Free Retief at Large by Keith Laumer

shrug.
     
                "Speak
to this fellow, Retief!" Magnan snapped. "Obscure dialects are a
hobby of yours, I believe."
     
                Retief
gave the driver instructions in the local patois and leaned back against the
floppy cushions. Magnan perched on the edge of the seat and nipped at a
hangnail. The car cleared the square, racketed down a side street streaming
with locals headed for the bog, gunned out across the hard-baked mud-flat,
swerving violently around the bubbling devil's cauldrons of hot mud that dotted
the way. A small geyser erupted with a whoosh! and spattered the open
vehicle with hot droplets. A whiff of rotten-egg smoke blew past. Off to the
left, the sunlight glinted from the wide surface of the swamp, thickly
scattered with exotic lily-like flowers. Here and there, tree-ferns grew in
graceful clumps from the shallow water. Along the shore, bright-colored tents
had been erected, and local celebrants clustered in groups among them, weaving
to and fro and waving their multiple arms.
     
                "It's
disgraceful," Magnan sniffed. "They're already staggering and their
infernal festival's hardly begun!"
     
                "It's
a native dance," Retief said. "Very cultural."
     
                "What's
the occasion for this idiotic celebration? It seems to have completely
paralyzed whatever elementary sense of responsibility these flibertigibbets
possess."
     
                "It's
related in some way to the conjunction of the four moons," Retief said.
"But there's more to it than that. It seems to have an important religious
significance. The dances are symbolic of death and rebirth, or something of the
sort."
     
                "Hmmph!
I see the dancers are now falling flat on their faces! Religious ecstasy, no
doubt!"
     
                As
they swept past the reeling locals, the driver made cabalistic signs in the air
and grabbed the steering bar just in time to swerve past a steam-jet that
snored from a cleft boulder. Ahead, a cloud of dust was rolling out from the
landing spot where the Groaci ship had settled in, a scant hundred yards from
an outlying shrine, a sparkling fifty-foot tower of red, yellow and green
glass.
     
                "They're
coming perilously close to violating the native holy place," Magnan
observed as the taxi pulled up beside the ship."There may be mob violence
at any moment."
     
                A
pair of locals, emerging from one of the many fanciful glass arches adorning
the entrances to the shrine complex, cast no more than a casual glance at the
vessel as a port opened in its side and a spindle-legged Groaci in golfing
knickers and loud socks appeared.
     
                Magnan
climbed hurriedly from the cab. "I want you to note my handling of this,
Retief," he said behind his hand. "A firm word now may avert an
incident."
     
                "I'd
better say a firm word to the driver, or we'll be walking back."
     
                "Look,
Mac-Tic, I got a reserved slot in a hot pocket of mud waiting for me," the
driver called as he wheeled the car around. "Five minutes, okay?"
     
                Retief
handed the cabbie a ten credit token and followed Magnan across the scorched
ground to the landing ladder. The Groaci descended, all five eye-stalks canted
in different directions—One on Magnan.
     
                "Minister
Barnshingle," he said in his faint Groac voice before Magnan could speak.
"I am Fiss, Tour Director for Groac Planetary Tours, Incorporated. I assume
you've come to assist in clearing my little flock through the Customs and
Immigration formalities. Now—"
     
                "Tour
Director, did you say, Mr. Fiss?" Magnan cut in. "Fifty shiploads of
tourists?"
     
                "Quite
correct. I can assure you that passports and visas are all in order, and
immunization records are up-to-date.