	"I think," Retief said, "I've been outmanuvered."

-

	 A QUARTER of an hour later, Retief, the chief, Zoof and the bulk of the truncated tribesmen, stood in the shelter of a giant mumble tree, the soft mutterings of its foliage covering the sound of their conversation.

	"Straight ahead, can't miss it," the chief was saying. "But watch snares; you get caught same way absent chum, deal off."

	"Understood, Chief. And you'll keep your people posted in position to create a diversion in the event I have to leave the vicinity in haste."

	"Correct. We stand by, catch any wandering grub come galloping past."

	"It's been a pleasure dealing with you, Chief. If you ever decide to give up the rural way of life, drop me a line. The Corps could use your talents instructing a course in creative naïveté."

	"Thanks, Retief. Keep offer in mind in case present caper not pan out."

	The forest was silent as Retief made his way along the dimly marked trail, but for a stealthy rustling in the undergrowth which ceased when he halted, began again when he went on. He had covered perhaps a hundred and fifty yards when he rounded an abrupt turn and was face to face with twelve feet of tusked nightmare.

	For a moment he stood unmoving, studying the monstrosity looming ten feet away. Its bleary, pinkish eyes, three in number, stared unwinkingly at him from a lumpy face equipped with tufted whiskers placed at random around a vast, loose-lipped mouth, and a scattering of gaping nostrils. Immense arms hung almost to the ground from its massive shoulders. Three bowed legs supported the weight of a powerfully muscled torso—the big fellow's generous pedal extremities were housed in gigantic sneakers with round black reinforcing patches over the ankle-bones. A long tail curled up over one clavicle, ending in a seven-fingered hand with which the creature was exploring the interior of a large, pointed ear. Other hands gripped a naked two-edge sword at least nine feet in length.

	Retief took a hand-rolled cigar from an inside pocket, puffed it alight, blew out pale violet smoke.

	"Nice night," he said.

	The monster drew a deep breath. "AHHHrrrghhh!" it bellowed.

	"Sorry," Retief said, "I didn't quite catch that remark."

	"AHHHrrrghhh!" the creature repeated.

	Retief shook his head. "You're still not getting through."

	"Ahhrrgh?"

	"You do it well," Retief said. "Exceptionally nice timbre. Real feeling."

	"You really like it?" the giant said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. "Gee, thanks a lot."

	"I don't know when I've seen it done better. But is that all there is?"

	"You mean it ain't enough?"

	"I'm perfectly satisfied," Retief assured his new acquaintance. "I just wanted to be sure there wasn't an encore."

	"I practiced it plenty," the oversized Lumbagan said. "I wouldn't of wanted to of done it wrong."

	"Certainly not. By the way, what does it mean?"

	"How do I know? Who tells me anything? I'm just old Smelch— everybody pushes me around on account of I'm easygoing, you know?"

	"I think I met a relative of yours in town, Smelch. Unfortunately I had to rush away before we really had a chance to chat."

	"Yeah? Well, I heard a few of the boys was to of been took for a glom at the bright lights. But not me. No such luck."

-

	"YOU don't happen to know who's been down for a barefoot stroll on the shore do you, Smelch?" the Terran inquired casually. "A party with three-toed feet."

	"Three? Lessee." Smelch's tail-mounted hand scratched at his mottled scalp with a sound reminiscent of a spade striking marl. "That'd be more'n one and less than nine, right?"

	"You're narrowing the field," Retief said encouragingly.

	"If I just knew how many nine was, I'd be in business," Smelch muttered. "That ain't nothing like say, six, for example?"

	"Close, but no dope-stick. Skip that point, Smelch—I didn't mean to get technical." Were you waiting for anything special when I came along?"

	"You bet: my relief."

	"When's he due?"

	"Well, lessee: I come out here a while back and been here for quite a time, so what does that leave? Say—half an hour?"

	"More like a jiffy and a half, give or take a few shakes of a lamb's tail. What's up at the top of the trail?"

	"That's what nobody ain't supposed to know."

	"Why not?"

	"On account of it's like a secret, see?"

	"I'm beginning to get a glimmering. Who says it's a secret?"

	Smelch's fingernail abraded his chin with a loud sound.

	"That's supposed to be another secret." Smelch's features rearranged themselves in what might have been a puzzled frown. "What I can't figure is—if it's a secret, how come you know about it?"

	"Word get around," Retief said reassuringly. "Okay if I go up and have a look?"

	"Maybe you ought to identify yourself first. Not that 1 don't trust you, but you know how it is."

	"Certainly. I'm Retief, Smelch." He shook the hand at the end of the tail, which returned the grip firmly.

	"Sorry about the routine, Retief, but these days a guy can't be too careful."

	"What about?"

	Smelch blinked all three eyes in rotation, a vertiginous effect.

	"I get it," he said, "that's what you call a joke, right? I'm nuts about jokes, only the trouble is usually nobody tells me about 'em in time to laugh."

	"It's a problem that often plagues ambassadors, Smelch. But don't worry; I'll be sure to tip you off in advance next time."

	"Gee, you're a all-right guy, Retief, even if you are kind of a runt and all, no offense."

-

	THE sound of heavy feet came from up-trail; a squat, five-foot figure lumbered into view, as solidly built as Smelch but less beautiful, his various arms, legs and ears having been arranged with a fine disregard of standard patterns. One of his five hands gripped a fifteen-foot harpoon; his four eyes, on six-inch stalks, goggled atop a flattened skull which gave the appearance of having been matured inside a hot water bottle.

	"About time, Flunt," Smelch greeted the newcomer. "You're a shake and a half late."

	"Spare me any carping criticisms," Flunt replied in a tone of long-suffering weariness. "I've just come from an interview with that bossy little—" He broke off, looking Retief up and down. "Well, you might at least offer an introduction," he said sharply to Smelch. extending a hand to the diplomat. "I'm Flunt. Pardon my appearance—" he indicated two uncombed fringes of purplish-blue filaments springing from just below his cheekbones— "but I just washed my hide and I can't do a thing with it."

	"Not at all," Retief said ambiguously, giving Flunt's feet a quick glance. They were bare and remarkably human-looking. "My name's Retief."

	"Goodness, I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

	"Not at all. Smelch and I were just passing the time of night. Interesting little island, Flunt. See many strangers here?"

	"Gracious, I hope not. I'm supposed to do dreadful things to them." Flunt gave Retief a startled look. "Are you by any chance a stranger?"

	"Are you kidding?" Smelch spoke up. "He's Retief, like I told you."

	"Just so you're sure. Little Sir Nasty-nice wouldn't like it a bit if any outsiders sneaked a peek at his precious whateveritis. Really, for this job one needs eyes in the back of one's head!"

	"Yeah," Smelch said. "Lucky you got 'em."

	"Flunt, do you know anyone with three-toed feet in these parts?" Retief asked.

	"Three-toed feet? Hmmm. They're a bit passé this season, of course—but I think I've seen a few around. Why?" His voice lowered confidentially. "If you're interested in picking up half a dozen at a bargain price, I think I may be able to put you onto a good thing."

	"I might be," Retief said. "When could I meet the owners?"

	"Oh, I don't think you'd like that," Flunt said soberly. "No, I don't think you'd like that at all, at all. And neither would little Mr.

	Sticky-fingers, now that I reflect on it. Actually, I shouldn't have mentioned the matter. My blunder. Forget I said anything."

	"Come on, Retief," Smelch said loudly. "Me and you'll just take a little ankle up the trail. I'll point out the points of interest and like that." He gave the Terran an elaborate three-eyed wink.

	"Capital idea, Smelch."

	"Look here, Smelch," Flunt said nervously, "you're not going to go sneaking around you-know-where and getting you-know-who all upset about you-know-what?"

	"I do?" Smelch looked pleased.

	"Maybe you don't; it's been dunned into your head hourly all your life—but then you've only been around for a week—" Flunt turned to Retief. "I hate to sound finicky, Retief, but if this ummy-day tries to ip-slay you into, well, anyplace you shouldn't ee-bay, well—one has one's job to do." He fingered the barbed head of his harpoon meaningfully.

	"I can give you a definite tentative hypothetical assurance on that," Retief said crisply. "But don't hold me to it."

	"Well, in that case—" Retief felt Flunt's eyes on him as he and Smelch moved up the trail toward whatever lay above.

V

	FOR the first hundred yards, nothing untoward disturbed the silence of the forest at night—nothing other than the normal quota of chirps, squeaks and scuttlings that attested to the activities of the abundant wildlife of the region. Then, without warning, a gigantic shape charged from the underbrush. Smelch, in the lead, late in swinging his broad-headed spear around, took the brunt of the charge solidly against his chest. His explosive grunt was almost drowned in the sound of the collision. The antagonists surged to and from, trampling shrubbery, shaking trees, grunting like beached walruses. Suddenly the stranger bent his knees, rammed his head into Smelch's midriff and rose, Smelch spread-eagled across his shoulders. He pivoted sharply and hurled Smelch into the undergrowth, snapping off a medium-sized tree in the process. The victor paused only long enough to beat out a rapid tattoo on his chest and wait until a brief coughing fit passed before whirling on Retief. The Terran sidestepped the dimly seen monster's first rush, which carried the latter well into the thicket beside the path. Smelch reappeared from the opposite side, shaking his head and muttering. The stranger came crashing back onto the scene only to be met by a two lefts and a right haymaker that halted him in his tracks.

	"Sorry about that, Retief," Smelch said contritely, as his antagonist toppled like a felled oak. "But the mug got my dander up. He shouldn't ought to of came out leading with his chin anyways."

	"A neat one-two-three," Retief commented, blowing a plume of smoke toward the fallen fighter. "Let's take a closer look." He parted the brush to look down at the casualty who lay sprawled on his back, out cold. The ten-foot figure was remarkably conservative for a Lumbagan, he thought: only two legs and arms, a single narrow head with close-set paired eyes, a long nose and mouth, an unimpressive chin. The feet, clearly outlined inside rawhide buskins, featured five toes each, matching the hands' ten fingers.

	"What's the matter?" Smelch said. "You know him?"

	"No, but he bears a certain resemblance to a colleague of mine."

	"Geeze, the poor guy. Well, beauty ain't everything. Anyways, here's your chance to pick up a set of dogs at a steal, if you know what I mean." He rammed an elbow toward Retief's ribs, a comradely gesture capable of collapsing a lung had it landed.

	"I think I'll pass up the opportunity this time," Retief said.

-

	HE STEPPED forward to investigate a strand of barbed wire vaguely discernible in the gloom. It was one of three, he discovered, running parallel to the trail and firmly attached to stout posts.

	"Retief, we better blow," Smelch said. "Like Flunt said, nobody but nobody don't want to poke his noses and stuff in too close around you-know-where."

	"Actually, I don't think I do," Retief corrected his massive acquaintance. "Know where, I mean."

	"Good," Smelch said in a relieved tone. "You're safer that way."

	"Not afraid, are you?"

	"Yeah." Smelch nodded vigorously. "I hear they got ways of making a guy regret the day his left leg met up with his right."

	"Who says so?"

	"Everybody, Retief! All the boys been warned to stay clear, once they was outside—"

	"You mean you've been inside?"

	"Sure." Smelch looked puzzled, an expression involving a rapid twitching of his ears. "How could I of not been?"

	"Flunt's been there, too?"

	"Natch. You don't figure the moomy-bird brung him, do you? That's a little joke, Retief. I know you know the moomy-bird didn't bring him."

	"How about this fellow?" Retief indicated the unconscious Lumbagan stretched at his feet. "He came from inside, too?"

	Smelch clucked sympathetically. "I guess they must of left out some o' your marbles, Retief.

	Where else would Zung of come from? In fact—" he lowered his voice confidentially—"he ain't never graduated, poor sucker."

	"Maybe you'd care to amplify that remark a little, Smelch."

	"Zung is one of the boys which they ain't been allowed out in the big, wonderful world like you and me." Smelch spread several hands expansively. "Except only maybe a few feet to clobber anybody that comes along. What I figure is—" his voice took on a solemn note—"him and the other ones, they ain't all there, you know? Rejects, like."

	"Rejects from what, Smelch?"

