Reward for Retief Read Free Page A

throat, apparently to determine whether his esophogeal
tissues had yet sprouted a pelt, but gagged instead.
     
                "That's it, Meyer,
bring it up!" his side-kick encouraged, while the ring of profit- or
revenge-seeking locals closed ever tighter about the Terrans. Ten feet from
Magnan and Retief, His Excellency the Terran Ambassador Extraordinary and
Minister Plenipotentiary, Clyde Shortfall, was clutching at the arm of his
Military Attache, Colonel Fred Underknuckle. "Do something, Fred!" he
whimpered. "These savages are on the point of rending me—us, that is, limb
from limb! Now, what about that unsavory chap over there behind whatshisname,
large chap, Retief, I believe he's called? One can't help wondering what the
fellow—the local, that is, not whatsis—is about to do with that length of metal
bar-stock he's hefting."
     
                "Prolly just locking
the gate, sir," Fred reassured his superior sagely. "That's what it
is, you know, a locking-bar."
     
                "But, for Heaven's
sake, man!" the AE and MP objected, "that would mean we're penned in
here in Immigration for the night, which I understand is seventeen hours long,
without so much as a folding chair for me to rest on—with no adequate provision
for the basic necessities for my staff, that is! As you know, Fred, I never
rest until I've seen my people cared for," he added for any celestial
scorekeepers who might be listening in. "Demmed outrage," he
muttered. "Why don't you stop him, Fred?"
     
                "Well, Mr. A.,"
Underknuckle responded hesitantly, "if Yer Ex is sure you wanta start
something—"
     
                "Who in the world said
anything about 'starting' anything, Colonel?" Shortfall yelped. "Just
don't stand there like a spineless oaf and allow us to be held in durance
overnight, when a word—"
     
                "Doubt if words'll help
now, Chief," Fred countered ruefully as he watched the local tentatively
prod Retief with the bar, then jab energetically when the six-foot-three Terran
failed to budge. Instead, Retief turned casually, plucked the four-foot length
of one-inch steel from the 'pillar's' grasp, bent it double, and carefully
arranged it as an ornament on the extended neck of the former owner.
     
                "Here, you!" the
porter barked in his coarsely accented Standard, "this here's gubment
property, and you went and mint it!" He tried to pull it off his neck, but
Retief grasped both ends of the bar in one hand and squeezed them together,
locking it in place.
     
                "Why, Retief,
whatever—?" Magnan began as he turned in time to see the disgruntled
fellow point and begin yelling:
     
                "Looky, fellers, what
this here Terry done gone and went and did! Stop 'em, before they make a break
fer it!"
     
                "Fred!"
Shortfall's short, fat voice snapped. "I call upon you to take appropriate
action!"
     
                "I don't guess you
wanta tell me what the appropriate action is," Fred predicted
gloomily. Then, "sure not, chief, that's my job and am I glad
the monkey's on my back! Lessee," he went on with less enthusiasm,
as reality caught up with point-making: "This local crum-bum assaults one
of our boys, which the local lodges a beef and yells for mob action. I guess
our best move is to get off a fast Note apologizing for the whole thing."
     
                He looked expectantly to His
Ex. "So the ball's in your court, Mr. Ambassador, sir," he concluded.
His gaze went to the gaggle of admin staff huddled in the lee of the Great Man.
"Where's Miss Furkle?" he demanded. "Get Furkie," he
ordered a chinless code-clerk. "Tell her to bring her field-kit, on the
double."
     
                "Whatever, Fred, do you
imagine Euphronia Furkle can do in this exigency?" the Ambassadorial voice
rumbled, in a tone only a hesitating suicide would find