control box, through the dusty
windows of which a blue-robed Hoogan priest lounged in a bored attitude,
studying a scroll, while a second Hoogan, in the familiar black, stood nervously
by. Suddenly the silence below was broken by a mournful wail.
“What’s that!” Magnan jumped, slipped, grabbed for a secure
grip on a projecting angle-iron supporting a narrow catwalk.
“Our co-workers going into action,” Retief said softly.
Beside the furnace door, the Hoogan workers were staring round nervously. There
was another doleful moan. One of the Hoogans dropped his shovel and muttered.
Retief ducked back as the blue-robed priest came to the window, peered down
below, then motioned to the other, who went to the door of the tiny chamber,
opened it, stepped out on the catwalk, shouted down to the workers. One
answered in defiant tones. Two of the workers started toward a door dimly
visible at the far side of the furnace room. The priest shouted after them; as
his bellow faded and echoed, the thin hoot of a Spism sounded, like the last
wail of dying hope. The priest jumped, whirled to dart back inside the control
room, slipped, fell from the catwalk, grabbed frantically, caught it and held
on by one hand, found himself staring directly into Magnan’s startled face. He
opened his mouth to roar—
Magnan whipped off his mauve cummerbund and thrust it into
the gaping mouth. With a muffled grunt, the Hoogan lost his grip, fell, slammed
into the heaped rubbish with a tremendous slam. The stokers fled, shouting. The
lone priest flattened his face against the window, peering down into the gloom.
With a quick movement, Retief gained the catwalk, stepped through the door. The
priest whirled, gaped, leaped for a microphone-like device on the corner table.
Retief eased the power pistol from his sarong, aimed it negligently at the
priest.
“I wouldn’t make any announcements just yet,” he said. “The
results aren’t all in.”
“Who are you?” The Hoogan sidled toward a corner cabinet.
“If that’s where you keep your prayer books, better let them
lie for a while yet.”
“Loog here, berhabs you are unaware that I am His Voracity
the Arjpishob Um-Moomy-Hooby, and I have gonnegtions—”
“Doubtless. And don’t try for the door; I have a confederate
out there who’s noted for his ferocity.”
Magnan came through the door, panting. Um-Moomy-Hooby backed
away.
“Whad—whad to you wand?”
“I understand the god is about to utter oracular statements,
as the high point of the Wednesday services,” Retief said.
“Yez—I was jusd going over my sgribt. Now if you’ll eggsguze
me—”
“It just happens that it’s the script we want to talk about.
There are a couple of special announcements I’d like to see inserted—”
“Whad? Damper with holy sgribture?”
“Nothing like that; just a good word for a group of
associates of ours and possibly a short commercial for the CDT—”
“Plasphemy! Herezy! Refishionism! Nefer will I pe a barty to
zuch zagrileche!”
Retief clicked off the pistol’s safety catch.
“—Put, on the other hant, bossiply somethink gould pe
arranched,” the Archbishop said hastily. “How much did you have in mind
offering?”
“I wouldn’t think of attempting to bribe a man of the cloth,”
Retief said smoothly. “You’re going to do this for the common welfare.”
“Jusd whad is it you hafe in mind?”
“The first item is the campaign you’ve been waging against
the Spisms—”
“Ah, yez! And a wontervul jop our lats hafe peen toing, doo.
Uk-Ruppa-Tooty willink, zoon we will zee them stambed oud endirely, and virtue
driumvant!”
“The CDT takes a dim view of genocide, I’m afraid. Now, my
thought was that we could agree on a reasonable division of spheres of
influence—”
“A teal with the Bowers of Tarknezz? Are you oud of your
mind?”
“Now, now,” Magnan put in, “a more co-operative attitude
would do Your Voracity greater credit—”
“You
windows of which a blue-robed Hoogan priest lounged in a bored attitude,
studying a scroll, while a second Hoogan, in the familiar black, stood nervously
by. Suddenly the silence below was broken by a mournful wail.
“What’s that!” Magnan jumped, slipped, grabbed for a secure
grip on a projecting angle-iron supporting a narrow catwalk.
“Our co-workers going into action,” Retief said softly.
Beside the furnace door, the Hoogan workers were staring round nervously. There
was another doleful moan. One of the Hoogans dropped his shovel and muttered.
Retief ducked back as the blue-robed priest came to the window, peered down
below, then motioned to the other, who went to the door of the tiny chamber,
opened it, stepped out on the catwalk, shouted down to the workers. One
answered in defiant tones. Two of the workers started toward a door dimly
visible at the far side of the furnace room. The priest shouted after them; as
his bellow faded and echoed, the thin hoot of a Spism sounded, like the last
wail of dying hope. The priest jumped, whirled to dart back inside the control
room, slipped, fell from the catwalk, grabbed frantically, caught it and held
on by one hand, found himself staring directly into Magnan’s startled face. He
opened his mouth to roar—
Magnan whipped off his mauve cummerbund and thrust it into
the gaping mouth. With a muffled grunt, the Hoogan lost his grip, fell, slammed
into the heaped rubbish with a tremendous slam. The stokers fled, shouting. The
lone priest flattened his face against the window, peering down into the gloom.
With a quick movement, Retief gained the catwalk, stepped through the door. The
priest whirled, gaped, leaped for a microphone-like device on the corner table.
Retief eased the power pistol from his sarong, aimed it negligently at the
priest.
“I wouldn’t make any announcements just yet,” he said. “The
results aren’t all in.”
“Who are you?” The Hoogan sidled toward a corner cabinet.
“If that’s where you keep your prayer books, better let them
lie for a while yet.”
“Loog here, berhabs you are unaware that I am His Voracity
the Arjpishob Um-Moomy-Hooby, and I have gonnegtions—”
“Doubtless. And don’t try for the door; I have a confederate
out there who’s noted for his ferocity.”
Magnan came through the door, panting. Um-Moomy-Hooby backed
away.
“Whad—whad to you wand?”
“I understand the god is about to utter oracular statements,
as the high point of the Wednesday services,” Retief said.
“Yez—I was jusd going over my sgribt. Now if you’ll eggsguze
me—”
“It just happens that it’s the script we want to talk about.
There are a couple of special announcements I’d like to see inserted—”
“Whad? Damper with holy sgribture?”
“Nothing like that; just a good word for a group of
associates of ours and possibly a short commercial for the CDT—”
“Plasphemy! Herezy! Refishionism! Nefer will I pe a barty to
zuch zagrileche!”
Retief clicked off the pistol’s safety catch.
“—Put, on the other hant, bossiply somethink gould pe
arranched,” the Archbishop said hastily. “How much did you have in mind
offering?”
“I wouldn’t think of attempting to bribe a man of the cloth,”
Retief said smoothly. “You’re going to do this for the common welfare.”
“Jusd whad is it you hafe in mind?”
“The first item is the campaign you’ve been waging against
the Spisms—”
“Ah, yez! And a wontervul jop our lats hafe peen toing, doo.
Uk-Ruppa-Tooty willink, zoon we will zee them stambed oud endirely, and virtue
driumvant!”
“The CDT takes a dim view of genocide, I’m afraid. Now, my
thought was that we could agree on a reasonable division of spheres of
influence—”
“A teal with the Bowers of Tarknezz? Are you oud of your
mind?”
“Now, now,” Magnan put in, “a more co-operative attitude
would do Your Voracity greater credit—”
“You
Similar Books
