Consul," Retief said to the excited Groaci, "I shall
take my leave. Ta."
6
Leaving
the Groaci Legation, Retief found his taxi awaiting him.
"I
figgered in case you came out of there alive, you wouldn't be in no condition
for no long walk," Jake confided.
"Take
me to the best hotel in town," Retief specified, to the amusement of his
chauffer.
"That'd
be the Prutian Hilton," Jake offered when his hilarity had subsided.
"Funny," he added, "a hotel can be the best without being
good."
After
half an hour's limping progress through crowded streets in which a shabby
elegance steadily deteriorated, the vehicle wheezed to a stop before a peeling
polystyrene facade ornamented with new neon letters six feet high, in the
crabbed Prutian script, identifying it as an outpost of Hilton enterprise.
Inside,
Retief found his way along a corridor which was either still under construction
or in the final stages of collapse—he was unable to determine which—up rickety
stairs to a door painted a dull turnbuckle dun, adorned with a yellow 6, and
hanging by one hinge. The interior of the chamber fulfilled the rich promise of
its context. An almost-clean spot on the lone, tarnished window afforded a view
of the street, where a squat, black-enameled vehicle parked before the hotel
was disgorging three Prutian Cops who hurried inside in a purposeful manner.
Retief
returned to the narrow hall, took up a position behind heaped crates at the
head of the stairs. As the first of the local cops arrived, puffing, Retief
stepped out suddenly, causing the squat Prutian to shy violently; Retief saved
him from a painful tumble back down the steps by a quick grab.
"Hi,
there," Retief said casually. "Good of you to come. What I wanted was
directions to the VIP entrance to the Port Departures area."
"Thanks,
pal," the cop muttered, readjusting his tunic, by the collar of which
Retief had hauled him to safety. "You want to find the VIP gate, what you
do, you go right past the public entry, that's figgering you're coming up along
Condemned Parkway, and hang a right. Straight past the baggage-smashing
department, over the NO PASSAGE BEYOND THIS POINT barrier, or maybe through it,
if you're driving a heavy vehicle, and through the door marked Prutian Ladies
Only, and there you are. You'll never find it. Come on, the boys and I'll run
you over."
Retief
ambled downstairs after his guide.
Back
in the street, the lieutenant greeted his minions, "Yeah, this is the
Terry Retief we were supposed to pick up. But I don't lean over backwards to
pick guys up for the Groaci, and this one gave me a hand when the grand
stairway collapsed. Saved my life, maybe. He's in a hurry, got to catch Ten
Planet Flight 79 at three o'clock. Let's rush him there—and we've no time to
waste."
Chapter Three
1
Accompanied
by his escort, Retief arrived at the Ten Planet check-in station at 2:59, to be
greeted wanly by a string-thin Prutian who glanced a Retief's ticket, supplied
by the Transport Officer at Sector some days earlier, and said off-handedly:
"Must
be some foul-up, Terry. You've got no reservation. Wouldn't have mattered if
you had, actually. Flight 79 lifted ten minutes ago." The clerk patted
back a yawn and looked past Retief, who commented mildly, "Jumped the gun,
didn't it?"
"You
don't have to get nasty!" the counterman protested, his pinched
face pale with rage. "How else do you think T-P can maintain its rep for
punctual arrivals? Besides, you were actually booked on the Irresponsible, which
was lost in space a week ago. Probably shot up by the Ree. They pretend
take my leave. Ta."
6
Leaving
the Groaci Legation, Retief found his taxi awaiting him.
"I
figgered in case you came out of there alive, you wouldn't be in no condition
for no long walk," Jake confided.
"Take
me to the best hotel in town," Retief specified, to the amusement of his
chauffer.
"That'd
be the Prutian Hilton," Jake offered when his hilarity had subsided.
"Funny," he added, "a hotel can be the best without being
good."
After
half an hour's limping progress through crowded streets in which a shabby
elegance steadily deteriorated, the vehicle wheezed to a stop before a peeling
polystyrene facade ornamented with new neon letters six feet high, in the
crabbed Prutian script, identifying it as an outpost of Hilton enterprise.
Inside,
Retief found his way along a corridor which was either still under construction
or in the final stages of collapse—he was unable to determine which—up rickety
stairs to a door painted a dull turnbuckle dun, adorned with a yellow 6, and
hanging by one hinge. The interior of the chamber fulfilled the rich promise of
its context. An almost-clean spot on the lone, tarnished window afforded a view
of the street, where a squat, black-enameled vehicle parked before the hotel
was disgorging three Prutian Cops who hurried inside in a purposeful manner.
Retief
returned to the narrow hall, took up a position behind heaped crates at the
head of the stairs. As the first of the local cops arrived, puffing, Retief
stepped out suddenly, causing the squat Prutian to shy violently; Retief saved
him from a painful tumble back down the steps by a quick grab.
"Hi,
there," Retief said casually. "Good of you to come. What I wanted was
directions to the VIP entrance to the Port Departures area."
"Thanks,
pal," the cop muttered, readjusting his tunic, by the collar of which
Retief had hauled him to safety. "You want to find the VIP gate, what you
do, you go right past the public entry, that's figgering you're coming up along
Condemned Parkway, and hang a right. Straight past the baggage-smashing
department, over the NO PASSAGE BEYOND THIS POINT barrier, or maybe through it,
if you're driving a heavy vehicle, and through the door marked Prutian Ladies
Only, and there you are. You'll never find it. Come on, the boys and I'll run
you over."
Retief
ambled downstairs after his guide.
Back
in the street, the lieutenant greeted his minions, "Yeah, this is the
Terry Retief we were supposed to pick up. But I don't lean over backwards to
pick guys up for the Groaci, and this one gave me a hand when the grand
stairway collapsed. Saved my life, maybe. He's in a hurry, got to catch Ten
Planet Flight 79 at three o'clock. Let's rush him there—and we've no time to
waste."
Chapter Three
1
Accompanied
by his escort, Retief arrived at the Ten Planet check-in station at 2:59, to be
greeted wanly by a string-thin Prutian who glanced a Retief's ticket, supplied
by the Transport Officer at Sector some days earlier, and said off-handedly:
"Must
be some foul-up, Terry. You've got no reservation. Wouldn't have mattered if
you had, actually. Flight 79 lifted ten minutes ago." The clerk patted
back a yawn and looked past Retief, who commented mildly, "Jumped the gun,
didn't it?"
"You
don't have to get nasty!" the counterman protested, his pinched
face pale with rage. "How else do you think T-P can maintain its rep for
punctual arrivals? Besides, you were actually booked on the Irresponsible, which
was lost in space a week ago. Probably shot up by the Ree. They pretend
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