	"Shhh." Smelch looked around worriedly. "I don't like the trend of the conversation, which we're treading on shaky ground, especially this close to you-know-what."

	"No, but I think it's time I found out."

	"Hey—you ain't planning on climbing the fence?"

	"Unless you know where the gate is."

	"Sure—right up the trail about a hundred yards or maybe ten. I ain't too precise on fine detail."

	"Then I'll be off, Smelch. Give my regards to Flunt when you see him."

	"You're really going to sneak back into you-know-where and grab a peek at you-know-what? Boy'oh boy, if you-know-who sees you—"

	"I know. Thanks for clarifying matters. By the way, if you should run into a fellow with three legs who answers to the name of Gloot, I'd appreciate any help you could give him."

	"Sure. You let me know if we see him."

	"We?"

	"Heck, yes. You don't think I'm going in there alone, do you? And we better get moving. Zung's starting to twitch."

-

	AS THEY proceeded silently up the path, Retief was again aware of the soft rustlings and snufflings he had noted on and off since his arrival on the island. Through a gap in the shrubbery he caught a fleeting glimpse of a stealthy figure which ducked out of sight as he paused.

	The gate—a wide construction of aluminum panels and barbed wire—blocked the trail a hundred feet above the point where they had encountered Zung. A green-shaded spotlight outlined it starkly against the black foliage. A padlock the size of an alarm clock dangled from a massive hasp.

	"Any more guards hidden out around the area?" Retief asked.

	"Naw—with Flunt and me doing a tight security job down below and the other bum working in close, who needs it?"

	"An incisive point," Retief conceded. They walked boldly up to the gate. Smelch tried it, seemed surprised when it failed to swing open.

	"Looks like it's stuck," he commented, and ripped it from its hinges, lock and all, tossing the crumpled panels aside. Metal shrieked and crashed.

	"Nothing like direct action," Retief said admiringly. "But from this point on I suggest we observe a trifle more caution, just in case there's anyone up there whose suspicions might be aroused by the sound of a three-car collision this far from the nearest highway."

	"Say, pretty shrewd," Smelch said admiringly. "I always wanted to team up with a guy which he could figure the angles."

	The path continued a few yards beyond the former gate before debouching into a wide cleared strip adjoining a high board fence that extended for some distance in each direction.

	"Home sweet home," Smelch said nostalgically. "The old place sure has changed since I ventured out into the great world."

	"Has it?"

	"Sure. After all, that was a couple hours ago."

	"This is where you were born and raised, in other words."

	"Yeah—inside the fence is where I spent my happy childhood, all four days of it."

	"I'd like to see the old place."

	"Well, old Sneakyfeet won't like it—but to heck with him and his dumb rules. Who but a alumnus would want to look inside anyways? Come on, Retief."

	Smelch led the way to an inconspicuous gate which yielded to his efforts, not without a certain amount of splintering. Retief propped the door back in place and turned to regard an extensive array of ranked cages stacked in long aisles that led away in the moonlight to the far line of the fence. A dispirited yammering chorus of sound started up nearby, reminiscent of visiting day at a pet hospital. A vaguely zoo-like odor hung in the air.

-

	RETIEF approached the nearest row of cages. In the first, a creature resembling a rubber rutabega with spidery legs slumped dolefully against the bars. Adjacent, a pair of apprehensive-looking ankles huddled together for warmth.

	"Freebies," Smelch said. "Just in from the jungle. Little do the poor little fellers dream what a high-class destiny is in store for 'em."

	"What destiny is in store for them, Smelch?"

	"Right this way," the Lumbagan invited, indicating the next rank of cages. These were somewhat larger than those in the first section, each containing a creature giving the appearance of having been assembled from spare parts. Here a spindly leg drummed the fingers of a lone hand springing from where a foot might have been expected; there a bored-looking lower lip, flanked by a pair of generous ears, sprang directly from an unmistakable elbow. In the next echelon, the cages were still larger, occupied by specimens of a more sophisticated appearance. A well-developed paunch with a trio of staring brown eyes at the top squatted on four three-toed feet, watching the visitors incuriously. A remarkably human-looking head with a full beard swung from the roof of its prison by the muscular arm that was its sole appendage.

	"Uh, some of the boys look a little weird," Smelch said apologetically, "but in the end they mostly turn out handsome devils, like me."

	"Someone seems to have gone to considerable trouble to set up this lonely-hearts farm," Retief commented. "In the natural state, I understand matches among Freebies take place at rare intervals. This looks like mass production. Any idea why, Smelch?"

	"Nope. I ain't one of them guys which he asts questions all the time, you know what I mean? I mean, why poke the old nostrils in and maybe get 'em stuffed full of lint, right?"

	"It's a philosophy without which bureaucracy as we know it would soon wither away," Retief conceded. "What was your job when you were here, Smelch?"

	"Well, lessee, there was eating. That took a lot of my time. Then there was sleeping. I liked that pretty good. Then—lessee—I guess that just about wraps it up. Why?"

	"You must have a strong union," Retief said. "Why were you here?"

	"Geeze, you know that's a question which a guy could wonder about it a long time if he wouldn't drop off to sleep first. Personally, I got a like theory that before we can attack the problem of transcendentalism, we got to examine the nature of knowledge and its limitations, making a appropriate distinction between noumena and phenomena. I figure by coordinating perceptions by means of rationally evolved concepts of understanding we can proceed to the analysis of experience and arrive at the categorical imperative, with its implicit concomitants. Get what I mean?"

	"I think possibly I've been underestimating you, Smelch. I didn't know you read Kant."

	"Can't read, you mean," Smelch corrected. "Nope, I never had the time for no idle pursuits, what with that heavy schedule I told you about."

	"Quite understandable, Smelch. By the way, Flunt mentioned you'd only been here a week. Where were you before that?"

	"Well, now we're getting into the area of the metaphysical, Retief, which when you examine material phenomena by inductive processes you arrive at a philosophical materialism, not to exclude ontological and epistemological considerations, which in general could be assumed to deny: metaphysics any validity in the context of Aristotelian logic. Or am I just spinning my wheels?"

	"Did you work that out for yourself, Smelch, or did somebody tip you off?"

	"Huh?"

	"Never mind. I don't think I'd grasp the full significance of the answer anyway."

-

	THEY passed the last of the cages, these occupied by a bewildering variety of Lumbagan life forms in a wide range of colors and shapes and displaying a remarkably diverse endowment of limbs, sensory equipment and other somatic elements.

	"They look vigorous enough," Retief commented as one hefty specimen gripped the bars and drooled at him. "But I get an impression they're not too bright."

	"Well, sure, first they got to go through the indoctrination center. You can't expect an agglomeration which last week it was grubbing roots in the woods to be a instant intellectual. That takes a couple days."

	"I see. Where do we go from here, Smelch?"

	"How about the cafeteria? I got a yen for some good old home cooking."

	"Let's save that until after I've met You-know-who," Retief suggested.

	"Mondays they usually got mud-on-a-mortarboard," Smelch said nostalgically, testing the air through his multiple nostrils. "Also on Wednesday, Saturday, and all the other days. Lucky it's my favorite. But I guess you're right, Retief. We got to make our courtesy calls before we chow down. I guess old Sneaky feet—" Smelch paused. "Hey, talking about sneaky feet, old You-know-who has got three toes on each foot; I barged in on him once when he was just climbing out of a tub of hot sand. Wow, if language was skinning hooks, I'd of been flayed to the ribs in no time. That's when I seen 'em. His feet, I mean."

	He broke off as a faint, rhythmic sound became audible, swiftly growing louder. The running lights of a copter appeared above the treetops, winking in a complicated pattern. The machine sank out of sight beyond the fence. 

	"What do you know, Retief— that's old Whatzis himself," Smelch cried delightedly. "But now that it's time to make the introductions," he added with sudden doubt, "I kind of wonder if it's a good idea. If he's in a bad mood he could maybe interpret it as me not doing my job of keeping outsiders on the outside."

	"Let's hope he doesn't take a narrow minded approach," Retief said encouragingly. He had reached the section of fence opposite the point where the copter had descended. He jumped, caught the top, pulled himself up in time to see a hurrying figure in a dark cloak and a pale headgear disappear into a small structure at the edge of the clearing.

	He pulled himself over and dropped to the ground. A moment later Smelch joined him.

	"That copter's been busy tonight," Retief said. "What's in the building?"

	"All kinds of neat stuff, like the cafeteria," Smelch said. "Did I mention they got mud-on-a-mortarboard?"

	"You did. Let's go take a closer look."

	They reached the door through which the heli's passenger had disappeared. It opened and they stepped into a brightly lit corridor. Light gleamed through a glass-paneled door at the far end. When they reached it, muffled sounds were audible from the room beyond.

VI

	RETIEF took a small button-shaped object from his pocket, pressed it to the door, put his ear to it.

	"... you still hesitate?" a suave voice said. "Possibly you are deterred by ethical considerations, a reluctance to betray those who have placed their trust in you. Dismiss the thought, fellow! What harm to honor if nobody blabs, eh?"

	Snorting and threshing sounds followed.

	"Ah—Exalted One," a breathy Groaci voice whispered, "to offer a suggestion: the removal of the gag to facilitate compliance with instructions."

	"Um. Thank you, Chish. I was just about so to order. Guard!"

	Heavy footsteps sounded, followed by a ripping sound, a hoarse yell, a shuddering sigh.

	"Just one," Gloot's voice said yearningly. "Just one little ocular, right by the roots—"

	Retief tried the doorknob, found it locked. He quickly extracted a small but complicated device from an inner pocket, applied it to the latch. There was a soft click. The door opened silently on a small dark room lined with coat hooks; beyond was a second room, clinically furnished in white. Gloot sat in a steel chair under a ceiling glare panel. He was strapped in position by heavy bands of wire mesh. An elaborate network of color-coded wires led from a cap-like device clamped to his head to a gray steel cabinet resembling a ground-car tune-up console.

	A Lumbagan, if anything larger and more baroque than Smelch, leaned against the wall. A uniformed Groaci stood by a door in the opposite wall. Before the captive stood a slight figure nattily attired in bile-green Bermuda shorts, an aloha shirt in clashing pinks and orange and violet Argyles.

	"Well, my old friend Nith, formerly of the Groaci Secret Police," Retief said softly to Smelch. "I wasn't aware his duties had brought him to these shores."

	"Now, fellow," Nith demanded of Gloot, "who sent you here?"

	"Nobody sent me; me and a chum came together."

	"Aha! This chum—what power does he represent?"

	"He's a Groaci," Gloot said.

	"A Groaci?"

	"You heard me, Five-eyes. And a big wheel at that."

	"Amplified One," Chish hissed. "To begin to see the light! Lackaday! To have accidentally abducted a member of the personal staff of a Groacian MHPP!"

	Nith waggled his eyes playfully at Gloot. "In your report to your superior, I'm sure you won't find it necessary to mention this little contretemps, eh? Just look upon it as a slight misunderstanding, easily mended—"

	"Upthrust One," Lt. Chish interrupted, "The possibility that though this one's companion is of the noble Groacian stock, he himself might yet be in the pay of inferior races—"

	"To be sure, Leftenant," Nith said smoothly. "To have been about to raise precisely that issue." He faced Gloot. "Confess all, unfortunate dupe. You were the prisoner of the Groacian noblebeing, correct?"

	"Well—technically he was my prisoner. But between you and me, Five-eyes, I was beginning to wonder who was in charge."

	"You dared impede the freedom of a High-Born One? You abducted him here against his will?"

	"Naw, it wasn't that way," Gloot said. "It was kind of a joint venture, like."

	"Joint venture? I fail to postulate any conceivable circumstance under which the interests of Groac and of an aboriginal would coincide."

	"Dough," Gloot said succinctly. "Mazoola. Bread. You know."

	"You shared an interest in gourmet cookery?"

	"Cripes, how'd you know that?"

	"Further association with us Groaci will accustom you to such casual displays of omniscience," Nith said smoothly.

	"But—to have implied that it occupied the status of co-equal with its Groaci companion," Chish objected.

