Diplomat at Arms (25 page)

            "Well,
Ben," Smallfrog said sternly, "I trust you have some compelling
explanation for that outburst."

            "Sure,
sir. This ... bug ... or whatever ..." He held up a duplicate of the
creature the Ambassador was displaying. "It landed in my lap. It just sort
of sprang at me."

            "Keep
cool, Ben," Smallfrog commanded. "I'll soon get to the bottom of
this." He glared at the small twitching creature in his hand. It gave a
sudden leap and flew across the white-linened table. Other small creatures were
twitching and leaping among the crystal and silver.

            "Serving
live shrimp at table," Smallfrog boomed. "Possibly the chef's idea of
a capital jape." His tone indicated that he did not share the cook's taste
in practical humor.

            "Excuse
me, Mr. Ambassador, gentlemen," Magnan said, rising purposefully and
moving off toward the door.

            "You,
too, are grieved by the plight of the little fellows?" D'ong called
solicitously after him. "Lost your appetite at the thought of such
misfortune, eh? By the way, Retief, I note that a number of their fellows have
suffered a similar unhappy fate in
your
pudding." He indicated
Retief s untouched shrimp cocktail.

            "Yoo-hoo,"
Magnan carolled from across the room, hesitating at the kitchen door. The
portal burst open and a tall, wide, well-muscled fellow in dirty whites, with
an apron and chefs toque to match, emerged, folded arms like ham hocks and
stared at Magnan.

            "You
yodeling for me, mister?" he demanded. "What's the beef?"

            "Ah,
yes, the beef. You may serve it any time you're ready," Magnan improvised,
as Retief joined him.

            "Too
right, Jack. But I don't like civilians hanging around my kitchen giving me
hints, get it?"

            "Got
it," Magnan agreed hastily. "Now, as for your rather unusual, er,
appetizer ..."

            "Whatta
ya talking, appetizer? You got no appetite, whatta ya eating for? You could
afford to drop a little weight, you know, chum. You're skinny, but you got a
nice little pot corning along there. Now I got to go water the wine."

            "Sir,
you are insolent," Magnan observed tartly.

            "Whatsa
matter, chum, you can't get along with the help?" the cook inquired
tonelessly, and made a note on his cuff.

            "Why,
gracious, no, I mean, yes," Magnan babbled. "Shucks, I'm known
throughout the corps for my ability to absorb insolence from menials. One of my
strongest suits, actually."

            "Called
me a menial," the cook muttered, jotting.

            "OK,
chum, that's it for today. Come around lots." He turned away. Retief
followed him into the kitchen.

            Magnan
was waiting nervously when Retief emerged five minutes later. "Well?"
he demanded, "What's his explanation?"

            "He
didn't have one."

            "In
that case we'll have to improvise. Suppose we tell their Excellencies live
shrimp cocktails are all the rage back on Terra. You know how the great adore
novel modes."

            "Why
not tell them the truth?"

            "Whatever
for, Retief? I mean, how can we, since George didn't choose to explain?"

            "George
had nothing to do with it. He boiled the shrimp like he always does."

            Back at
the table, the two junior officers resumed their chairs, ignored by D'ong and
Smallfrog, deep in conversation. The leaping shrimp were no longer in evidence.

            "Of
course, Mr. Minister," the Terran Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister
Plenipotentiary was saying in the tone of Warm Congratulation (271-C) he always
employed when addressing aliens. "I adore tea—but alas, none was included
in our stores. Perhaps a nip of brandy instead ...?"

            "If
I might request a pot of hot water," D'ong said diffidently, "I think
I can offer a solution."

            Magnan
trotted away to deliver the requisition.

            "Hot
water? Hmmph!" Smallfrog muttered as Magnan returned.

            "Gracious,"
Magnan murmured behind his hand to Retief. "All this fuss over what was
intended to be a cosy little tete-a-tete, to make some mileage with the Grotes
before that sneaky little Ambassador Shiss has a chance to start toadying up to
poor dear D'ong. He's such an innocent, really. A shrewd interplanetary
negotiator, of course, but so naive in practical matters. And now this question
of drowned pets has him all upset. And Ambassador Smallfrog is never at his
best when faced with the paradoxical. I suggest we slip out and keep an eye on
the Groaci Embassy. Perhaps Shiss has something to do with this foolish
practical joke."

