"Keith Laumer - Retief 3 - Retief's War" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

RETIEF'S WAR

One

Jame Retief, Second Secretary and Consul of the Terrestrial Embassy to Quopp, paused in his stroll
along the Twisting Path of Sublime Release to admire the blaze of early morning sunlight on the stained
glass window of a modest grog shop wedged between a stall with a sign in jittery native script announcing
Bargain Prices in Cuticula Inlays, and the cheery facade of the Idle Hour Comfort Station, One Hundred
Stalls, No Waiting. He took out a long cigar of the old-fashioned type still hand-rolled on Jorgensen's
Worlds, glanced back along the steep, narrow street. Among the crowd of brilliantly colored
QuoppinaтАФmembers of a hundred related native species mingling freely here in the Great Market of
IxixтАФthe four Terrans who had been trailing him for the past half hour stood out drably.
Retief drew on the cigar, savoring the aroma, turned and stepped through the low arch into the
tavern. From a high stool within the raised ring-bar at the center of the gaily lit chamber, the
barkeeperтАФa medium-sized, short-abdomened individual of the Herpp tribe, with chipped wing cases of
faded baby blue and four dexterous arms of bristly wine-red on one of which a Terran wristwatch was
strappedтАФmanipulated the controls of the dispenser console, exchanged banter with the customers,
made change, and kept a pair of eyes on the free lunch simultaneously. He saw Retief, tilted his anterior
antennae in friendly greeting.
"I am Gom-Goo, and I dance the Dance of Welcome," he susurrated in Quopp trade dialect, his
voice reminiscent of fingernails on a blackboard. "What'll it be, Retief?"
"I'm Retief, and I dance the Dance of Glad Arrival," the diplomat replied in the same tongue. "How
about a shot of Bacchus brandy?"
"Red or black?"
"Black." The other customers made room as Retief moved up, unclipped a carefully charred wooden
bowl from the serving panel, got it under the proper bright-plated nozzle just in time to catch the
tar-colored syrup as it jetted forth.
"That's pretty good stuff," Gom-Goo said; he lowered his voice. "But for a real kick, you ought to try
a shot of HellroseтАФcut ten to one, of course. That'll put a charge on your plates."
"I tried it once. Too sweet for a Terry. We like our sugar fermented."
"Sourballs?" The Herpp indicated an assortment of pea-sized lumps of yellow, white, purple, and
green.
Retief shook his head. "I prefer salt peanuts to salt-peter," he confided.
"Well, every tribe to its own poison."
"Here's oil in your crankcase," Retief toasted formally, nibbling the brandy.
"Oil," Gom-Goo responded. "You haven't been in lately, Retief. Been dormant?"
 "No more so than usual, Gom-Goo. Ambassador Longspoon's been imposing non-union hours on
the staff, I'm afraid. Wouldn't do to let the Groaci steal a march on us and get a Bolshoi-type ballet
theater built before we can get a Yankee-stadium type sports arena off the drawing board."
Gom-Goo worked his dorsal mandibles in the gesture that expressed courteous skepticism. "Frankly,
Retief, we Quoppina aren't much interested in watching Terries hobble around. After all, only two legs
and no wings . . ."
"I know; but it's traditional in these diplomatic competitions to build something conspicuously
inappropriate."
Gom-Goo tilted his oculars toward the door, where a pair of Quoppina with highly polished black
carapaces were rolling past, twirling nightsticks.
"Speaking of Terry programs, Retief, just between you and me, what's behind this business of buffing
up these Voion ne'er-do-wells and setting them to cruising the streets waving clubs at the rest of us?"
"Well, Gom-Goo, it appears that in some quarters the view is held that you Quoppina are a little too
fond of brawling, anarchy, and dueling in the streets to qualify as natural democrats. Ergo, a native police