Retief and the Rascals by Keith Laumer Read Free Book Online Page B

supplied eagerly.
"They're His Ferocity's here. Taken 'em in a raid on Repulsive HQ last
week. Had alla new handguns he bought and snuck in from Boge wid duh fun's
youse Terries give him fer uplifting the deserving rabble and all. Gunned down
the Repulsives easy ana taken two year's catch. Kinda stinks, at dat."
Blarp snorted. "We gotta move the merchandise quick or it'll onney be good
for the rag-and-bone trade. But it's OK; we got space booked on duh Tree
Planet in here today."
     
                "Why, that's the very carrier that's
bringing the Semi-Annual Requisition supplies!" Magnan gasped. "Can
it be—?"
     
                "Old Cap'n Sloont bitched a little at
first," Wim acknowledged, "when we esplain to him he gotta cancel the
return cargo o' local chow fer the refugees you Terries set up over on Plunch
V, which they're homesick fer Down Home eats. But he come around soon's he
thought about how much better a million guck cash was dan gettin' drownded inna
municipal cesspool and all," the arrogant fellow explained blandly.
     
                "Imagine!" Magnan mourned. "A
cargo of illicit flink hides smuggled out aboard an official CDT—and GFU—mercy
ship! The media—Jim, we mustn't let Hy get hold of this one!"
     
                "What'll you give me, Ben?" Wim
demanded. "Iffen I don't hold a press conference?"
     
                "You wouldn't!" Magnan gasped.
"A hundred guck, cash!" he offered in desperation.
     
                Wim grinned, a dreadful display of well-rotted
teeth. "Don't kid me, Ben," he urged. "Dis is big-time. Try me
wid fifty thou."
     
                "Do you realize, Mr. Grand
Inquisitor," Magnan came back, "that fifty thousand guck represents a
large multiple of the annual salary of a dedicated public servant such as
myself?"
     
                "Naw, youse don't get it, Ben," Wim
protested. "I di'n't mean guck; I mean hard currency: Bloorian flugs—fifty
guck to a flug, legal rate. Black market's twict dat—a hunnert to one onna
street! Youse got to have flug to deal inna market here on Bloor. Dat's duh
onney place in Tip Space a fella can buy a coal-black blue-eyed blonde
non-mutated-hardly Terry wench, or get his mitts on a planet-wrecker bomb.
Fifty t'ousan' flug is letting youse off easy. When His Ex gets the word, Terry
diplomat-hide'll drop below flink-skin! Think it over—fer about six
milliseconds— I gotta split!"
     
                "Done!" Magnan bleated. "Fifty
thousand flug it is, you scoundrel! Heaven knows where I'll get it, but I shall
come up with it—somehow!"
     
                As Magnan was negotiating with Wim Dit, Retief,
noticing mat Smig Bash was creeping up behind Blarp Show, moved along to the
end of the steel-bar partition, where the horizontal members were socketed in
concrete. He put a foot on the lower bar and pushed up on the upper one, which
groaned and popped free of its socket. The heavy grille fell inward, pinning
Wim to the concrete floor. Retief stepped up on the confining grating and
strolled over to look down at the trapped Unforgettable. Magnan hurried over to
gloat.
     
                Ah, there you are," he greeted the fallen
extortionist. "By the way, old chum, I hear Hy Felix is after your hide.
That hot poop you sold him last week about the kickbacks on the commissary
items kicked back on its own. It appears Undersecretary Longspoon was the
financier of the scheme, and he's exiled on Iceberg Twelve now, writing his
memoirs. Hy was furious at buying stale news."
     
                "Keep him away from me, Retief!" Wim
begged. "I heard when Hy gets out duh skinning knives he means business!
Duh guy got no restraint! Whattaya say, chum? Tell Hy I shipped out fer
Nauseous territory, over North Continent, OK? Doing a little bull-devil
hunding. Out inna swamp fer weeks at a time and nuttin to eat but sperlt
meat-hawk. He'd hate it out dere. Just