The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose, with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among a stand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar's arm.
"Keep calm, Georges," he said. "Remember, we're on a diplomatic mission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling of goats."
"Let me at 'em!" Georges roared. "I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands!"
A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. "Look at that long-nosed son!" The goat gave a derisive bleat and took another mouthful of ripe grain.
"Did you see that?" Georges yelled. "They've trained the son of a—"
"Chin up, Georges," Retief said. "We'll take up the goat problem along with the rest."
"I'll murder 'em!"
"Hold it, Georges. Look over there."
A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise, paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then galloped down the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaks billowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-golden grain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep from the ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered, waiting.
Georges scrambled for the side of the car. "Just wait 'til I get my hands on him!"