passage, Wim!" Retief skidded to a halt and charged back toward
the Groaci and his hirelings, but the Bloorian strong-arm squad had already
rolled an immense, rail-mounted steel slab in place, sealing off the passage.
Magnan, noticing nothing, continued to flee,
unpursued. He reached a narrowing in the passage, where a great bool-wood door
stood half-open. He grabbed it in passing and slammed it, in Retief's face. The
latch clack! eddecisively. Retief skidded to a halt and tried the
knob. It was fixed as solidly as the wall of living stone beside him. Before he
could move, an explosion threw him back against the opposite wall and down into
a pit that seemed bottomless.
Chapter Three
When Retief regained consciousness he found that
he was lying on a stone floor scattered with meager straw containing fleas. He
could see no light; in total darkness he paced off the dimensions of the
featureless cell. Twelve one way, nine the other, with an alcove in one corner.
It occurred to him this was the approximate size and shape of the Chancery in
the Embassy of Groac, which he had seen a few days before on a goodwill tour
arranged between Ambassadors Swinepearl and Shinth. On tiptoe, he could just
touch the ceiling—of rough planks, he concluded from the unplaned texture. He
found a stout wooden bench bolted to the wall and floor at one side of the
stuffy room. Insofar as he could determine, there was no door or window. "Still,"
he mused, "I got in here somehow."
The floor was an unbroken slab, reasonably
clean, even. The silence was total. And while he languished here, poor Ben was
doubtless getting in deeper with every utterance.
The ceiling seemed to be the only possibility.
Retief noticed that in the corner occupied in the Chancery by the big Fortress
£3 model safe, the ceiling sagged minutely. He went over to stand under the
heavily stressed planks. He returned to the bench, yanked it loose from its
bolts and dragged it over. He disassembled his belt-buckle by feel, working
carefully; it wouldn't do to drop anything in the pitch darkness. He freed the
tongue, a three-inch spike, from its mounting and worked it clear of the
deep-blue tump-leather. Standing on the bench, he found a joint between the
ceiling planks where the deflection was greatest. He began to gouge at it. The
wood was the tough, aromatic local iron-elm, a mutated tree of Terran origin.
It yielded reluctantly, splintering away in three-inch by half-inch chips.
After half an hour's careful work, he caught a whiff of Groaci dope-stick
through the narrow opening he had made, and a faint glimmer of light gave him
his first view of the featureless dungeon in which he was confined. He
listened, heard faint, breathy Groaci voices not far away.
"—to express astonishment, Flinsh?" a
familiar voice was saying: it was that of Shish, the Groaci Counselor, Retief
realized. "What's that you say?" Shish went on, "Do you presume
to accuse His Excellency of connivance in violation of diplomatic immunity, and
to so far transgress the tenets of bureaucratic solidarity as actually to
countenance the employment of sacred Groacian soil for purposes of kidnapping
and illegal imprisonment? 'Unthinkable!' you say. But only today at their
farcical Awards Banquet, I was chatting with that sneaky Ben Magnan; I managed
to dissemble my distaste for his loathsome Terran body odor, and to lull the
ninny into total acceptance of my wily assurances. To distort Groac's role in
this fiasco is a trifle in the service of noble Groac; no breach of honor!
Doubtless the feckless Magnan is even now bending His Ex's auditory membranes
in the belief he's finessing him into a false position,
contraband-kickbackwise. The dupes! What a pleasure it will be, Flinsh, to
gloat, whilst wrapped in the cloak of unstained virtue even as the feckless
Terries pay the price
the Groaci and his hirelings, but the Bloorian strong-arm squad had already
rolled an immense, rail-mounted steel slab in place, sealing off the passage.
Magnan, noticing nothing, continued to flee,
unpursued. He reached a narrowing in the passage, where a great bool-wood door
stood half-open. He grabbed it in passing and slammed it, in Retief's face. The
latch clack! eddecisively. Retief skidded to a halt and tried the
knob. It was fixed as solidly as the wall of living stone beside him. Before he
could move, an explosion threw him back against the opposite wall and down into
a pit that seemed bottomless.
Chapter Three
When Retief regained consciousness he found that
he was lying on a stone floor scattered with meager straw containing fleas. He
could see no light; in total darkness he paced off the dimensions of the
featureless cell. Twelve one way, nine the other, with an alcove in one corner.
It occurred to him this was the approximate size and shape of the Chancery in
the Embassy of Groac, which he had seen a few days before on a goodwill tour
arranged between Ambassadors Swinepearl and Shinth. On tiptoe, he could just
touch the ceiling—of rough planks, he concluded from the unplaned texture. He
found a stout wooden bench bolted to the wall and floor at one side of the
stuffy room. Insofar as he could determine, there was no door or window. "Still,"
he mused, "I got in here somehow."
The floor was an unbroken slab, reasonably
clean, even. The silence was total. And while he languished here, poor Ben was
doubtless getting in deeper with every utterance.
The ceiling seemed to be the only possibility.
Retief noticed that in the corner occupied in the Chancery by the big Fortress
£3 model safe, the ceiling sagged minutely. He went over to stand under the
heavily stressed planks. He returned to the bench, yanked it loose from its
bolts and dragged it over. He disassembled his belt-buckle by feel, working
carefully; it wouldn't do to drop anything in the pitch darkness. He freed the
tongue, a three-inch spike, from its mounting and worked it clear of the
deep-blue tump-leather. Standing on the bench, he found a joint between the
ceiling planks where the deflection was greatest. He began to gouge at it. The
wood was the tough, aromatic local iron-elm, a mutated tree of Terran origin.
It yielded reluctantly, splintering away in three-inch by half-inch chips.
After half an hour's careful work, he caught a whiff of Groaci dope-stick
through the narrow opening he had made, and a faint glimmer of light gave him
his first view of the featureless dungeon in which he was confined. He
listened, heard faint, breathy Groaci voices not far away.
"—to express astonishment, Flinsh?" a
familiar voice was saying: it was that of Shish, the Groaci Counselor, Retief
realized. "What's that you say?" Shish went on, "Do you presume
to accuse His Excellency of connivance in violation of diplomatic immunity, and
to so far transgress the tenets of bureaucratic solidarity as actually to
countenance the employment of sacred Groacian soil for purposes of kidnapping
and illegal imprisonment? 'Unthinkable!' you say. But only today at their
farcical Awards Banquet, I was chatting with that sneaky Ben Magnan; I managed
to dissemble my distaste for his loathsome Terran body odor, and to lull the
ninny into total acceptance of my wily assurances. To distort Groac's role in
this fiasco is a trifle in the service of noble Groac; no breach of honor!
Doubtless the feckless Magnan is even now bending His Ex's auditory membranes
in the belief he's finessing him into a false position,
contraband-kickbackwise. The dupes! What a pleasure it will be, Flinsh, to
gloat, whilst wrapped in the cloak of unstained virtue even as the feckless
Terries pay the price
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