LITMIR.BIZ

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put the present government in power?”

      “I’m sure I haven’t pried into—”

      “What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out this way about ten years back?”

      “Mr. 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 they 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 face was set in lines of grim disapproval as he closed the door.

      * * * *

      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 dialect 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!”

      “OK, 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, 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 was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink from the bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze in mid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.

      “To enjoy a cooling drink,” Retief said in Groacian, squatting down at the edge of the pit. “To sample a true Groacian beverage.”

      “To not enjoy my poor offerings,” the Groacian mumbled. “A pain in the digestive sacs; to express regret.”

      “To not worry,” Retief said, irritated. “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, found none. The Groaci customers, eyes elsewhere, were drifting away.

      “To get the lead out,” Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in the dish provided. “To shake a tentacle.”

      “The procuring of a cage,” a thin voice called from the sidelines. “The displaying of a 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 own stinking 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 drunk out the door. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief looked at the weaving alien.

      “To begone, freak,” the Groacian whispered.

      “To be pals,” Retief said. “To be kind to dumb animals.”

      “To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock.”

      “To not be angry, fragrant native,” Retief said. “To permit me to chum with you.”

      “To flee before I take a cane to you!”

      “To have a drink together—”

      “To not endure such insolence!” The Groacian advanced toward Retief. Retief backed away.

      “To hold hands,” Retief said. “To be palsy-walsy—”

      The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him, head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrow crossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local, who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrow alley-like passage, deserted, silent…except for the following Groacian.

      Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacian fell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose; Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed.

      “To not be going anywhere for a few minutes,” Retief said. “To stay right here and have a nice long talk.”

      II

      “There you are!” Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. “There are two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen.”

      “Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast.” Retief pulled off his cape. “This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the Foreign Ministry.”

      “What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don’t mind telling you.”

      “I’m sure you don’t. Come along. And bring an official recorder.”

      Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornaments indicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered a courteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right.

      “I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr. Consul,” the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. “May I present Shluh, of the Internal Police?”

      “Sit down, gentlemen,” Retief said. They resumed their seats. Miss Meuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair.

      “Oh, it’s such a pleasure—” she began.

      “Never mind that,” Retief said. “These gentlemen didn’t come here to sip tea today.”

      “So true,” Fith said. “Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report, Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it.” He nodded to the police chief.

      “One

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