	"To have spoken allegorically, as is customary with artists! To have implied only that His Supernalness's shared interest in matters gastronomic. But now to wonder—what brings Groaci brass to this dismal backwater, unannounced? The possibility that Supreme HQ is checking up on me. Tell me, fellow," he addressed Gloot, "what was the purpose of your Groaci master's visit to these remote environs?"

	"To see what was cooking, what else?"

	"Yes, yes, of course—a clever cover story. But in addition to his culinary researches, what was the mission of the High-Born?"

	"If he had one he never told me," Gloot said.

	"To be expected that his Grandeur would not confide in an underling." Nith murmured.

	"Estimable Broodmaster, sir," Chish hissed. "To hypothesize: might not these same intruders be a veritable inspection team, dispatched by Ambassador Jith, who, jealous of his prerogatives, may have introduced them here by devious means, the better to check up on your operation unheralded?"

	"Exactly what I had deduced," Nith whispered and started for the door. "Certain reactionary elements have long desired my downfall. What better time than now to bring long schemes to naught by meddlesome probing, thereafter to cry me culpable? Forewarned, I'll see to certain matters regarding the voucher files; meantime, dispatch the prisoner instantly, lest he level feckless charges against my person!"

-

	NITH skittered through the door and was gone. Chish made a rude gesture at the closed door and turned to Gloot, drawing his pistol.

	"No violence, now," he cautioned the Lumbagan as he removed the cranial attachments of the veracitometer. "And remember to mention my name in glowing terms to your master. That's Chish: C-H-I-S-H, by a gross miscarriage of justice a mere Leftenant—" 

	He broke off as Retief stepped through the door, Smelch behind him. Uttering a faint cry, the officer whirled toward the door by which his superior had just departed. The Terran reached it first.

	"Guard! To me!" Chish keened, but as the Lumbagan behemoth lumbered into action, Smelch stepped behind him, gripped hands with himself, raised the resultant picnic-ham-sized aggregation of bone and muscle overhead and brought it down atop the fellow's cranium with a resounding thump, felling him in his tracks.

	"Poor old Vump, he always had a glass head," Smelch commented.

	"Nice one!" Gloot yelled. "But save old Nith for me!"

	"Unhand me, Terran," Chish whispered, trying unsuccessfully to dodge past Retief, "To have important business requiring my urgent attention—"

	"You're confused, Leftenant," Retief said. "It was Broodmaster Nith who had the pressing appointment."

	"Indeed? To have never heard of him."

	"Too bad. I was hoping you could tell me whom he works for."

	"Never, vile Soft One!"

	"I'd avoid these long-term predictions if I were you, Chish. They have a tendency to unravel at the edges." Retief looked past the Groaci to Gloot, busily freeing himself from the last of his entanglements.

	"Don't break anything, Gloot; we wouldn't want to short the leftenants wiring."

	"Where'd the other one go?" Gloot demanded. "That's the one I want. I want to pluck those eyes one at a time, like picking ripe froom-fruit! How about it, you?" he glowered at Chish, who recoiled from the menacing figure towering over him. "Where's the other Terry?"

	"The—the other Terry?" the Groaci hissed in agitation. "What other Terry?"

	"You know what other Terry!" Gloot roared.

	"Oh, that Terry," Chish said hurriedly. "Why, I do believe he's occupying the, er, guest suite, just across the passage."

	"Yeah?" Gloot looked baffled. "What's he doing there?"

	"He was, ah, assisting me in certain experimental activities," Chish replied. "Which reminds me, I'm overdue for my saline infusion, so if you'll kindly unhand me—"

	Gloot pushed the Groaci away and went across the room and into the passage. He paused before the door across the hall and rapped. A faint, uncertain cry answered him.

	"Whattaya know?" he said. "He's in there." He tried the knob, then stepped back and kicked the stout panel; the plastic cracked. A second kick shattered the lock, and the door banged inward. A slight figure appeared in the opening, checked at the sight of the Lumbagan.

	"Hey," Gloot said weakly as Retief came up behind him. "That's not—"

	"Well, there you are at last, Retief," First Secretary Magnan gasped. "Heavens, I thought you'd never turn up!"

VII

	"I DON'T get it," Gloot said, looking from Magnan to Retief. "Another Groaci with only two eyes, just like you, Retief—and I just noticed that Terry you're holding onto is wearing three fakes, just like that other Terry, Chish. What gives?"

	"Duplicity on a vast scale," Retief said. "It's creeping in everywhere these days."

	"You labor under a misapprehension, dull-witted bucolic!" the Groaci began, subsiding in midword at a minatory tweak.

	"What's this person referring to?" Magnan inquired, favoring Gloot with a distasteful look. "Is he somehow under the impression—"

	"He's a great admirer of the Groaci, Mr. Magnan. Naturally he leaped to the conclusion that you enjoyed that status, since you resemble me so closely." Retief gave Chish's collar an extra half-twist as the latter attempted to speak.

	"How come," Gloot asked bluntly, "this Groaci's got the same shortage of eyes as you, Retief?"

	"Quite simple, Gloot. He's a relative; we're both members of the ape family."

	"Oh. But what's he doing here, palling around with these foreigners?"

	"Simplicity itself," Magnan said. "I was seized by a brace of brigands and whisked here for some obscure purpose unconnected with normal diplomatic procedures." The First Secretary looked severely at Chish. "Perhaps you have some explanation?"

	"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 eye-stalks, which drooped dejectedly.

	"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. It will shoot 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 Swarm-master 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 Peace-keepers 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, as 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. 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 the thought sustain you in your hour of trial," Retief said.

-

	TEN minutes later, after carefully skirting the spot where Flunt guarded the trail, Retief, Magnum and Gloot followed the tracks left in the soft moss of the trail by the fleeing Groaci, Nith. The path, while narrow, was high and dry, twisting and turning to avoid the boles of giant, moss-hung trees rising from the dark water, skirting the deeper pools. In a small, open patch of spongy ground the trail ended abruptly. There was no sign of Nith.

	"Well, whattaya know," Gloot commented, peering into the surrounding darkness. "Who would of thought the little Terry was that fast on his feet? He's gone and got clean away, so I guess we might as well get started back—" "Listen," Retief said softly. A faint cry was repeated somewhere ahead. He started off at a run, picking a route from one root-clump to another. A hundred feet farther on he emerged into the open to witness a curious sight— from a sturdy bough overhanging the path, Nith dangled by one leg in mid-air, supported in an inverted position by a length of stout rope.

	"Good of you to wait, Nith," Retief said. "An excellent spot for a confidential talk."

	"To cut me down at once and to enjoy the eternal gratitude of the Groacian state, renewable annually at a modest fee," the snared alien whispered.

	"Stumbled over one of your own trip-wires, eh?" Retief said sympathetically. "It's one of the hazards of the diplomatic way of life."

	"What is this talk of diplomatic wiles? As it happens, I am a simple scientist, here to observe the nest-building habits of the Lesser Tufted Adam's Apple—"

	"Sorry, Nith, an ingenious cover, but blown, I'm afraid. We met a few years back when you were number two to General Fiss, the time he tried to take over Yalc."

	"Tour Director Fiss and I were interested only in the excavation of artifacts of the Yalcan culture," Nith protested.

	"You Groaci have pioneered the science of instant archeology, true," Retief conceded, "but good form requires that you wait until the owners aren't using the bones any longer before you try to wire them together in a glass case. However, we have more immediate matters to discuss at the moment. Let's begin with where you were headed in such haste."

	"I find it singularly difficult to marshall my recollective faculties while suspended in this unseemly position," the Groaci hissed.

	"You'd find it even more difficult if the point of attachment were your third thoracic vertebra," Retief pointed out.

	"Long will this day live in infamy," Nith wailed. "Very well, Terry, I'll reveal my destination, but only under protest. As it happens, I maintain a modest retreat in the foothills above—to it I retire on occasion to meditate. Now cut me down promptly and in my report I'll do my best to minimize the shabby role you played in this sorry contretemps."

-

	"TOO late for secrecy now," Retief said as Gloot and Magnan arrived panting, splashed with mud and festooned with algae.

	"Well," the First Secretary said as he spied the dangling alien, "at least he had the decency to attempt suicide—though one might have known he'd bungle it."

	"You speak of suicide, Soft One?" Nith keened. "Such indeed is the fate of those who would invade the sacrosanct precincts of my bucolic hideaway."

	"Don't imagine for a moment that your threats intimidate me," Magnan replied loftily. "It's just that we happen to be leaving now anyway. Come, Retief, suitably padded—discussed in adequate detail, that is—my report of the disasters we've encountered up to this point will serve adequately to impress the Ambassador with my zeal."

	"An inspiring thought, Mr.

	Magnan. Just picture his expression when you tell him you've discovered there may be a plot afoot to take over Lumbaga and that you hurried back to let him know what, without wasting time finding out when, where, why, and how."

	"But as I was about to say," Magnan continued quickly, "why dash off just when we're on the verge of achieving a coup of such stunning proportions?"

	"Now, just how would one go about finding this weekend cottage of yours," Retief queried Nith.

	"You imagine, presumptuous alien, that I would reveal details of my personal affairs to such as you?"

	"My mistake, Nith." Retief turned to Magnan and Gloot. "It seems we'll have to find it on our own. Shall we go, gentlemen?"

	"What—and leave me here suspended, prey to any passing appetite, to say nothing of the risk of incipient apoplexy?" Nith shrilled in protest.

	"Yeah, that would be cruel," Gloot said and drew his knife. "I'll just slit the sucker's throat—"

	"I capitulate," the Groaci hissed. "Proceed north-east by east to a lone foot tree, take a right, proceed another hundred paces upslope and you will confront my confidential lair. I appeal to your better natures to pry then no more, but to betake yourselves in haste to more congenial surroundings, there to report favorably on this concrete evidence of the importance of the reflective life in the philosophy of the benign Groaci."

	"I don't get it," Gloot said. "How come this Terry's all the time putting in a plug for you Groaci?"

	"Conscience," Magnan said crisply. "I suppose you may as well cut him loose now—provided he promises not to go scuttling ahead and spoil our surprise."

	"I assure you I will scuttle in another direction entirely," Nith whispered as Gloot slashed the rope, allowing him to drop to the ground with a painful impact. He sprang up and disappeared along the backtrail.

	"I'm not sure that was the best move we've made all evening," Retief said. "But I suspect we'll know for sure very soon. Meanwhile, let's go take a look."

-

	 A DIM light glowed from a point high above, shining down through the trees dotting the steeply rising slope.

	"Well, whattaya know," Gloot said. "I thought the little runt was lying, but here's his meditation parlor—just like he said."

	"Why, the very idea," Magnan whispered. "Ambassador Jith never mentioned funding any R and R facilities in the hustings." They emerged onto a talus slope.

	From here they were able to make out the silhouette of a cluster of towers rising from the crest of the peak. The lighted window went dark; a moment later a glow sprang up at another.

	"Apparently Nith doesn't do his thinking alone," Retief said.

	"If the place is full o' Terries," Gloot said, "what's supposed to keep 'em from blasting us into Freebies before you can say oops?"

	"Nothing much. Accordingly, I recommend extreme stealth from this point on."

	Twenty feet higher they encountered a flight of narrow steps cut into the stone. Retief climbed over the handrail beaded with moisture in the damp air and led the way upward, Gloot and Magnan close behind him. At a landing another twenty feet higher the steps took a right-angled turn. The drop below was vertical now; the tops of trees rustled in the faint breeze. Far below a cluster of lanterns moved on the shore. Far across the water the lights of the capital floated on blackness.

	Gloot started to speak, then changed his mind. "Never mind," he muttered. "The more I know the less I like it. I'm even beginning to get a funny feeling it was your idea and not mine to grab you from Groaci HQ."

	At the next landing, by leaning far out over the rail to look up, Retief was able to see a row of shuttered windows set in a squat, thick-walled structure of a bilious ochre color. The building appeared to consist of several wings, set at slightly different levels in accommodation to the contours of the rugged peak on which it was built.

	"Quite a layout—" Gloot started and broke off as feet clacked above. A spindly figure in a flaring helmet and a spined hip cloak leaned over the railing of a terrace, peering down the barrel of a blast-rifle with five alertly canted oculars.

	"Hssst! To advance and give the password," a thin voice whispered sibilantly.

