Retief, those are just
the sort of questions we avoid with the Groaci. I certainly hope you're not
thinking of openly intruding—"
"Why?"
"The Groaci are a very
sensitive race. They don't welcome outworlders raking up things. They've been
gracious enough to let us live down the fact that Terrestrials subjected them
to deep humiliation on one occasion."
"You mean when we came looking
for the cruiser?"
"I, for one, am ashamed of the
high-handed tactics that were employed, grilling these innocent people as
though they were criminals. We try never to reopen that wound, Mr.
Retief."
"They never found the cruiser,
did they?"
"Certainly not on Groac."
Retief nodded. "Thanks, Miss
Meuhl," he said. "I'll be back before you close the office."
Miss Meuhl's thin face was set in lines of grim disapproval as he closed the
door.
Peering through the small grilled
window, the pale- featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressed
bleat.
"Not to enter the
Archives," he said in his faint voice. "The denial of permission. The
deep regret of the Archivist."
"The importance of my task
here," Retief said, enunciating the glottal language with difficulty.
"My interest in local history."
"The impossibility of access
to outworlders. To depart quietly."
"The necessity that I
enter."
"The specific instructions of
the Archivist." The Groacian's voice rose to a whisper. "To insist no
longer. To give up this idea!"
"Okay, skinny, I know when I'm
licked," Retief said in Terran. To keep your nose clean."
Outside, Retief stood for a moment
looking across at the deeply carved windowless stucco facades lining the
street, then started off in the direction of the Terrestrial Consulate General.
The few Groacians on the street eyed him furtively, and veered to avoid him as
he passed. Flimsy high-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient
pavement. The air was clean and cool. At the office Miss Meuhl would be waiting
with another list of complaints. Retief studied the carving over the open
doorways along the street. An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed
to indicate the Groacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in.
A Groacian bartender dispensing
clay pots of alcoholic drink from the bar-pit at the center of the room looked
at Retief, then froze in mid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.
"A cooling drink," Retief
said in Groacian, squatting down at the edge of the pit. "To sample a true
Groacian beverage."
"Not to enjoy my poor
offerings," the Groacian mumbled. "A pain in the digestive sacs. To
express regret."
"Not to worry," Retief
replied. "To pour it out and let me decide whether I like it."
"To be grappled in by
peace-keepers for poisoning of . . . foreigners." The barkeep looked
around for support, but found none. The Groaci customers, eyes elsewhere, were
drifting out.
"To get the lead out,"
Retief said, placing a thick gold- piece in the dish provided. "To shake a
tentacle."
"To procure a cage," a
thin voice called from the sidelines. "To display the freak."
Retief turned. A tall Groacian
vibrated his mandibles in a gesture of contempt. From his bluish throat
coloration it was apparent the creature was drunk.
"To choke in your upper
sac," the bartender hissed, extending his eyes toward the drunk. "To
keep silent, litter- mate of drones."
"To swallow your own poison,
dispenser of vileness," the drunk whispered. "To find a proper cage
for this zoo-piece." He wavered toward Retief. "To show this one in
the streets, like all freaks."
"Seen a lot of freaks like me,
have you?" Retief asked interestedly.
"To speak intelligibly,
malodorous outworlder," the drunk said. The barkeep whispered something
and two customers came up to the drunk, took his arms, and helped him to the
door.
"To get a cage," the
drunk shrilled. "To keep the animals in their place . . ."
"I've changed my mind,"
Retief said to the bartender. "To be grateful as hell, but to have to
hurry off now." He followed the
the sort of questions we avoid with the Groaci. I certainly hope you're not
thinking of openly intruding—"
"Why?"
"The Groaci are a very
sensitive race. They don't welcome outworlders raking up things. They've been
gracious enough to let us live down the fact that Terrestrials subjected them
to deep humiliation on one occasion."
"You mean when we came looking
for the cruiser?"
"I, for one, am ashamed of the
high-handed tactics that were employed, grilling these innocent people as
though they were criminals. We try never to reopen that wound, Mr.
Retief."
"They never found the cruiser,
did they?"
"Certainly not on Groac."
Retief nodded. "Thanks, Miss
Meuhl," he said. "I'll be back before you close the office."
Miss Meuhl's thin face was set in lines of grim disapproval as he closed the
door.
Peering through the small grilled
window, the pale- featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressed
bleat.
"Not to enter the
Archives," he said in his faint voice. "The denial of permission. The
deep regret of the Archivist."
"The importance of my task
here," Retief said, enunciating the glottal language with difficulty.
"My interest in local history."
"The impossibility of access
to outworlders. To depart quietly."
"The necessity that I
enter."
"The specific instructions of
the Archivist." The Groacian's voice rose to a whisper. "To insist no
longer. To give up this idea!"
"Okay, skinny, I know when I'm
licked," Retief said in Terran. To keep your nose clean."
Outside, Retief stood for a moment
looking across at the deeply carved windowless stucco facades lining the
street, then started off in the direction of the Terrestrial Consulate General.
The few Groacians on the street eyed him furtively, and veered to avoid him as
he passed. Flimsy high-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient
pavement. The air was clean and cool. At the office Miss Meuhl would be waiting
with another list of complaints. Retief studied the carving over the open
doorways along the street. An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed
to indicate the Groacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in.
A Groacian bartender dispensing
clay pots of alcoholic drink from the bar-pit at the center of the room looked
at Retief, then froze in mid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.
"A cooling drink," Retief
said in Groacian, squatting down at the edge of the pit. "To sample a true
Groacian beverage."
"Not to enjoy my poor
offerings," the Groacian mumbled. "A pain in the digestive sacs. To
express regret."
"Not to worry," Retief
replied. "To pour it out and let me decide whether I like it."
"To be grappled in by
peace-keepers for poisoning of . . . foreigners." The barkeep looked
around for support, but found none. The Groaci customers, eyes elsewhere, were
drifting out.
"To get the lead out,"
Retief said, placing a thick gold- piece in the dish provided. "To shake a
tentacle."
"To procure a cage," a
thin voice called from the sidelines. "To display the freak."
Retief turned. A tall Groacian
vibrated his mandibles in a gesture of contempt. From his bluish throat
coloration it was apparent the creature was drunk.
"To choke in your upper
sac," the bartender hissed, extending his eyes toward the drunk. "To
keep silent, litter- mate of drones."
"To swallow your own poison,
dispenser of vileness," the drunk whispered. "To find a proper cage
for this zoo-piece." He wavered toward Retief. "To show this one in
the streets, like all freaks."
"Seen a lot of freaks like me,
have you?" Retief asked interestedly.
"To speak intelligibly,
malodorous outworlder," the drunk said. The barkeep whispered something
and two customers came up to the drunk, took his arms, and helped him to the
door.
"To get a cage," the
drunk shrilled. "To keep the animals in their place . . ."
"I've changed my mind,"
Retief said to the bartender. "To be grateful as hell, but to have to
hurry off now." He followed the
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