Diplomat at Arms (20 page)

“And don’t feel bad about your project’s going awry,” said
Retief. “In the words of the Prophet, ‘Stolen goods are never sold at a loss.’
”

“A remarkable about-face, Retief,” Magnan said. “Let this be
a lesson to you. A stern Note of Protest can work wonders.”

“A lot depends on the method of delivery,” Retief said.

“Nonsense. I knew all along the Aga Kagans were a reasonable,
peace-loving people. One of the advantages of senior rank, of course, is the
opportunity to see the big picture. Why, I was saying only this morning—”

The desk screen broke into life. The mottled jowls of
Under-Secretary Sternwheeler appeared.

“Magnan! I’ve just learned of the Flamme affair. Who’s
responsible?”

“Why, ah . . . I suppose that I might be
said—”

“This is your work, is it?”

“Well . . . Mr.
Retief did play the role of messenger—”

“Don’t pass the buck, Magnan!” the Under-Secretary barked.
“What the devil went on out there?”

“Why, just a routine Protest Note. Everything is quite in
order—”

“Bah! Your over-zealousness has cost me dear. I was feeding
Flamme to the Aga Kaga to consolidate our position of moral superiority for
use as a lever in a number of important negotiations. Now they’ve backed out.
The Aga Kaga emerges from the affair wreathed in virtue. You’ve destroyed a
very pretty finesse in power politics, Mr. Magnan! A year’s work down the
drain!”

“But I thought—”

“I doubt that, Mr. Magnan. I doubt that very much!” The
Under-Secretary rang off.

“This is a fine turn of events,” Magnan groaned. “Retief, you
know very well Protest Notes are merely intended for the historical record; no
one ever takes them seriously.”

“You and the Aga Kaga ought to get together,” said Retief.
“He’s a great one for citing historical parallels. He’s not a bad fellow, as a
matter of fact. I have an invitation from him to visit Kaga and go mud-pig
hunting. He was so impressed by Corps methods that he wants to be sure we’re on
his side next time. Why don’t you come along?”

“Mmmm. Perhaps I should cultivate him. A few high-level
contacts never do any harm. On the other hand, I understand he lives in a very
loose way, feasting and merry-making. Frivolous in the extreme. No wife, I
understand, but hordes of light-clad women about. And in that connection, the
Aga Kagans have some very curious notions as to what constitutes proper hospitality
to guests.”

Retief rose, pulled on the powder blue cloak and black velvet
gauntlets of a Career Minister.

“Don’t let it worry you,” he said. “You’ll have a great time.
And as the Aga Kaga would say, ‘Ugliness is the best safeguard of virginity.’”

            First
Secretary Jame Retief of the Terran Embassy pushed open the conference room
door and ducked as a rain of plaster chips clattered down from the ceiling. The
chandelier, a baroque construction of Yalcan glasswork, danced on its chain,
fell with a crash on the center of the polished greenwood table. Across the
room, drapes fluttered at glassless windows which rattled in their frames in
resonance with the distant
crump-crump!
of gunfire.

            "Mr.
Retief, you're ten minutes late for staff meeting!" a voice sounded from
somewhere. Retief stooped, glanced under the table. A huddle of eyes stared
back.

            "Ah,
there you are, Mr. Ambassador, gentlemen," Retief greeted the Chief of
Mission and his staff. "Sorry to be tardy, but there was a brisk little
aerial dogfight going on just over the Zoological Gardens. The Gloys are
putting up a hot resistance to the Blort landings this time."

            "And
no doubt you paused to hazard a wager on the outcome," Ambassador
Biteworse snapped. "Your mission, sir, was to deliver a sharp rebuke to
the Foreign Office regarding the latest violations of the Embassy! What have
you to report?"

            "The
Foreign Minister sends his regrets. He was just packing up to leave. It looks
as though the Blorts will be reoccupying the capital about dinnertime."

            "What,
again? Just as I'm on the verge of re-establishing a working rapport with His
Excellency?"