	"To contain yourself in patience, hive-mate of brood-foulers," Retief whispered sharply in Groaci. "To have had a brisk trot to report the failure of the incompetent Nith! To require a moment in which to respire!" He motioned to Gloot. "You go first," he whispered softly. "Pretend to be scared."

	"Pretend?" The Lumbagan choked. "I'm petrified! But what the heck, I don't aim to show the purple glimp-feather. Here goes."

	"The impropriety of your nattering—and my curiosity as to whom you natter with!" the Groaci Peace-keeper hissed.

	"The prompt satisfaction of your curiosity," Retief whispered back, motioning Gloot past. He followed up the final flight of steps. As the Lumbagan reached the sentry's terrace the latter hissed and swung the gun to cover him.

	"The impropriety of taking hasty action," Retief said sharply. The guard swiveled a pair of eyes toward him and uttered a faint Groaci yelp of dismay.

	"A Soft One—" he started, but his feeble cry was cut off abruptly by a smart rap to the side of the jaw delivered by Gloot. Retief deftly caught the victim's helmet as he collapsed.

-

	RETIEF quickly scouted the narrow gallery on which they now found themselves. From the platform at the end a complicated system of rods atop a tower was visible.

	"Curious," Magnan whispered. "Trideo antennae here? I wasn't aware Lumbaga boasted transmission facilities."

	"I have an idea the transmitter hasn't gone into full service yet," Retief said.

	Further discussion was interrupted by a faint whop-whop-whop, which grew swiftly louder. A copter swept low over the tree tops, made a sliding turn and came back to hover for a moment before settling gently to the roof of the building. The pilot—a small, thin-legged individual wrapped in a black cloak and wearing a solar topi—hopped down and disappeared into the shadows.

	Light shone a moment later from an opened hatch in the roof, into which the new arrival descended, closing the panel behind him.

	"Give me a leg up, Gloot," Retief said.

	"Anything for you, pal," the local said dubiously, grasping his own shin firmly. "But are you sure you can use it?"

	"On second thought, just a boost will do," Retief amended. Gloot offered linked hands as a stirrup; Retief went up the wall. The roof was deserted but for the silent copter squatting inside a yellow-painted circle. He leaned back to lend a hand to Magnan, then to Gloot. Together they crossed to the trapdoor. It opened soundlessly. Steep steps led down into deep gloom. At the bottom, Retief used his pocket flash quickly to check the room; it was empty but for stacked crates and cartons bearing stenciled markings.

	"Electronic gear," Retief said. "And surgical supplies."

	"Here's one labeled: Acme Theatrical Services," Magnan whispered. "Curious, I never suspected the Groaci had an interest in amateur dramatics."

	"I suspect they may have entered the field at a professional level," Retief said.

	The storeroom opened into a narrow, dimly lit passage. Faint murmurings sounded from behind a door. Retief went to it, put his ear against the panel.

	"... to have come within an ace of discovery!" hissed a breathy Groaci voice. "To make all haste now—"

	"The inadvisability of rushing the cadence!" another voice replied. "To not louse up the triumphant culmination of my researches!"

	"Yes, yes, to get on with it. To have a tight schedule."

	A muted humming sound started up; a faint odor of ozone filtered through the closed door.

	"Sounds like an illegal transmitter," Retief said.

	"What's illegal about a transmitter?" Gloot demanded.

	"Let's find out." Retief turned the doorknob silently, eased the door open an inch. Two Groaci, one in bile-green shorts and orange and violet argyles, the other in a stained white laboratory smock and holding a clipboard, stood before a wide panel thickly set with dials, switches, oscilloscope tubes and blinking indicator lights. One side of the room was given over to stacked cages in which eyeballs, kidneys, adenoids and other forms of Lumbagan wildlife perched disconsolately on twigs or moped glumly in corners amid scattered straw.

	"... the completion of preliminary testing," the technician was whispering, "to be ready now to conduct field trials of limited range, after which, on to the final stage in the fulfillment of selfless Groaci objectives with all deliberate haste!"

	"To spare me the propaganda," the other snapped. "To have read the official handouts. To now tellingly demonstrate the effectiveness of the device without further procrastination."

-

	THE technician turned to the control panel, began setting dials in a complicated sequence, referring frequently to the clipboard.

	"Haste, haste," the other Groaci muttered. "To not procrastinate in the eye of the metaphorical cannon—or is it the mouth of the needle?"

	He stepped forward suddenly and, before the other could intercept him, pushed the largest button on the panel.

	With a hoarse bellow Gloot plunged past Retief, slammed the door wide and bounded into the room. The two Groaci whirled, uttered shrill yelps and dived in opposite directions. The small creatures in their cages had gone into a flurry of activity, Retief noted peripherally, hurling themselves against the wire mesh as if frantic to come to grips with their neighbors. The momentum of Gloot's charge carried him full tilt against the button-studded console. Lights flashed; harsh buzzings sounded, ending in a crackle of arcing electricity. Gloot staggered back and sat down hard. The lab animals subsided as abruptly as they had leaped into motion. Retief jumped forward in time to nab the technician as he dithered, unsure which way to run. A door slammed at the back of the room.

	"Retief! What in the world—" Magnan quavered, peering from the door.

	"Oh boy," Gloot muttered, fingering his head with all three hands as he sat weaving in the middle of the room. "Oh boy oh boy oh boy—"

	"Would you care to amplify that remark?" Retief asked, holding the struggling Groaci.

	"I guess I blew it, huh?" the Lumbagan said blurrily. "I don't know what come over me, Retief. It was like Festival time and Spring Rites and the Fall Offensive all hit me at once. All of a sudden I was raring to go. Too bad that Terry got away. I would have liked to field-strip the little rascal just to see what color juice ran out of him." He eyed Retief's prisoner wistfully. "The fit's passed— but I still got kind of a lingering urge to pull that Terry apart, one skinny leg at a time."

	Far away, an alarm bell clanged harshly.

	"Now are you undone, abominable intruders," the Groaci hissed. "In moments my well-trained guards will fall upon you, your misshapen members to distribute over the immediate landscape."

	"Retief, we have to get out of here at once," Magnan yelped. "If a platoon of Peace-keepers should get their nasty little digits on us—"

	"Yeah, let's blow," Gloot agreed. "Me and cops never did get on too good together."

VIII

	RETIEF released the Groaci, who at once darted for cover behind the nearest rank of cages. The hall was empty. A lone Peacekeeper appeared at the far end of the corridor and set up a weak shout as they dashed for the storeroom. Inside, Retief and Gloot paused long enough to stack a half-dozen crates against the door before ascending to the roof. Magnan was at the parapet, staring down into the darkness.

	"Trapped," he hissed. "Retief— the grounds are swarming with them! And—" he uttered a stifled exclamation. "Retief! Look!"

	In the gloom below Retief could discern the forms of several dozen armed troops in flaring helmets, polished greaves and spined hip cloaks, moving efficiently out to surround the building.

	"Retief—what does it mean? This laboratory, hidden in the wilds; that insane monster farm and that horrible little Nith—and his obscure experiments—and now Groaci troops secretly garrisoned in the boondock?"

	"It means we know enough now for a preliminary report. If you'll give Ambassador Pouncetrifle the details of what we've learned—"

	"But, Retief—what have we learned?"

	"That the Groaci have worked out a method of controlling Lumbagan evolution, plus a method of selectively stimulating the natives' natural love of hostilities."

	"But—whatever for?"

	"You'd better get going now, Mr. Magnan. I seem to hear the sounds of a posse pounding on the door down below."

	"Get going? You sp-speak as though I we-were expected to descend alone into that lion's den!"

	"Not descend—ascend. The copter is a standard Groaci export model—"

	"Yes, but—but I don't have my driver's license with me!"

	A loud thumping sounded from below as the stacked cases toppled. Gloot slammed the trapdoor and stood on it.

	"Better hurry, Mr. Magnan," Retief said. "Head due west and stay clear of the peaks."

	Magnan made vague sounds of protest, but scrambled awkwardly into the copter. He pressed the starter; the rotors turned, spun quickly up to speed.

	"It seems a trifle irresponsible, dashing off and leaving you here alone, Retief," he called and winced as thunderous pounding shook the trapdoor.

	"I hope them Terries don't take a notion to send a few rounds of explosive slugs through this hatch," Gloot said, struggling for balance as the door heaved under him.

	"—but as you point out, duty calls," Magnan added quickly and, with a hasty wave, lifted off into the night.

-

	"I DON'T get it," Gloot said as the sound of the machine faded. "You said Ambassador Pouncetrifle? I thought he was the head Terry."

	"I think it's time for me to clear up a slight misapprehension you've been laboring under, Gloot," Retief said. "Those aren't actually Terries down there—they're Groaci."

	"Huh? But they look just like what's-his-face, Nith, only bigger!"

	"Correct. That's because Nith is a Groaci, too."

	"But if he's a Groaci—then what about whozis—the one that just run out on us?"

	"Mr. Magnan," Retief confided, "is actually a Terry."

	"Aha! I should of known. Talk about masters of disguise. Pretty slick, the way you got rid of him—" Gloot paused reflectively. "But—if they're Groaci down there, how come we don't just open up and shake hands all around?"

	"They think I'm a Terry."

	"Oh, boy, that complicates things. How come you don't tell 'em who you really are and—"

	"Undercover operation."

	"Oh, I get it. Or do I?" Gloot said vaguely. "But I guess I can worry about that later, after we get out of this mess. What nifty trick are you going to pull out of the hat now? Frankly, if 1 didn't have lots of confidence in you, Retief, I'd be getting worried about now."

	"I think you may as well go ahead and worry, Gloot," Retief said. "On this occasion I'm fresh out of hats."

	"You mean—"

	The hatch gave a tremendous lurch, sending the Lumbagan staggering. It flew open and a Groaci warrior bounded forth, power gun aimed, his fellows crowding out behind him.

	"He means, nocuous encroacher, that now indeed is your fate upon you!" The white-jacketed Groaci technician moved forward.

	"How about it, Retief," Gloot said from the corner of his mouth. "We could jump 'em—but what I say is, why give 'em the fun of blowing us into sausage?"

	"Wait!" a piercing voice called from the rear.

	The Groaci soldiery fell back, came to rigid attention. In the sudden silence the technician ducked his head servilely, stepping aside as an impressive figure wrapped in a black cloak with a twist of gold braid adorning the stiff collar strode forward. Typically Groacian except for his six-foot height, the newcomer stared Retief up and down, ignoring Gloot.

	"So, impetuous Terry," he rasped in a voice surprisingly vigorous for a Groaci. "We meet at last."

	"Swarmmaster Ussh, I presume?" Retief said. "Your Ultimateness has led us an interesting chase."

	"And one pursued to your indescribable sorrow," Ussh grated.

-

	"I'VE SEEN your experimental monster farm," Retief said. "The woods seem full of unsuccessful experiments in forced evolution."

	"As I suspected, the true implications of what you've seen has been lost on your limited imagination. Soon, however—"

	"I think I got it. Manipulating Lumbagans at random is all very well, but it would be a bit difficult to stage anything more organized than a free-for-all unless you could elicit uniform responses. Ergo— uniform puppets."

	"You've correctly gauged the more pedestrian portions of my plot, Terran dupe! But you've failed utterly to grasp the incredible scope of my true greatness! While you dashed hither and thither, assembling your trifling clues, my giant intellect has been coolly completing the final detail work. And now—tonight—the New Age dawns, ushered in by the successor to all previous life forms, namely myself!"

	"What is this guy, nuts or something?" Gloot muttered. "If he's so busy why's he standing around making speeches?"

	"He's trying to find out how much we know," Retief said.

	Swarmmaster Ussh waved a negligent hand. "Petty minds can but ascribe petty motives. What you may or may not know is a matter of supreme indifference—and I include any fragmentary facts in the possession of your flown accomplice, for whose absence from this group certain incompetents will suffer. In fact, I freely confide in you: tonight I assume planetary rule. Tomorrow I issue my ultimatum to the Galaxy. Next week— but contain yourself in patience. You yourself—in chains, of course —shall serve as my emissary to carry the terms to your former masters! As for the Untouchable, you may retain him as your personal menial."