            "Just
put it down, my man," the Grotian Foreign Minister said quietly as George
loomed, pot in hand. "Leave four cups."

            Magnan
lifted the lid of the handsome Yalcan teapot and peeked inside. He sniffed.
"Hot water," he said sadly. "Just as his Excellency
specified."

            "Would
I louse up an order, pal?" George said cheerfully, and went away.

            "Cheeky
fellow," D'ong said. George paused to jot quickly.

            "Excellent
cook, though, of course," the Grotian added in a stage whisper.

            "So.
Hot water to top off a lunch of live shrimp and dead issues," Smallfrog
remarked with the joviality of a hangman inquiring as to the most comfortable
adjustment of the knot.

            "Ah,
sir, as to the rather unusual events—" Magnan started, only to be cut off
by a peremptory Ambassadorial gesture.

            "Never
explain, Magnan. Unless I order you to, of course. With your friends it isn't
necessary, and with your superiors it doesn't work. An interesting entry in
your form 163-9, Ben: "This officer has an unusual sense of humor.'
Perhaps it won't sound
too
bad when the Promotion Board is mulling it
over. Shall I pour?" He lifted the pot.

            "Hot
water, Mr. Minister?" he inquired tonelessly of D'ong who eagerly offered
his cup for filling.

            "I'm
sure Your. Excellency appreciates Magnan's little jest," Smallfrog said
heartily.

            "But,
sir, I—" Magnan's voice trailed off. Smallfrog whipped out a pen and made
a note on the tablecloth. "Decided to ignore my instruction never to
explain, eh?" he muttered.

            "I
wasn't going to explain. It's all George's fault, obviously. I was just going
to tell you—"

            "What,
you
tell
me?"
the great man inquired in a tone of Stunned
Incredulity (702-c). "Never pass the buck to an inferior, Ben," he
added sternly.

            "Sir,
if you knew the half of it, you'd doubtless have occasion to use your
709-x." (Total Astonishment)

            "Try
my b," Smallfrog said, registering Near-Total Astonishment. "Magnan,
you amaze me. I always thought you a highly career-motivated chap, but now, suddenly,
you pile the Pela of insolence atop the Ossion of incompetence. To say nothing
of the live shrimp."

            "No
matter, Freddy," D'ong said soothingly, as he groped in a side pocket with
a seven-fingered hand and brought out a small niter-paper packet, limp and
stained, with a short length of string attached. Calmly he dipped it into his
cup, the contents of which immediately turned a rich amber. He withdrew the bag
and with a courteous nod, dunked it into Smallfrog's cup, then, in turn, into
Magnan's and Retief's, dyeing each the same deep color.

            Smallfrog
hesitated, then lifted his cup and sipped carefully. A smile contorted his
meaty features. "Gad, sir," he said. "Orange Pekoe, my favorite.
Ann Page, too, if my palate serves me aright."

            Magnan
tried his. It was tea, no doubt of it.

            "A
delightful affair," D'ong said, rising. "I really must hurry off now.
I have a pressing appointment at three." He bustled away, employing
approximately five short legs in a gait more rapid than graceful, Retief
escorting him.

            "Charming
fellow," Magnan mused, still sipping his tea.

            "Harrumph,"
Smallfrog said by way of prologue. "Gentlemen, I don't need to tell you
... this is a critical moment for Terry-Grote relations. Lying as it does
squarely athwart the lanes of expansion of Terran Manifest Destiny, Grote,
though a trivial world in itself, can pose an awkward problem should Groaci
influence become dominant here. But I must ask you, Ben. Did you see what
I
saw? Or am I hallucinating?"

            "Hallucinating,
sir? Oh, hardly that, sir. After all, all you've had is some ketchup and a cup
of hot water."

            "Skip
all that, Ben. But did you see what that fellow
did?
Brewed four cups of
hearty tea from a single tea bag. By gad, sir, there's a trick that will cinch
that Deputy Under-Secretary slot for me if I can report how it's done. That is
to say, an apparent suspension of natural law such as this must surely be
looked into!"

