Galactic Diplomat by Keith Laumer

clambered up to perch
on a ledge overlooking the gathering. “A lot of them are pretty shy, but
they’re a good-natured bunch, always a thousand laughs. When they heard you was
in trouble, they all joined in to help out.”
    “Tell them Mr. Magnan and I said thanks,” Retief said. “It
was an experience we wouldn’t have missed. Right, Mr. Magnan?”
    “I’d certainly never miss it,” Magnan swallowed audibly.
“H-how is it you can talk to these hobgoblins, Retief?” he hissed. “You
haven’t . . . ah . . . made some sort
of pact with the powers of darkness, I trust?”
    “Hey, Retief,” Jackspurt said. “Your friend got some kind of
race prejudice or something?”
    “Heavens, no,” Magnan said in a strangled voice. “Some of my
best friends are fiends—I mean, in our profession, one meets—”
    “Mr. Magnan is just a little confused,” Retief put in. “He
didn’t expect to be playing such an active role in today’s events.”
    “Speaking of active, we better get you gents back to the
surface fast,” Jackspurt said. “The pumps will be starting up any minute now.”
    “Where are you going when the fumigation begins?”
    “We got an escape route mapped out through the sewers that
ought to bring us out in the clear a couple miles from town. We’re just hoping
the Hoog don’t have the outfall staked out.”
    “Where are these smoke pumps located?” Retief asked.
    “Up above—in Uk-Ruppa-Tooty’s belly.”
    “Who’s manning them?”
    “A couple of priests. Why?”
    “How do we get there from here?”
    “Well, there’s a couple passages—but we better not waste any
time sight-seeing—”
    “Retief, are you out of your mind?” Magnan blurted. “If the
priests see us, our goose will be cooked, along with the rest of our
anatomies!”
    “We’ll try to make it a point to see them first. Jackspurt,
can you get a couple of dozen volunteers?”
    “You mean to climb up in that brass god? I don’t know,
Retief. The fellas are pretty superstitious . . .”
    “We need them to make a diversion while Mr. Magnan and I
carry out the negotiation—”
    “Who, me?” Magnan squeaked.
    “Negotiation?” Jackspurt protested. “Jumping Jehosaphat, how
can you negotiate with a Hoog?”
    “Ahem,” Magnan cleared his throat. “That, Mr. Jackspurt, is
after all one’s function as a diplomat.”
    “Well . . .” Jackspurt buzzed briefly to his
fellows, then hopped down from his perch as a dozen Spisms of assorted sizes
and colors came forward.
    “We’re game, Mr. Retief. Let’s go!”
     
    The dull gleam of the metal walls of the vast chamber that
was the interior of the god Uk-Ruppa-Tooty loomed out of dense shadow where
Retief and Magnan crouched with their hob-goblin crew. At the center of the
gloomy chamber, low-caste Hoogans labored before the open door of a giant,
red-glowing furnace, tossing in armloads of rubbish, old shoes, bundled
magazines, and broken plastic crockery. A layer of harsh, eye-watering smoke
hung in the air. Jackspurt snorted.
    “Boy, when they start pumping that stuff into the burrows . . .”
    “Where are the priests?” Retief inquired in a whisper.
    Jackspurt pointed to a small cubicle at the top of a flight
of steps. “Up there, in the control room.”
    Retief studied the layout. “Jackspurt, you and your men
spread out around the room. Give me five minutes. Then take turns jumping out
and making faces.”
    Jackspurt gave instructions to his crew; they faded away into
the darkness.
    “Maybe you’d better wait here,” Retief suggested to Magnan.
    “Where are you going?”
    “I think I’d better have a chat with the ecclesiastics up in
the prompting box.”
    “And leave me here alone, surrounded by these ghoulish
Spisms?”
    “All right, but keep it quiet or the smoke of burning
diplomats will be added to the other fumes.”
     
    Fifty feet above the floor, Retief gripped narrow handholds,
working his way around to the rear of the