	"I assumed you had a reason for not shooting us immediately.

	"I do nothing without a supremely practical motive." Ussh stated flatly. "And now—will you go to your durance peacefully or will it be necessary for me to have you dragged by the heels, a most undignified progress for a future Slave Ambassador."

	"I think a period of quiet contemplation may be just what we need at this point," Retief said.

-

	THE dungeon into which Retief and Gloot were conducted cut deep into the rock beneath the secret Groaci lab, was a damp chamber, six feet by eight, without lights, furniture or other amenities. The narrow portal through which they had entered was barred by a thick door of solid iron. The ceiling was a seamless surface of rough-hewn stone, as were the walls and floor.

	"At least we got a drain hole," Gloot commented after they had conducted an examination of their prison by the light of Retief's cigar lighter. "If worst gets to worst, I can always flush myself down the sewer; but don't worry, pal. I'll stick around and keep you company until you starve to death before I split—and I do mean split."

	"That's thoughtful Gloot, but maybe it won't come to that."

	"Aha—so you have got a couple aces up your sleeve. I figured. Come on, Retief, let me in on the scheme. How are we going to hoist these Terries—" 

	"Groaci."

	"Whatever you call 'em, I still don't like 'em. What dramatic stroke are we going to bring off now?"

	"First we find a comfortable spot on the floor," Retief said.

	"Yeah? Okay, I'm with you so far."

	"Then we wait."

	"I'll be frank with you, Retief: somehow the program don't sound too promising."

	"It's all I have to offer at the moment."

	"Oh." A pause. "Are we, ah, waiting for anything in particular?"

	"I'd be inclined to jump at anything that comes along."

	"You must be joshing, Retief. How can anything come along to jump at. We're locked up in an underground dungeon with only one hole in it, namely the one the bilge runs out of?"

	"That narrows it down," Retief conceded.

	"You mean—"

	"Shhh—listen."

	A faint rustling sound became audible. Retief thumbed his lighter; the pale flame cast a feeble glow across the slimy floor.

	Something stirred below the four-inch drain orifice.

	An eyeball crept into view on spidery legs, swiveling to look around the cell before emerging onto the floor. Behind it an ear fluttered up the shaft, circled the chamber, came to rest in a far corner. A hand crawled into view, paused to hold up two fingers in a V, then turned to assist a set of sweetbreads over the coping.

	"Cripes," Gloot muttered as more and more Freebies swarmed into the cell. "What is this, a convention? The place is crawling with vermin!"

	"Steady, Gloot," Retief cautioned. "When I said jump, I didn't mean literally."

	"It figures the crumbums would stick us in a hole infested with parasites!"

	"Keep your voice down, Gloot. If our jailors suspect we have guests, they'll soon be along to break up the party."

	"Yeah—even a bunch o' Terries—or Groaci—foreigners, anyway—ought to have the decency to fumigate the place if we put up a howl—" Gloot broke off, his mouth hanging open in an expression of horrified outrage. "Why, the lousy, dirty, obscene little buggers!" he gasped. "Right out in public, too!"

	Under the feeble beam of the lighter, the eyeball had edged close to a generously proportioned nose which waited coyly for its advance. They touched, groped—and melted into a close embrace. A second eye appeared from the drain, glanced around, rushed to the conjoining couple and promptly took up a position on the opposite side of the nose. An upper lip linked with them, as other candidates crowded around, while more and more streamed up from the depths.

	"It's—it's a regular orgy, like I heard about but never got in on!" Gloot blurted, and raised a large, booted foot to stamp out the objectionable spectacle; Retief caught his ankle barely in time, dumped him on his back.

	"Easy, Gloot," he said. "It's time you faced up to the facts of life."

	"Just wait until I get my other lung in place," a breathy voice squeaked from the direction of the congregating singletons, "and I'll give that big hypocrite a piece of my mind! Maybe that'll raise his IQ to the moron level so he can understand me when I tell him what I think of him."

	"I thought maybe it was you who's been dogging my footsteps," Retief said. "Welcome aboard, Ignarp. You couldn't have come at a better time."

IX

	"SO THAT'S our Big Secret, Retief," Ignarp said five minutes later. He was completely reassembled now, his component parts having settled into position and accommodated themselves so perfectly that the lines of juncture were barely visible. Being able to reassemble gives us a big advantage. That's why the rest of 'em are out to get us."

	"The reasons normal Lumbagans got no use for these degenerates," Gloot stated with contempt, "is on account of they got no finer feelings. When they put theirselfs together thataway, they as good as admit all us Lumbagans evolved from lower forms!"

	"Ontogeny recapitulates philogeny," Ignarp said smugly. "Everybody knows that."

	"Sure—but decent folks don't admit it!"

	"Which brings us to the question of why you trailed me here," Retief said.

	"I told you I'd keep an eye on you—"

	"Yes, I saw it fluttering in the middle distance."

	"And it looks to me like maybe things are even worse than we thought. And you're the only one that maybe can do something about it. Ergo—here I am. What can I do? Get you some light reading matter? Take last messages to loved ones?"

	"Better yet, you can get us out of here."

	"I don't know, Retief," Ignarp said, eyeing Gloot, who stood at the far side of the cell, arms folded, a sullen expression on his face. "Why should I go to bail this clod out of stir?"

	"Because I'm afraid my plan won't work without him," Retief said.

	"Who needs him?" Ignarp challenged. "All I have to do is slide back out the way I came in—"

	"I still don't believe it," Gloot muttered. "Me—associating with this degenerate. Having to stand here and listen to him talk about it."

	"—infiltrate the building and reassemble inside. Then, when you pound on the door and yell and the guard comes to work you over with the rubber hoses, I jump out and nail him."

	"I got a better idea," Gloot said.

	"Retief, you lend your coat to this deviate; we set up a yell, and when the bums come running, they open the door and see the two of you up against the wall thumbing your noses. Naturally, they come charging in—and I jump out behind 'em and lay 'em low."

	"Some plan," Ignarp commented. "They see Retief without his coat and a total stranger wearing it, and that's supposed to lull their suspicions?"

	"Okay, I borrow his coat—"

	"So they see him without a coat and me naked—and they figure I'm you, only two feet shorter and better looking—"

	"No, I got it. Retief borrows my coat—"

	"You're not wearing one, dummy."

	"So he keeps his coat! You get back of the door—"

	"Don't tell me what to do, tall, spotted, and grotesque!"

	"You got a nerve, short, blotchy, and depraved! I got a good mind—"

	"Want to bet? We do it my way. See you later, Retief—"

	"How about waiting long enough to hear my proposal, Ignarp?"

	"Well—okay. Who wears your coat?"

	"I do. It's you two fellows who have some changes to make."

	"Huh?" Gloot said uneasily.

	"What you got in mind?" Ignarp said suspiciously.

	"Something far worse than you think," Retief said. "Tell me, Ignarp, how would you like to see Lumbaga pacified by a dictator?"

	"You kidding? We like to fight among ourselves. Having all the fat in the hands of the exploiting classes is bad enough without some spoilsport depriving us of our national sport and pastime. Forget it, Retief—"

-

	"I'D BE glad to, but I'm afraid a fellow named Ussh has a more tenacious memory. Unless we do something to stop it, by this time tomorrow Lumbaga will be at peace—permanently."

	"Well, what are we hanging around here for?" Ignarp demanded. "Let's try my plan, and—"

	"All the more reason to get going on my plan!" Gloot cut in.

	"Gentlemen," Retief interrupted, "there comes a time in any friendly fight when it's wise to pause and give a thought to consequences. At this moment the opposition is busy putting the finishing touches on a plan that's been years in the making. The occupying armies are already marching on the capital—and we're sealed in a vault forty feet underground, engaged in a jurisdictional dispute."

	"Uh—well—" Gloot said.

	"It doesn't look good, does it?" Ignarp said soberly.

	"The proposals now before us,"

	Retief said, "would afford a few satisfying cracks at the heads of our captors and might even get us as far as the end of the hall before the inevitable end. What's required is a plan with sufficient scope to carry us through to a successful conclusion."

	"I'll buy that," Gloot said. "But—"

	"Out with it, Retief," Ignarp said. "I've got a funny feeling I'm not going to like this."

	"Probably not," Retief agreed. In a few brief words, he outlined his proposal.

	A stunned silence followed.

	"Retief! And I thought you were a fine, upstanding fellow—for a foreigner," Ignarp berated him weakly.

	"If I hadn't heard it I wouldn't have believed it," Gloot said in a choked voice.

	"Well, how about it, gentlemen?" Retief said. "We don't have much time."

	"You expect me to lend countenance to a thing like that?" Ignarp protested. "It's enough to make your eyebrows crawl!"

	"What if my friends heard about it?" Gloot muttered.

	"It's not traditional," Ignarp complained.

	"It's against nature."

	"Mongrelization—"

	"I'll be dragged down to his level—"

	"It'll never work."

	"Couldn't we talk about it first?

	For a few years, say—or maybe a century or so?"

	"It's now or never, fellows," Retief said. "After tomorrow every Lumbagan on the planet will be herded into a Freeby farm and integrated forcibly, regardless of his sensitivities."

	"Me?" Gloot said. "And that-that—dilettante?"

	"That—that oof—and me?" Ignarp wailed.

	"It's that—or something worse," Retief said with finality.

	"Could you at least—douse the light?" Ignarp said.

	"I need a shot o' rum," Gloot said.

	"Of course." Retief handed over his flask and switched off; the dim glow faded.

	In the darkness there were soft, tentative scufflings, faint mutterings; Retief paced the cell—three paces, back three paces—whistling softly to himself.

	Time passed.

	Silence fell. Retief paused.

	"Ready, gentlemen?"

	"We—I—guess so," a curiously mellow voice answered. Then, more strongly: "Yes, ready, Retief."

	He flicked on the lighter. In its glow stood not the dumpy Ignarp nor the lanky Gloot, but a tall, superbly muscled figure, brawny arms folded over a mighty chest, four golden eyes glowing from a broad and noble brow alight with intellect.

-

	"HOW do I—we look?" the idealized Lumbagan inquired.

	"Ready for anything," Retief said. "By the way, what do I call you now? Somehow neither Ignoop nor Glarp seems to fit the new you."

	"What about—Lucael?"

	"It's better than Michifer. Now, Luke—if you'll pardon the familiarity— I think we'd best get on with the next phase without delay."

	"The next phase?"

	"As the first Octuple Lumbagan in history, I assume you have unique abilities. Let's find out what they are."

	"Yes—I see. The conclusion is logical. By introspection. I note that I have, of course, enhanced physical strength and endurance, exceptionally keen hearing and vision." Lucael paused. "A most interesting effect," he said. "By bringing either pair of eyes to bear on an object, I of course achieve the familiar stereoscopic effect: three-dimensional sight—a vast improvement over the monocular vision of the former Gloot identity. But when I bring both pairs into play simultaneously, channeling the impression through my compound occipital lobes, there is an exponential improvement. I can clearly perceive nine dimensions: five spatial, two temporal, and two more the nature of which will require careful analysis—" the resonant baritone faded off as Lucael stared, somewhat cross-eyed, at the corner of the room.

	"You'll have plenty of time later for research in depth, Luke. For the moment we'd better stick to the practical applications."

	"Of course. The first order of business, clearly, is to adjust spatial coordinates in such fashion that our loci lie external to the enclosure by which we are at present circumscribed."

	"Unequivocally, if not succinctly, put. Any suggestions?"

	"Hmmm." Lucael glanced at each of the four walls in turn. "Solid rock to a depth of several hundred feet on all sides." He stared at the floor. "Twenty-five miles of rock, underlain by a viscous fluid at high temperature and pressure. Fascinating!"

	"That leaves the ceiling," Retief prompted.

	"To be sure." Lucael glanced up. "Yes, this is the simplest route." He glanced at Retief. "Shall we go?"

	"After you."

	The super-Lumbagan nodded, folded his arms—both pairs—and rose gently from the floor. In the moment before his head would have contacted the ceiling the rocky surface seemed to shimmer, fading suddenly to invisibility. Without pausing, Lucael rose steadily up, waist, knees, ankles, to disappear from sight. A moment later a sharp, breathy cry sounded, followed by a dull thump.