             "Oh,
but you have a dandy rapport with His Blortian Excellency, too," the voice
of Counsellor of Embassy Magnan sounded from his position well to the rear.
"Remember, you were just about to get him to agree to a limited
provisional preliminary symbolic partial cease-fire covering left-handed bloop
guns of calibre .25 and below!"

            "I'm
aware of the status of the peace talks!" Bite-worse cut him off. The
peppery diplomat emerged, rose and dusted off the knees of his pink- and
green-striped satin knee-breeches, regulation early afternoon semi-informal
dress for top three graders of the
Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne
on
duty on prenuclear worlds.

            "Well,
I suppose we must make the best of it." He glared at his advisors as they
followed his lead, ranging themselves at the table around the shattered remains
of the chandelier as the chatter and rumble of gunfire continued outside.
"Gentlemen, in the nine months since this Mission was accredited here on
Plushnik II, we've seen the capital change hands four times. Under such
conditions, the shrewdest diplomacy is powerless to bring to fruition our
schemes for the pacification of the system. Nevertheless, today's despatch from
Sector indicates that unless observable results are produced prior to the
upcoming visit of the Inspectors, a drastic reassessment of the personnel
requirements may result—and I'm sure you know what that means!"

            "Ummm.
We'll all be fired." Magnan brightened at a thought. "Unless,
perhaps, Your Excellency points out that after all, as Chief of Mission, you're
the one"—he paused as he noted the expression on the Biteworse
features—"the one who suffered most," he finished weakly.

            "I
need not remind you," the Ambassador bored on relentlessly, "that alibis
fail to impress visiting inspection teams! Results, gentlemen! Those are what
count! Now, what proposals do I hear for new approaches to the problem of
ending this fratricidal war which even now ..."

            The
ambassadorial tones were drowned by the deep-throated snarl of a rapidly
approaching internal-combustion engine. Glancing out the window, Retief saw a
bright blue twin-winged aircraft corning in from the northwest at treetop
level, outlined against the sky-filling disk of the planet's sister world, Plushnik
I. The late-afternoon sun glinted from the craft's polished wooden propellor
blades; its cowl-mounted machine guns sparkled as they hosed a stream of
tracers into the street below.

            "Take
cover!" the Military Attache barked and dived for the table. At the last
instant, the fighter plane banked sharply up, executed a flashy slow roll and
shot out of sight behind the chipped tile dome of the Temple of Erudition
across the park.

            .
"This is too much!" Biteworse shrilled from his position behind a
bullet-riddled filing cabinet. "That was an open, overt attack on the
Chancery! A flagrant violation of interplanetary law!"

            "Actually,
I think he was after a Gloian armored column in the park," Retief said.
"All we got was the overkill."

            "Inasmuch
as you happen to be standing up, Mr. Retief," Biteworse called, "I'll
thank you to put a call through on the hot line to Lib Glip at the Secretariat.
I'll lodge a protest that will make his caudal cilia stand on end!"

            Retief
pressed buttons on the compact CDT issue field rig which had been installed to
link the Embassy to the local governmental offices. Behind him, Ambassador
Biteworse addressed the staff:

            "Now,
while it's necessary to impress on the Premier the impropriety of shooting up a
Terran Mission, we must hold something in reserve for future atrocities. I
think we'll play the scene using a modified Formula Nine image: Kindly
Indulgence tinged with Latent Firmness, which may at any moment crystallize
into Reluctant Admonition, with appropriate overtones of Gracious
Condescension."

            "How
would you feel about a dash of Potential Impatience, with maybe just a touch of
Appropriate Reprisals?" the Military Attache suggested.

            "We
don't want to antagonize anyone with premature sabre-rattling, Colonel,"
Biteworse frowned a rebuke.

            "Hmmm."
Magnan pulled at his lower lip. "A masterful approach as you've outlined
it, Your Excellency. But I wonder if we mightn't add just the teeniest hint of
Agonizing Reappraisal?"

