Free Reward for Retief by Keith Laumer

which collapsed outward at last. Retief waded
into the writhing mass of pillars.
     
                "Retief!" Magnan
squeaked from the periphery of the aroused crowd. "They're running amok!
We have to do something!"
     
                "I'll try to keep 'em
busy, Mr. Magnan," Retief called between jabs at exposed yellow patches.
"You'd better take the private lift!"
     
                "What? Appropriate the
Ambassador's personal conveyance?" Magnan yelped, but he stepped
briskly into the waiting car, and the automatic doors slammed shut. Retief
continued hauling the limber-bodied aliens back and tossing them aside, until
he had cleared a path through to Bill, whom he assisted to his feet while the
frustrated rioters boiled around the two, gnashing their fangs in fury. Chief
Smudge reared up in time to receive a fist, full in his sense-organ cluster.
     
                "Nice shot, Bill,"
Retief commented. "You think we can get through these fellows to the main
drag?"
     
                "Can we not," Bill
replied, grinning through a smear of blood from his nose. "Lead on,
General, sir!"
     
    5
     
                "What?"
Ambassador Shortfall yelped, confronting Magnan, disheveled and gasping for
breath as he tottered from the suddenly-opened door of the private lift.
"Are you back here, Magnan?"
     
                "No indeed, Mr.
Ambassador," Magnan twittered daringly. "This is my astral
projection; you see, sir, I was savaged by the mob, and—" he broke off,
clutching at the arm of Major Tremblechin, who had hurried forward.
"They've got Retief!" Magnan gasped. "We went down under a
virtual avalanche of the ferocious creatures! When I last saw him, he was still
battling, gamely but hopelessly, against literally overwhelming odds! We have
to rescue him! Don't just dither, Fred!" he addressed the dithering
Military Attache. "Do something!"
     
                "Magnan!"
Shortfall barked. "I'm sure you're exaggerating! Tell Mr. Retief to report
to me here in the Chancery at once!"
     
                "But, sir," Magnan
wailed. "You don't understand!"
     
                "What, Ben Magnan, I ,
'not understand'? You forget yourself, sir! You are addressing no mere mortal,
but your very own Chief of Mission, a Career Ambassador! Now do as I say
without further cavil!"
     
                "But," Magnan
objected Stubbornly (36-w). "I can't, sir! He's a captive of a mob led by
the Deputy Chief of Police, one Smudge!"
     
                "Don't try that feeble
36 on me, Ben!" Shortfall commanded. "As for Mr. Retief s
choice of companions, that's not my concern at the moment. Go to the police, as
you suggested, if you must, but get Retief!"
     
                "That's just what the
mob is yelling, sir," Magnan replied, retreating to the door, held open
for him by Herb Lunchwell, who was wearing a Smug Look (14-b).
     
                "Et tu, Fred?"
Magnan gasped.
     
                Behind him, Shortfall spoke
up: "If even this roiling throng can grasp my instructions, Ben, surely you do as well!"
     
                "But—but they want
to tear him to pieces, Mr. Ambassador," Magnan temporized.
     
                "As for myself,"
Shortfall commented quietly, "I have not yet decided on an appropriate
course of action regarding a junior officer of this Mission who has egregiously
ignored his Chief s instructions to disperse this nuisance. Especially as it was
he who set off the throng in the first place. Get him in here, and I shall
decide his fate, you may be sure."
     
                "But, sir, he, that is, we tried! There are hundreds of those armed maniacs, all inspired by a
fanatical hatred of Terries, inspired no doubt by Ambassador Flith's insidious
propaganda program. But he was overwhelmed, Retief, I mean, not Ambassador
Flith—"
     
                "Enough of