-

	RETIEF crouched, jumped, caught the edge of the circular opening now miraculously existing in the stone slab, pulled himself up into what appeared to be a guardroom. A lone Groaci lay stretched on the floor, peacefully snoring.

	"It was necessary to numb his cortical synapses—temporarily, of course," Lucael said apologetically. "Poor little creature, so full of vain plans and misconceptions."

	"Aren't we all," Retief said. "Luke, let's see how good you are at finding things at a distance. We need fast transportation."

	"Let me see ... Hmmm. I detect a boat at a distance of three hundred yards on an azimuth of 181° 24'." "What kind of boat?" "A hand-hewn canoe sunk in four fathoms of water. There's a large hole in the bottom."

	"Skip that one, Luke. How about a nice two-man copter?"

	"No—nothing like that. However, I note a modest power launch lying at anchor some two miles to the east."

	"Ensign Yubb must still be busy pacifying the army. I believe his boat was powered by a small fusion jet. I don't suppose—"

	"I've already started it," Lucael said. "Just a moment while I lift the anchor—there. Now, let me see: which is reverse? Oh, yes. Now, all ahead, half speed until she's past the bar—"

	"Nice work, Luke. While you're bringing her around to this side of the island take a quick scan of the building."

	"Very well. A guard or two dozing in the keep. Two Groaci in sick bay with contusions. Half a dozen unfortunates lodged in the brig. Ussh seems to be gone. Yes, I detect his aura—a most powerful one —some ten miles to the east, traveling fast."

	"It's time we emulated him. Let's go, Luke; we don't want to miss all the excitement."

	"You refer to the moment when Ussh announces his assumption of power and his program of Galactic conquest?"

	"No," Retief said. "I mean the moment when he discovers that Newton's Third Law applies to politicians as well as ping-pong balls."

	They met no opposition as they left the now almost deserted building. Lucael picked a route down the hill through the dense woods to emerge on the beach just as the unmanned power launch rounded the curve of the shore and headed in toward the beach. They splashed out through the shallows as the engine cut; the boat glided silently up to them. Aboard, Lucael restarted the engines and Retief took the helm.

	"Ussh's first column has just entered the city from the west," Lucael announced. "He himself is at this moment leading a procession along Brigand Street toward the palace. Rioting seems to be proceeding as usual."

	"Let's be grateful for His Ultimateness's fondness for dramatic gestures," Retief said. "If he'll occupy himself with his victory parade for an hour or so we may be in time."

	"In time to thwart his coup?"

	"Probably not. But with luck in time to stage a small coup of our own." He opened the throttles and the powerful boat surged ahead across the dark water toward the city lights fifteen miles to the east.

-

	THE shadowy shapes of Groo-groo, Delerion and Rumboogie rose in turn from the darkness, slid past on the port side, dwindled astern, none showing any signs of life with the exception of a few small campfires glowing high on their forested slopes. Ahead, the lights of Thieves' Harbor spread wider, reaching out to enclose them as they passed the breakwater. The wharves were deserted as the sleek craft nosed up to the Municipal Pier.

	Retief cut the power, tossed a line around a piling and jumped to the wharf.

	"The place looks strange without at least one small street fight in progress," he said. "Apparently it takes a war to bring peace to Lumbaga."

	"The crowds have gathered near the palace complex," Lucael said. "A cordon of armed troops surrounds the area. Ussh is in the ballroom, in company with a number of off-worlders."

	"Is Ambassador Pouncetrifle among those present?" Retief described the Terran Plenipotentiary. Lucael confirmed that he was included in the group.

	"They seem to be linked together," the super-Lumbagan added, "by means of a chain attached to a series of metal collars which in turn encircle their necks."

	"Apparently Ussh intends to establish a no-nonsense foreign policy," Retief commented. "The idea has merit, but in the present case we'll have to try to introduce a little nonsense after all."

	"Interference may prove difficult. All entrances are blocked by the crowd. I can of course levitate myself to any desired point within the atmosphere, but the amount of extra weight I'm capable of carrying is limited."

	"Piggyback is out, then. Let's try the back door where your Ignarp segment and I first met."

	Retief led the way across the plaza and down Dacoit street, poorly lit by the widely spaced gas-lamps, deserted now, littered with the forlorn flotsam crowds leave behind. They were within a hundred feet of the inconspicuous door when a small party of helmeted and greaved Groaci soldiers emerged suddenly from a narrow cross street ahead. The officer in charge hissed an order; his troops spread out to block the way, then one by one crumpled to the cobble-stones. The officer, the last on his feet, stared uncomprehendingly at his collapsing command, then belatedly jerked his pistol from its sequinned holster only to drop it, totter two steps, and fall.

	Lucael staggered back against the wall of the building beside them, his face working like yeast.

	"Geeze—I just had the screwiest nightmare," he muttered, almost in Gloot's voice. "Another—lousy trick by—unprincipled exploiters, I'll wager," he added in Ignarp's petulant tones.

	"Luke! Pull yourself together!" Retief snapped. "You can't afford to go to pieces now!"

	Lucael's features twitched and subsided. The four golden eyes settled back into position.

	"I—find that—there are limitations to my power output," he said weakly.

	"Come on, Luke. Just a little farther." They covered the remaining yards to the doorway. The heavy door opened on the musty passage.

	"From now on save your strength for emergencies," Relief said. "I think I can guarantee there'll be a steady supply."

-

	THEY threaded the route through the dusty passages, ascended the stairs to the kitchens, which they found deserted and showing signs of rapid evacuation.

	A cramped spiral service stair led from an alcove beside the dumb-waiter to the upper stories. At the top, faint voices muttered beyond the door which opened into the private-apartment wing.

	"A party of minor Groaci officials," Lucael said, speaking with his eyes closed. "They seem to be placing wagers as to whether Terra will be granted colony status or merely regarded as conquered territory." He paused. "They're gone now."

	Retief eased the outer door open half an inch; crimson carpet led to a pair of massive, carved purple-wood inner doors, just closing behind the sporting aliens. Retief went swiftly forward, got a foot between the doors before they closed. The anteroom beyond was empty; through a low, arched opening the barbarically splendid ballroom was visible, crowded with a mixed throng of locals and aliens. In an elaborately carved chair at the far end of the room sat a towering Lumbagan draped in a robe of Imperial purple, flanked on one side by Colonel Suash at the head of an honor guard of matched native troops in shining cuirasses and polished helms, power guns at present arms, impressive in spite of a number of black eyes and bandages in evidence. At the other side of the throne stood a detachment of Groaci Peace-keepers in full uniform. A gaggle of Groaci functionaries, including Ambassador Jith, stood nearby. Ambassador Pouncetrifle, leaning sideways because of the weight of the chain on his neck, stood before the throne; a dozen or so members of his staff huddled behind him in a tight group, none apparently craving the honor of sharing the front rank with the Chief of Mission.

	"... sensible of the honor and all that, your Imperial Highness," the Terran Ambassador was saying, "but see here, I can't simply offer Terran recognition of your regime on my own authority."

	"Let's simplify the proposition," a deep bass voice boomed from the Imperial chair. "Acknowledge our divine right and sign the treaty and we'll allow you to linger to observe our coronation before you are whipped back to your kennels."

	"Ah, if I might venture an observation—" A faint voice spoke up from the Groaci delegation. Ambassador Jith stepped forward. "While one fully appreciates the eminent propriety of the installation of a native Lumbagan regime entertaining kindly sentiments toward the Groacian state—" "Yes, yes, get on with it!" the enthroned Lumbagan rumbled.

	"To be sure, Your Imperial Highness—I merely meant to suggest that perhaps a less precipitate approach to the question of recognition—"

	"Our photograph, hand-tinted by skilled coolies, will be distributed to every village, hamlet, and town in the Eastern Arm. Recognitionwise, we'll be better known than that fellow Whatzizname who won the noodle-knitting contest on TV!"

	"Doubtless, sire, your fame will be quickly spread abroad—"

	"No broads! As an asexual race, we Lumbagans look with disfavor on any sport we can't get in on. That's enough of the subject. On with the formalities." His Highness favored Pouncetrifle with a scowl involving three eyes and four eyebrows. "Well, what about it, Terran? Do you want to acknowledge the legitimacy of our gracious rule and receive an exequatur allowing you to go on using up our Lumbagan air—or would you prefer to play a stellar role in the first death sentence we hand down from our newly established throne?"

	"Apparently Your Imperial Highness is having his little jape," Jith hissed in apparent dismay. "As Groacian Plenipotentiary, I must advise that the Groacian state would look with extreme disfavor on the establishment of any unfortunate precedent with regard to informal methods of diplomat disposal. A simple declaration of persona non grata—"

	"Nope. Italian food gives us heartburn," the Imperial figure decreed. "And if we hear any more static from aliens of any persuasion we might just revise our whole plan for Galactic enlightenment to include you Groaci out!"

-

	AN UNUSUALLY tall and robust Groaci stepped forward from the rear rank.

	"Ussh!" Lucael whispered. "I'm sure that matters need not come to that," Ussh said unctiously. "Doubtless His Excellency, on further consideration, will wish to withdraw his objection."

	The Emperor-elect, who had slumped rather vaguely on his throne as the Groaci spoke, sat up alertly.

	"Very well; on with the executions. We'll make a note to send for a fresh set of Terries more amenable to reason—"

	"To protest this unwarranted assumption of authority," Jith whispered urgently in his own language to Ussh. "To remind you—Special Appointee or otherwise—that I am ranking Groacian official here!"

	"I see no reason to coddle Terran spies," the other replied in Lumbagan. "This is Groac's opportunity to get in on the ground floor why annoy His Imperial Highness with minor quibbles on technical points?"

	"To point out that once these natives begin lopping alien heads, Groaci organ clusters may be next to roll."

	Retief's companion was staring at nothing, his eyes half closed. Ussh stirred uneasily, looked around the ornate room.

	"It appears that I now confront an intellect equal or superior to my own," Lucael murmured. "He sensed my touch and instantly erected barriers, the strength of which I cannot assess."

	"Enough!" the enthroned Lumbagan spoke up abruptly, as if returning from a reverie. "Captain—"he pointed a limber digit at the guard chief— "escort the condemned to the courtyard and give your marksmen some unscheduled target practice. No need to finish them off in a hurry; just keep peppering away until they stop twitching."

	"Time to move," Retief said. "Luke—stay out of sight and keep an eye on Ussh. No matter what happens, stay tuned to him—and don't tip your hand prematurely."

	"What's your plan, Retief? I'm not at all sure I can control him—"

	"No time for plans; we'll have to play it by ear," Retief said and thrust the doors wide.

	"Hold everything gentlemen," he said as all eyes turned toward him. "There are new dispatches just in from the hustings that cast a different complexion on matters."

X

	FOR a moment total silence gripped the chamber. Then: "Seize him!" Ussh snarled. When the guards failed to move he repeated the order in a shout.

	"Don't slip out of character, Ussh," Retief said. "You're just a Groaci MHPP, remember? The troops work for His Putative Highness the Emperor-to-be."

	"Retief!" Pouncetrifle blurted hastily in Terran. "Run for it, man! The official comset is in my quarters, at the back of the wardrobe under my golf clubs. Send out a code three-oh-two—"

	"Uh — what about it, Your Highness?" Colonel Suash said hesitantly, still standing fast. "Is it your command to nab this foreigner?"

	The would-be emperor's mouth sagged slightly open. His expression was that of someone lost in thought.

	"His Highness—" Ussh said and paused. He seemed to be struggling silently with himself.

	"Looking for just the right word, Ussh?" Retief inquired amiably. He turned to the colonel. "Relax Suash," he said. "As you can see, His Highness is having second thoughts on a number of matters."

	"Take—" the Emperor said. Retief took a swift step toward Ussh, who recoiled.

	"Stand back, Terran!" he hissed.

	"Your Highness?" said Colonel Suash, staring up at the musing figure on the throne.

	"Ughhrrr," the royal claimant said, gazing vacantly into space.

	"Ah—Your Highness?" Suash repeated. "In the, uh, absence of any new orders, I presume I must carry out the executions?"