            Biteworse
nodded approvingly. "Yes—an element of the traditional might be quite in
order."

            A moment
later the screen cleared to reveal a figure lolling in an easy chair,
splendidly clad in an iridescent Bromo Seltzer blue tunic, open over an exposed
framework of leathery-looking ribs from which gaily be-jeweled medals dangled
in rows. From the braided collar, around which a leather strap was slung
supporting a pair of heavy Japanese-made binoculars, a stout neck extended,
adorned along its length with varicolored patches representing auditory,
olfactory, and radar organs, as well as a number of other senses the nature of
which was still unclear to Terran physiologists. At the tip of the stem, a trio
of heavy-lidded eyes stared piercingly at the diplomats.

            "General
Barf!" Biteworse exclaimed. "But I was calling the Premier!
How—what—"

            "Evening,
Hector," the general said briskly. "I made it a point to seize the
Secretariat first, this trip." He brought his vocalizing organ up on the
end of its tentacle to place it near the audio pick-up. "I've been meaning
to give you a ring, but I'll be damned if I could remember how to operate this
thing."

            "General,"
Biteworse cut in sharply, "I've grown accustomed to a certain amount of
glass breakage during these, ah, readjustment periods, but—"

            "I
warned you against flimsy construction," the general countered. "And
I assure you, I'm always careful to keep that sort of thing at a minimum. After
all, there's no telling who'll be using the facilities next, eh?"

            "...
but this is an entirely new category of outrage!" Biteworse bored on.
"I've just been bombed and strafed by one of your aircraft! The scoundrel
practically flew into the room! It's a miracle I survived!"

            "Now,
Hector, you know there are no such things as miracles," the Blortian
officer chuckled easily. "There's a perfectly natural explanation of your
survival, even if it does seem a bit unreasonable at first glance."

            "This
is no time to haggle over metaphysics!" Biteworse shook a finger at the
screen. "I demand an immediate apology, plus assurances that nothing of
the sort will occur again until after my transfer!"

            "Sorry,
Hector," the general said calmly. "I'm afraid I can't guarantee that
a few wild rounds won't be coming your way during the course of the night. This
isn't a mere commando operation this time; now that I've secured my beachhead,
I'm ready to launch my full-scale Spring Offensive for the recovery of our
glorious homeland. Jump-off will be in approximately eight hours from now; so
if you'd care to synchronize chronometers—"

            "An
all-out offensive? Aimed at this area?"

            "You
have a fantastic grasp of tactics," Barf said admiringly. "I intend
to occupy the North Continent first, after which I'll roll up the Gloian
Divisions like carpets in all directions!"

            "But—my
Chancery is situated squarely in the center of the capital! You'll be carrying
your assault directly across the Embassy grounds!"

            "Well,
Hector, I seem to recall it was you who selected the site for your
quarters—"

            "I
asked for neutral ground!" Biteworse shrilled. "I was assigned the
most fought-over patch on the planet!"

            "What
could be more neutral than no-man's-land?" General Barf inquired in a
reasonable tone.

            "Gracious,"
Magnan whispered to Retief. "Barf sounds as though he may be harboring
some devious motivation behind that open countenance."

            "Maybe
he has a few techniques of his own," Retief suggested. "This might be
his version of the Number Twenty-three Leashed Power gambit, with a side order
of Imminent Spontaneous Rioting."

            "Heavens,
do you suppose ...? But he hasn't had time to learn the finer nuances; he's
only been in the business for a matter of months."

            "Perhaps
it's just a natural aptitude for diplomacy."

            "That's
possible; I've observed the intuitive fashion in which he distinguishes the
bonded whiskey at cocktail parties."

            "...
immediate cessation of hostilities!" the Ambassador was declaring.
"Now, I have a new formula, based on the battle lines of the tenth day of
the third week of the Moon of Limitless Imbibing, as modified by the truce
team's proposals of the second week of the Moon of Ceaseless Complaining,
up-dated in accordance with Corps Policy Number 746358-b, as amended—"