Retief and the PanGalactic Pageant of Pulchritude by Keith Laumer Page B

nodules."
                "Not
the planetary board," Retief corrected. "The Galactic Board. You'll
get a free trip to Alpha Centauri to attend—quite an experience, if you don't
let a set of VIP irons bother you too much."
                "I
done nothing wrong," Mub declared only a trifle uncertainly. "All I
done was follow orders and cooperate with you Groaci. Don't forget it was you
fellows that sold the Grand Glorb on the idea we could hold up what he called
the Galactic community for whatever we want, to give us our, uh, 'rightful
status as a Galactic power', or something, was what Hish said."
                "Just
wait until the Galactic community reads the headlines," Retief proposed.
" 'Glorb General Grabs Galactic Glamor Girls'. What about your status
then? They'll be coming after you, personally, with ropes, clubs, knives,
baseball bats, spears, pellet guns, blasters, flint knives and reformers. Where
can you hide?"
                "I
don't get it," Mub declared, his lumpy gray face looking chalky-pale.
"You, the big Groaci advisor tryna throw a scare into me right on the eve
o' yer own scheme. It don't figger."
                "Merely
testing your mettle, General," Retief explained deftly. "I think now I'd
best have a word with the spy in Number Three."
                "Sure,"
Mub agreed, seeming relieved at the change of subject. "Hey sergeant—you
with the dumb look," he clarified, gesturing to a heavier-than-average
Glorb. "Escort this here noble-being over Number Three, leave him
interview the Terry."
     

6
                Number
Three was a natural cave hollowed ages ago in the soft limestone of a
cliff-face by long-vanished waters. Its entrance was barred with stout two-inch
rods, against which Shinth slumped disconsolately, all five eyes drooping
listlessly. One snapped to the alert as Retief came up.
                "Foul
evening, vile Soft One," he spat halfheartedly. "You'll rue the day
you impersonated a noble Groacian, your reactionary schemes to promote."
                "No
doubt, Broodmaster," Retief conceded gracefully. "But I plan to do
all my ruing later on, not right now. As for you," Retief switched to the
Groaci court dialect. "To give some thought to how you can get
yourself—and Groac—out of the trap you've built for yourselves. 'Groaci Grab
Galactic Glamor Gals'," he recited. "To fear Groaci prestige will
sink to an all-time low when word gets out."
                "Word
won't get out!" Shinth hissed. "Not even you, vile wrecker and
noxious persecutor of selfless Groacian bureaucrats, would sink so low as to
snitch, not that we actually know anything about Mub's mad scheme."
                "Tell
me all about Mub's mad scheme," Retief directed the excited Broodmaster.
"He gave me only the broad outlines. I'd like you to fill in the
details."
                "Would
you not!" Shinth spat. "To have never trusted that blabbermouth Mub!
The fool will be the first to know the wrath of outraged Groacihood, one I get
sprung from this lousy cell."
                "That
may be quite some time," Retief pointed out. "According to Sergeant Flup
here, the glab-worm comes out of the recesses of his den to feed every
seventy-two hours. It's been about seventy and a half, so if you've got your
handy escape kit with you, it's time to get it inflated."
                "Would
stand by and watch a fellow being-of-the-Galaxy die horribly?" Shinth
quavered. "Allow a fellow diplomat to disappear into the maw of the
fearsome glab-worm? To be a bit surprised, Retief. To have not believed even
you could sink to the level of these barbaric natives!"
                "Hey!"
Sergeant Flup interrupted. "Who you calling barbaric, Terry?"
                "And
who are you calling a vile Terry?" Shinth retorted.
                "You
was the one said that," Flup reminded his captive. "I