	"Just a minute, Colonel," Retief said. "You Lumbagans don't take orders from foreigners, do you?"

	"Not on your second-best toupee I don't," the officer snapped. "So don't try to give me any!"

	"By no means, Colonel. I'm referring to Swarmmaster Ussh, who represents himself as a Special Appointee of the Groacian High Council."

	"I don't take orders from him either."

	"No," Retief said, and pointed to the throne, "but his would-be Highness does."

	"What?" The officer half drew his dress sword and turned to the emperor-elect. "Do you mind if I chop this foreigner down right here, Your Highness, for that crack he just made about you?"

	"Ungunggunggg," the enthroned Lumbagan mumbled. His head rolled on his shoulder; his mouth hung slackly open. Abruptly he closed it, pulled himself upright.

	"We were just, ah, pondering our next pronouncement," he said briskly, as Retief took another step toward Ussh, who stood frozen, two eyes canted tautly toward the throne, the other three hanging limp. At the Terran's advance, he spun to face him.

	"Now, Colonel—" the Emperor-to-be paused, mouth open.

	"Yes, Your Highness?" the colonel watched in dismay as his ruler-presumptive's expression relaxed into vacuity.

	"You might as well address your remarks to Ussh," Retief advised the officer. "He's the brains of the operation."

	"See here, Retief," Pouncetrifle spoke up. "The intellectual prowess of the Emperor is no concern of ours—"

	"It's the intellectual prowess of Ussh I'm thinking of at the moment, Mr. Ambassador. He has a number of rather unusual capabilities."

	"Lies!" Ussh shouted. "Fantasies! The ravings of a disordered imagination! I'll see you all hanged for disrespect to His Imperial Highness! It's all a plot to discredit the people's choice, elevated by acclamation to the Lumbagan throne!" He was interrupted by a slithering sound, followed by a heavy thump as the Emperor slid from the elaborate chair and sprawled full length on the dais, snoring gently.

-

	"IT'S a plot, all right, Ussh— but you're the one behind it," Retief said. "It wasn't His Imperial Highness who mobilized the troops and took the capital by storm—it was you."

	"Guards! Shoot them down in their tracks for aggravated lèse-majesté!" Ussh shouted.

	"What about it, Colonel?" Retief addressed the guard chief. "Was it our slumbering host who gave the order to march on the capital?"

	"Well—not personally, of course. General Ussh notified me—but he was simply relaying His Imperial Highnesses' commands—"

	"Wasn't it also Ussh who passed along the instructions that organized your unit in the first place and handed out the orders regarding the secret laboratory?"

	"Here, that's GUTS classification material you're discussing!"

	"Not any more. You've been taken in, Colonel. Those were all Ussh's ideas—"

	"Mr. Retief!" Ambassador Jith spoke up. "May I remind you that I am Principal Officer here and that I have given no such instructions to any member of the Groaci delegation—"

	"I'm sure you haven't, Mr. Ambassador," Retief said. "But Ussh seems to have taken it upon himself to use your name."

	"Very well!" Ussh hissed suddenly, wheeling to face the irate Groaci, who shrank back. "Perhaps I have employed unconventional methods. But clearly it's to Groac's advantage to go along with the fait accompli! As soon as the Emperor is safely ensconced on his throne, I'm in a position to assure you that Groac will be the object of very special attentions by His Imperial Majesty."

	"What's that?" Colonel Suash roared. "Are you suggesting that the Emperor of Lumbaga is nothing but a tool of foreign interests?"

	"Not at all, Suash," Ussh hastened to reassure the officer. "Merely that the new Lumbagan government can rely on the full support of Groac." He turned back to Jith. "What about it. Your Excellency?" he said urgently. "You'll agree that it's clearly your duty to support His Highness' claim—"

	"Don't listen to him, Jith," Pouncetrifle blurted. "You're quite right—Groac has no business whatever sticking its olfactory organ into Lumbaga's affairs, especially when I was right on the verge of proposing a well-rounded scheme for installing a provisional governing committee under Terran sponsorship—"

	"You presume to tell me my duties, Harvey?" Jith cut in chillingly. "As my subordinate Swarmmaster Ussh so cogently points out, Groacian obligations in support of formerly exploited peoples require that I put aside ordinary protocols for the nonce and—"

	"I don't like it," Suash spoke up. "It sounds to me as if you aliens are getting ready to slice Lumbaga up among yourselves! Accordingly, as senior Lumbagan national present, I'm assuming temporary command. And my first act will be to order the lot of you to the port to embark inside of thirty minutes, with or without your suitcases!"

	"Fool!" Ussh snarled. "Do you imagine your feeble native regime can survive for a moment without the sponsorship of Groac? If it weren't for His Highness' temporary indisposition he'd have your head for this!"

	"And I might add, my dear Colonel," Jith whispered piercingly, "that at a word from me, units of the Groacian Grand Battle Fleet are prepared, if necessary, to land and restore order here!"

	"You wouldn't dare," Pouncetrifle quavered, jowls aquiver.

	"Would I not?" Jith contradicted. "I see a great Groacian triumph in the offing! And now, Colonel," he addressed the officer, "you and your chaps may withdraw. I'm sure that His Highness will be himself in a moment—"

	The Emperor stirred, sat up.

	"Well, just felt a short nap coming on," he mumbled as he scrambled to his feet. "Now, you just run along as Jith suggested, Suash, and—"

	"How do you know what he suggested?" Suash snapped back.

	"You were out stone cold on the floor."

	"Yes, well, as to that—"

	"He knows," Retief said, "because Ussh is feeding him his lines."

-

	"HAVE you taken leave of your senses, Terran meddler?" Ussh yelled. "Everyone in the room heard His Imperial Whatsit's cogent comments!"

	"Uh-huh—but you were doing his thinking for him—what there was of it. Unhappily for the future of the empire, you can't think of two things at once. Right now, for example, you're busy being indignant with me—and your candidate for the crown is relaxing on the job."

	Every head but those of Ussh, and Retief swiveled to regard the figure slumped again on the throne.

	"Heavens!" Magnan gasped from the sidelines. "You mean we were about to offer our credentials to a ventriloquist's dummy?"

	"Not quite. He's alive—but when Ussh assembled him he carefully left out the more useful portions of the brain."

	Suash stared uncertainly from his potential sovereign to Ussh, who stood with canted eyestalks in a pose of total concentration.

	"If that's true—"

	"Nonsense, Colonel," the Lumbagan emperor-elect said firmly. "I repose the fullest confidence in Ussh, a marvelous fellow and my most trusted advisor. Now I think you'd better run along. We have matters of high state policy to discuss."

	"Don't go," Pouncetrifle cried. "Colonel Suash, I call on you in the name of humanity to remain present—there's no telling what might happen in the absence of witnesses."

	"I take orders from His Highness, Terry." Suash snapped. "And he said go. Accordingly, we're going." The colonel barked a command. His troops right-shouldered arms and marched away across the polished floor.

	"Retief—do something," Pouncetrifle wailed.

	"Do what, Mr. Ambassador?" Ussh inquired in tones of triumph. "His Highness has spoken. And now—" he paused until the last of the Lumbagan soldiers filed from the room and the tall doors shut behind them—"and now, with those trouble-makers out of earshot, on to the disposition of the Terran spies—" He drew a power pistol from inside his ornate jacket. "A pity they should happen to be shot down by accident as they led an attempted assault on His Highness' person, but such are the tribulations that beset those who would stand in the path of empire."

	"You wouldn't—" Pouncetrifle gasped.

	"See here, Ussh," Ambassador Jith whispered. "You don't actually mean to commit violence on the persons of the Terrans, I trust? To deport them in restraining fetters, yes. But I forbid you to do away with them entirely."

	"It will be our little secret, Your Excellency," Ussh cut in curtly. "His Imperial Highness has matters under complete control."

	"Are you quite certain of that?" Jith asked, eyeing the presumptive ruler, who now stood swaying slightly, gazing into the middle distance. "He presents the appearance of an unsuccessful lobotomy case."

	"Why not tell him the rest of the secrets, Ussh?" Retief said. "Let him know how clever you really are. Describe your discovery of a sure-fire method for assembling Lumbagans to order—according to any genetic code desired. Tell him about your experiments, which produced some rather unusual types, some of whom proved useful for special purposes, such as terrorizing the populace. Describe your soldier farm and let him in on the secret of the lab where you worked out the details of your hostility transmitter—"

	"Silence, spy!" Ussh shouted.

-

	"DON'T be modest," Retief urged. "Give the ambassador full details on how you plan to manufacture a few million soldiers modeled after himself and equipped by Groac, and use them to set up a modest empire in this end of the Arm, after which you'll no doubt establish branches on all the likely planets to raise spares for the army. With forced feeding you can produce a fully equipped infantryman in a little under three weeks, gun and all—"

	"Ha-ha," Ussh said. "You will have your little jest, eh? Gallows humor, I believe it's called."

	"You made your big mistake, of course, Ussh, when you let Suash and his boys leave," Retief said. "He was your only chance to make it stick—"

	"So you imagine." Ussh spun to face Jith. "The time has come for the carrying out of His Highness' commands. If you would like to do the job personally it would be a gracious touch in keeping with the close relations existing between Lumbaga and Groac."

	"Wouldn't it though?" Retief said. "If you could con Ambassador Jith into committing himself to the murder of a covey of Terries he'd have no choice but to back your play. Fortunately, he won't be so foolish—"

	"You think not!" Ussh snarled. "Jith—order them shot—now!"

	"Don't you dare, Jith!" Pouncetrifle yelped. "I absolutely forbid it—"

	"Forbid, you say?" Jith whispered. "You go too far, Harvey—" The Groaci Ambassador faced Ussh. "If you're quite sure the Terrans planned the murder of His Highness, it of course becomes my duty to—"

	"To listen to the rest of the story," Retief said. "There are a couple things Ussh forgot to mention—"

	"Details, details!" Ussh yelled. "The important fact is that I, at the head of an army of dedicated troops, will lead the way to the conquest of vast new territories, eliminating or enslaving inferior peoples along the way, and in the end organizing the entire Galaxy as a single Empire under a single rule!"

	"A glowing picture," Retief said. "But of course Ambassador Jith has no reason to lend support to the scheme."

	"Have I not, Mr. Retief?" Jith whispered. "I admit Swarmmaster Ussh has employed unorthodox methods—but if the end result is a Galactic Empire under Groac—"

	"Correction, Mr. Ambassador. Groac will be among the first victims."

	"Victim? Of her own troops, under her own general Ussh? Preposterous!"

	"It's true that Ussh and his army will be in position to cut quite a swath, with Groaci backing and Groaci material. And no doubt in the end the CDT would come to what's known as an accommodation with the de facto situation. But you're forgetting an important datum. The troops who'll be doing the conquering won't be Groaci; they'll be Lumbagans, no matter how many eyes they happen to have."

	"Well—as to that," Jith stalled, looking to Ussh for counsel. "I assume that as honorary Groaci, true to their exalted somatotype, we may rely on General Ussh to keep the interests of his mother-world in the forefront of his mind."

-

	"EXACTLY," Retief said.

	"And his mother world is Lumbaga."

	"Clearly he's taken leave of his senses," Ussh grated.

	"Granted, he's a most unusual Lumbagan," Retief went on. "Normally, once an accretion of Freebies reached the Four-decker stage—at which point intelligence appears—their finer sensibilities prevent them from carrying evolution any farther. But it appears that General Ussh broke the taboo."

	"What vile allegation is this?" Ussh yelled.

	"Careful, Ussh, you'll give yourself away," Retief said. "It doesn't seem to vile to anybody but a Lumbagan."

	"This is all nonsense, of course," Ambassador Jith purred. "But to satisfy my curiosity—go on, Mr. Retief."

