Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. "You've been here on Groac
for four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that 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."