            "To
be sure," Magnan agreed suavely. "And I imagine it would be a feather
in the cap of the officer who is able to bring the information to you." He
rose. "I'd best hurry off at once and tell Retief."

            "Sit
down, Magnan. I fear you don't fully appreciate the gravity of the matter I've
entrusted to you. Never mind about whatsizname: see to it you don't let the secret
of the tea slip from our grasp. Start by following D'ong. See what you can
discover about his habits, way of life, all that. If you succeed in this
mission, tea bag-wise, there may be laurels in the offing for you yet. That's
all. I'm counting on you, Ben."

-

            "At
ease, Jim," Magnan said testily as the big Marine sergeant at the Embassy
gate snapped to Present Arms. "Did anyone go out just now?"

            "Yessir.
Went thataway." Jim rolled his eyes to the right, indicating the broad
avenue curving away under the shady boughs of the imported heo trees.

            "Funny
thing." Jim grounded his power gun, abandoning the attempt to maintain the
Position of a Soldier. "For a second I didn't get it: saw him come ankling
down the steps and along the walk—D'ong, it was, nice guy, usually stops to
chat a minute, you know— but this time he did some kind of a tricky side-step
and jumped right out of sight. Back of the bushes, I guess. Figured he hadda
take a leak or whatever these guys do after a few beers—but I checked and nope—nobody
there except Mr. Prutty from the Econ Section smooching that neat little
secretary of his, Miss Rump-well. That's some duty, Mr. Magnan: while I got to
stand out here four on, eight off, this clown gets ten times my pay for keeping
the help harmoniously adjusted to life at a hardship post—leastways that's what
he told me while she was getting her buttons done up. Some guys have all the
luck: I invited her out three times and got a chill-off that'd give a Eskimo
frostbite, and then she goes for that crummy civilian—no offense, Mr.
Magnan."

            "None
taken, Jimmy, but to return to Foreign Minister D'ong: what explanation did he
offer when he emerged?"

            "That's
the screwy part, Mr. Magnan, he didn't, I mean he didn't emerge-like. Next I
seen of him he was back outside the gate moving right along. But I swear he
never passed me."

            "Hmmmm
... that seems rather odd, Jimmy: he came down the steps and along the walk,
you say, and then down the street—without passing through the gate. Perhaps you
dozed for a moment."

            "Not
me, Mr. Magnan. What I figure, there's a secret passage or like that, he ducked
into."

            "But
why, Jimmy?"

            "Beats
me, Mr. Magnan. But come to think of it, I seen that little Groaci nose-picker,
Fishfilth, or whatever, hanging around acrost the street. Had a little pink
parasol, made him look like a five-eyed Madame Butterfly. Maybe he had
something to do with it, huh?"

            "I
suggest you forget the matter, Sergeant," Magnan said stiffly.
"Perhaps you blinked at just the moment he slipped past. No point in
blowing it up into an interplanetary issue."

            "OK,
but I'm gonna keep a sharp eye on the next local comes in here."

            "Quite
right, my boy. Now I must be off. By the way, if Foreign Minister D'ong or Mr.
Retief should pass by in the next few minutes, just detain them in a casual way
until I get back."

            "I'll
see what I can do. You don't want me to arrest anybody, I guess."

            "Gracious,
no, Jimmy. Arrest? Whatever for?" Magnan passed through the great
wrought-iron gate and hurried away along Embassy Row. He passed the high board
fence which concealed the deep mud-pit which was the Yalcan Consulate General,
the placid pond under which lay the Rockamorran Legation, and the haughty
classic facade of the Sulinoran Mission to Grote. Next there was a broad vacant
lot with a "For Loan" sign almost invisible among the pizzle-weeds,
then the low, unprepossessing structure housing the Jaque Chancery. Beyond it,
impregnable behind a high stone wall, the Groaci Embassy resembled an Assyrian
maximum-security prison as visualized by Cecil B. De Mille. Magnan slowed to a
casual saunter, veering close to the plate-steel gate to dart a quick glance
through the four-inch keyhole.