	"Ussh—or whoever the original Lumbagan personality was who had the idea—overcame his scruples and integrated himself with another individual—possibly a Trip; a sub-intelligent creature, but of course the combination has capabilities that exceed those of either of the original components. Unfortunately, he used his enhanced mental powers to concoct a scheme to take over Lumbaga first, then the rest of the material Universe. Naturally he needed help; he made a study of the foreigners present on his world and picked the Groaci as the likeliest partners. With his abilities, it wasn't hard for him to readjust his external appearance to match yours, Mr. Ambassador—"

	"He's raving!" Ussh yelled. "How could anyone possibly—"

	"It wasn't easy, at first—but you figured it out. Some of your practice models are still running around in the woods, making Groaci tracks to confuse the trail. But in the end you were able to palm yourself off on a few malcontents as a Groacian VHPP and enlist some behind-the-scenes help to set things up for your coup—"

	"That, Terry, is your final error," Ussh grated and aimed the gun at Retief's ribs.

	"Ussh—control yourself," Jith keened. "What simpler than to give the lie to this fantastic allegation?"

	"Is it fantastic?" Retief said. "Ussh, deny you're a Lumbagan—but do it in Groaci, just to be certain your fellow countrybeings don't miss any of the finer nuances."

	"Bah, prepare to die, witless Terran—"

	"Ussh, if you expect my aid and support—do as he says," Jith hissed.

	Ussh hesitated,then turned to include the Groaci delegation in his field of fire.

	"Think what you like, Jith. You'll do as I bid or die with the Terrans. I'll explain to your successor how you and the Lum-bagans slaughtered each other, only myself surviving—then I'll enlist his support and on to empire!"

	"Why—why, Retiefs right," Pouncetrifle gasped. "Jith—he won't speak Groaci—because he can't—at least in a way to fool you. He's an imposter!"

	"Duped," Jith wailed. "Undone by my credulity—faked out of position and into unwitting support of a non-Groaci conquest by an underling—and a bogus one at that!"

	"Don't feel too badly," Retief said. "He only intended to use you Groaci to finance his first few local takeovers. As soon as he'd consolidated his gains, Groac would have been quietly consolidated into his empire, with the help of a number of pseudo-Groaci agents who would have infiltrated Groac by then."

	"Race on, Retief," Ussh invited. "Familiarize these fools with the scope of their folly and then—" Ussh whirled as the tall double doors burst wide. Lucael strode forward, his golden eyes gleaming.

	"Yes? What is it?" Ussh barked uncertainly. "You have dispatches from the field? Or—" He staggered suddenly, as if struck a heavy blow between the eyes.

	"Treachery!" Ussh gasped—and Lucael stopped in his tracks, stood swaying. Face to face the two super-Lumbagans stood, locked in mortal—though invisible—conflict.

	"Ussh," Retief called. The imitation Groaci half-turned—and in the momentary distraction, Lucael struck. Ussh gave a hoarse cry, stood dithering for a moment ...

	Like a tree struck by lightning, the false Groaci's body shivered and split. For a moment there was a wild scramble of parts as the former superbeing's components regrouped themselves into two separate entities, arms and legs and ears scuttling for their assigned plates. In a moment two short, sullen individuals stood where Ussh had been, staring apprehensively around at their astounded audience.

	"Why—it's Difnog and Gnudf, the Lumbagan observers!" Pouncetrifle gasped.

	"And apparently," Jith whispered, "They were more observant than we suspected!"

XI

	IT WAS half an hour later. The Terran diplomats, freed of their shackles, had huddled with their Groaci colleagues for an impromptu meeting.

	"Well, then," Ambassador Pouncetrifle said crisply, "since General Ussh seems to have opted for a return to civilian life and His Highness is permanently catatonic, it appears we're left with the administrative problem of setting up a pro-tem housekeeping government. As Terran emissary, I'll reluctantly assume the chief role in affairs—"

	"Hardly, My dear Harvey," Jith interjected. "Inasmuch as the present contretemps was produced in part by Grocian efforts—"

	"Pseudo-Groacian efforts, need I remind you!"

	"A mere quibble, Mr. Ambassador. Groac will undertake to set up a caretaker government, with the assistance of Colonel Suash and his native constabulary—"

	"Gentlemen," Retief said.

	"Aren't you forgetting the Emperor?"

	"Eh?"

	"What's that?" Both plenipotentiaries turned to survey the Imperial figurehead, who stood erect now, gazing sternly at the assembled foreigners.

	"You need not trouble yourselves, gentlebeings," he said curtly. "I'll handle the government of Lumbaga—to the extent that Lumbaga needs governing." He turned, stepped up on the dais and seated himself on the throne.

	"Item number one," he said impressively. "Any foreigner found meddling in Lumbagan affairs will be shipped home in a plain wrapper. Item number two—"

	"If we could go back for a moment to item one. Your Highness—"

	"Make that 'Majesty,' Pouncetrifle. I've just assumed Imperial dignities for the duration of the emergency."

	"To be sure, Your Majesty. I'm certain that on reflection you'll want to rescind the restriction on Terran participation in Lumbagan national life, inasmuch as, as worded, it would tend to somewhat restrict the free play of diplomacy—"

	"Precisely. Item number two: since that government governs best which governs least, I intend to provide only the best for my people. Accordingly, all laws are declared illegal, including this one."

	"Hmm." Pouncetrifle mused, "since His Majesty seems clearly to be non compos mentis, Jith, it's clear that duty requires that responsible authorities step in—in the interest of the welfare of the. Lumbagan people. I trust you're with me?"

	"Assuredly, Harvey," Jith whispered. "I suggest we find quieter quarters for His Majesty; possibly space could be found in the former root cellar, while you and I proceed to arrange matters in consonance with the principle of the greatest good for the greatest number. And inasmuch as we Groaci breed like flies, I suppose you'll concede the obvious primacy of Groaci interests."

	"No need for dispute," the Emperor cut in decisively. "Inasmuch as neither of you will have anything to say about Lumbagan affairs from now on."

	"He's raving." Pouncetrifle stated flatly. "Jith, I call you to witness that His Majesty was babbling incoherently at the time I was forced to have him restrained. Retief—assist the poor fellow down from his chair—"

	"Curious acoustics in this room," Retief said blandly. "I thought for a moment your Excellency was proposing that we lay hands on a foreign Chief of State."

	"Mutiny, eh?" a Terran colonel barked. "Well, fortunately for democracy, I'm here to carry out the wishes of the people as interpreted by regs and expressed via appropriate channels—"

	He advanced on the throne. Ten feet from it, he found himself floating an inch off the floor, his feed paddling vigorously. A brace of underlings sprang to his side, found themselves adrift, rising lightly as balloons toward the ceiling. Pouncetrifle uttered a bellow as he floated up from the floor, followed by Magnan and the rest of the staff. Jith uttered a faint cry and drifted upward, attended by his staff.

	Only Retief and Lucael remained on their feet.

	"Now that you've heard the details of the new constitution," the Emperor advised the levitating bureaucrats, "I declare the audience to be at an end. Don't bother backing from the presence—just disappear."

	At his words there were a series of sharp plops as air imploded to fill the vacancies created by the suddenly absent dignitaries.

	"I hope you didn't throw them completely away," Retief said. "Once they get their feet on the ground, I have an idea they'll take a realistic view of the proper role of diplomacy in the development of Lumbaga."

	"They're sorting themselves from among the tubers in the sub-basement," His Majesty said. "And now—I declare Parliament dissolved—until—the next time—" he slumped on the throne and snored.

	Retief turned quickly to face Lucael.

	"Well done, Luke. I was wondering how long you could hold out."

	"If anybody asks," the super-Lumbagan said in a failing voice, "tell them—their Emperor—will return—whenever the situation demands. And now—farewell, Retief—"

	There was a final sharp implosion and Retief was alone in the throne room.

-

	"HEAVENS, Retief," First Secretary Magnan said, "now that the excitement is over, one wonders if the entire affair weren't merely the product of group hysteria." They were sitting at a long plank table in the Imperial Feast Hall, dining somewhat meagerly on CDT emergency banquet rations in company with a cosmopolitan crowd of Terrans, Groaci, and Lumbagans.

	"Frankly, I'd be tempted to dismiss the incident as sheer delerium," the Terran colonel put in, glumly spooning in caviar. "If it weren't for the fact that I've suffered a virulent recurrence of an old potato blight—" His expression brightened. "Of course, the condition will neccessitate my being invalided home for a few months' convalescent leave, which time I might spend quite profitably penning a memoir of recent events, possibly titled: The Importance of Mass Hallucination in Military Affairs."

	"How about The Hallucinatory Importance of the Military in Mass Affairs?" Magnan proposed tartly.

	"Gosh, Retief," Gloot said as the men of war and peace sparred verbally. "So you were really a Terry all along. Makes me feel kind of dumb to of been chumming around with the enemy. Lucky I changed sides."

	"You claim there's two kinds of Terries, male and female,"

	Ignarp said. "Frankly, you all look alike to me."

	"Oh, there's a vas deferens between us," Retief assured his guest.

	"And I never got my ransom dough," Gloot said glumly. "On the other hand, I found out running things ain't all a bowl of cherries."

	"One taste of government was enough for me," Ignarp agreed. "I'll settle for good old anarchy any time."

	"Umm," Magnan smiled loftily. "But of course you chaps know nothing of the intricacies of politics. Now—" he indicated the head of the table, where Jith and Pouncetrifle huddled— "notice the resilience with which the ambassadors are coming to grips with the new realities, or whatever they are, of the situation, working out the rather complex protocols of establishing formal relations with a nonexistent government."

	"As long as they stick to shooting despatches back to headquarters and putting on charades for visiting politicos, Okay," Gloot said. "But the first time they step out o' line—whammo! The Legendary Magical Emperor will be back on the job—and next time they're liable to wind up digging their way into the root cellar from below."

	"I hardly think the Lumbagan in the street is in a position to criticize matters of Imperial policy, Mr. Gloot," Magnan said coolly. "I hope your association with Mr. Retief on his expedition upcountry hasn't given you a false sense of involvement in matters over your head."

	"You must be kidding, Terry," Ignarp said. "Gloot here is Minister of Imaginary Affairs in the Lumbagan government-in-exile."

	"Government in exile?" Magnan frowned.

	"The only place for a government to be," Ignarp confirmed. "And I just accepted a post with the Department of Education as Commissioner of Superstitions."

	"You're stamping them out?" Magnan queried confusedly.

	"Heck no. I'm starting new ones in keeping with a fine old tradition dating back almost twenty-four hours."

	"Speaking of superstitions," the colonel said behind his hand to Magnan, "I think we'd do well to initiate a few of our own devising. For example, a carefully tailored myth to the effect that Terrans can work miracles—like turning water into vintage Pepsi, for example—" He broke off, staring in horror at the glass before him which rose gracefully into the air, its contents darkening to deep purplish red. The colonel followed it with his eyes as it took up a position directly over his head and inverted itself, discharging a cooling stream of effervescent fluid over the officer's startled features.

	After the colonel had left the table—a departure noted by all present, accompanied as it was by a well-directed jet of liquid emanating apparently from thin air—Magnan dipped a trembling finger in the puddle on the table and tasted it.

	"Pepsi?" Retief inquired.

	"Burgundy." Magnan choked." He rose hastily. "I think I'd best add a number of emendations to my preliminary report," he muttered, "lest it appear that I was so short-sighted as to doubt the existence of magic." He hurried away.

	"I thought you fellows had gone out of the miracle business pending the next crisis," Retief addressed Gloot and Ignarp as the two locals gripped hands across the table. "But since you haven't, try that last one again. Only this time don't spill any."

	A moment later they raised three paper-thin goblets of purple wine, touched them together with a musical clink. At the far end of the table, Ambassador Jith caught the gesture, raised his glass in response.

	"To a new era in interplanetary relations," he whispered cheerfully. "To peace and plenty for almost all—within reasonable limits!"

	"That reminds me," Ignarp said, "The boys in GRAB are going to be wondering why I didn't re-divide the loot along more practical lines while I was Emperor."

	"While you were Emperor," Gloot retorted. "While I was letting you go along for the ride, you mean—"

	"You big slob, I was the brains of the outfit!"

	"You little creep, I handled all the tricky parts—"

	"Gentlemen," Retief interjected, "We were about to propose a toast, remember?"

	Gloot lifted his glass. "To our friends, the good guys," he said.

	"And to our enemies, the bad guys," Ignarp added.

	"And to the hope," Retief said, "that someday we'll be able to tell which are which."

The End