Mister Depitty!" an aggrieved
voice protested. "Whassa idea? I got no beef with duh coalition!
I'm true Puce! It was old Smelly here making duh cracks!"
"Shut up, youse idiots!" Pool hissed.
"If we don' wanna get nabbed inna ack, we better woik fast and
quiet!"
"Oh, yeah?" Jum spoke up spiritedly.
"Who elected you boss?" Scarce had his voice fallen silent
when another hearty smack! sounded, followed by others, until, in a few
seconds, a full-scale riot was in progress in the darkness all around. Retief
felt his way to the service panel and switched on the dim glare-strip,
revealing half a dozen Bloorians of varied shades, tattoos, and badges flailing
at each other indiscriminately. Two were already hors de combat; the
relatively short, squat Minister of Nefarious Affairs, who was crawling on all
fours directly toward Magnan, who halted, arranged an expression of Righteous
Outrage (74-a) on his narrow features and exclaimed:
"Why, Mr. Minister! Whatever are you doing,
prowling here in an off-limits area, in the company of this riffraff?"
Magnan indicated with a wave the four smugglers still on their feet, who had
apparently forgotten their differences, and were standing in a ragged line
gaping at the Terrans. Wim Dit, slightly the worse for wear, was front and
center.
"Hey, Boss," the smallest of the
group, only a seven-footer, addressed his chief, who was now pounding his
gnarled ear with the heel of his hand. "I hadda idear dis was s'pose to be
a confidential caper," the little fellow carped, "which when we snuck
in via duh secret tunnel from duh kitchen an all, we had it made: but it looks
like a Terry convention, wid, uh, about two of 'em watching us swipe duh
stuff!"
"I tole Jum to play it cute,"
Pool protested, "but no, he hadda start settling old scores right inna
middle o' duh biggest haul since we made off with Mister Ambluster's personal
landing-craft, which duh whole tape liberry was dat wheezy organ stuff!"
"Sorry, Foor," Jum offered. "But
when dat Inexcusable weisenheimer tryda crack wise about us Viles being cozy
with duh Horrids and all, I guess I los' my head some. Din't mean to clobber
yuh inna ear dat way, sir."
Pool came to his feet in a lunge to confront the
cowering Jum. "You was the one done dat, Derk?" he yelled.
"I m gonna be hearing duh birdies singing in dat ear fer a fortnight, I
trow!" With that, he felled the hapless offender. When the next man in
line protested, Foor clobbered him, too, then stood glaring at his two
remaining conspirators.
"Anybody elst?" he yelled. "Come
on, youse slobs are s'pose to be duh toughest hit-guys inna guild! You gonna
stan dere and take it?" Then, after a momentary pause, "Nobody got
nutting to say, hah?"
"Allow me," Retief suggested, and as
Foor turned, surprise writ large on his battered countenance, Retief modified
that assemblage of unattractive features with a roundhouse swing which sent the
loud-mouthed leader skidding, face-first, back among the baled hides. Wim
dithered, complaining faintly.
"Hey! You Terries are s'pose to be
pantywaists and all! Who figgered you to do anything reasonable inna
circumstances, which us downtrod locals are onney expressing our, like,
legitimate grievances and all? Just wait'll I tell Sam Swinepearl about dis
here atrocity, which you pounded old Foor's favorite nostril flat an bent his
jaw right outa line, where he'll be hard put to chew his mummified ulsio at duh
big celebration tonight!"
The mourner approached his fallen chief and
quickly checked the pockets of his greasy overalls, netting a shabby wallet and
a well-bitten gold sprug. The others still on their feet said "Dibs"
in unison, then closed in. After the division of
voice protested. "Whassa idea? I got no beef with duh coalition!
I'm true Puce! It was old Smelly here making duh cracks!"
"Shut up, youse idiots!" Pool hissed.
"If we don' wanna get nabbed inna ack, we better woik fast and
quiet!"
"Oh, yeah?" Jum spoke up spiritedly.
"Who elected you boss?" Scarce had his voice fallen silent
when another hearty smack! sounded, followed by others, until, in a few
seconds, a full-scale riot was in progress in the darkness all around. Retief
felt his way to the service panel and switched on the dim glare-strip,
revealing half a dozen Bloorians of varied shades, tattoos, and badges flailing
at each other indiscriminately. Two were already hors de combat; the
relatively short, squat Minister of Nefarious Affairs, who was crawling on all
fours directly toward Magnan, who halted, arranged an expression of Righteous
Outrage (74-a) on his narrow features and exclaimed:
"Why, Mr. Minister! Whatever are you doing,
prowling here in an off-limits area, in the company of this riffraff?"
Magnan indicated with a wave the four smugglers still on their feet, who had
apparently forgotten their differences, and were standing in a ragged line
gaping at the Terrans. Wim Dit, slightly the worse for wear, was front and
center.
"Hey, Boss," the smallest of the
group, only a seven-footer, addressed his chief, who was now pounding his
gnarled ear with the heel of his hand. "I hadda idear dis was s'pose to be
a confidential caper," the little fellow carped, "which when we snuck
in via duh secret tunnel from duh kitchen an all, we had it made: but it looks
like a Terry convention, wid, uh, about two of 'em watching us swipe duh
stuff!"
"I tole Jum to play it cute,"
Pool protested, "but no, he hadda start settling old scores right inna
middle o' duh biggest haul since we made off with Mister Ambluster's personal
landing-craft, which duh whole tape liberry was dat wheezy organ stuff!"
"Sorry, Foor," Jum offered. "But
when dat Inexcusable weisenheimer tryda crack wise about us Viles being cozy
with duh Horrids and all, I guess I los' my head some. Din't mean to clobber
yuh inna ear dat way, sir."
Pool came to his feet in a lunge to confront the
cowering Jum. "You was the one done dat, Derk?" he yelled.
"I m gonna be hearing duh birdies singing in dat ear fer a fortnight, I
trow!" With that, he felled the hapless offender. When the next man in
line protested, Foor clobbered him, too, then stood glaring at his two
remaining conspirators.
"Anybody elst?" he yelled. "Come
on, youse slobs are s'pose to be duh toughest hit-guys inna guild! You gonna
stan dere and take it?" Then, after a momentary pause, "Nobody got
nutting to say, hah?"
"Allow me," Retief suggested, and as
Foor turned, surprise writ large on his battered countenance, Retief modified
that assemblage of unattractive features with a roundhouse swing which sent the
loud-mouthed leader skidding, face-first, back among the baled hides. Wim
dithered, complaining faintly.
"Hey! You Terries are s'pose to be
pantywaists and all! Who figgered you to do anything reasonable inna
circumstances, which us downtrod locals are onney expressing our, like,
legitimate grievances and all? Just wait'll I tell Sam Swinepearl about dis
here atrocity, which you pounded old Foor's favorite nostril flat an bent his
jaw right outa line, where he'll be hard put to chew his mummified ulsio at duh
big celebration tonight!"
The mourner approached his fallen chief and
quickly checked the pockets of his greasy overalls, netting a shabby wallet and
a well-bitten gold sprug. The others still on their feet said "Dibs"
in unison, then closed in. After the division of
Similar Books
