Diplomat at Arms (4 page)

“Requested?” the Qornt honked.

“Ah . . . demanded,
that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered. Instructed. And, of course, we’ll be
only too pleased to follow any other instructions you might have—”

“You don’t quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary,” Retief
said. “This isn’t—”

“Silence, confound you!” Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt
looked at Retief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth, and
stuffed a length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around and
held him facing Retief.

“If you don’t mind my taking this opportunity to brief you,
Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said blandly, “I think I should mention that this isn’t
an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the Peace Enforcement Corps.”

Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador
Nitworth’s mouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. “We felt,” he said, “that
the establishment of a Foreign Brigade with the P E Corps structure would
provide the element of novelty the Department has requested in our recruiting,
and at the same time would remove the stigma of Terrestrial chauvinism from
future punitive operations.”

Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the
gag, caught the Qornt’s eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides.

“I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun,” Retief
said. Magnan edged closer. “What about the gag?” he whispered.

“Let’s leave it where it is for a while,” Retief murmured.
“It may save us a few concessions.”

An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered
across his desk at Retief and Magnan.

“This entire affair,” he rumbled, “has made me appear to be a
fool!”

“But
we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just how clever you
are,” Magnan burbled.

Nitworth purpled. “You’re skirting insolence, Magnan,” he
roared. “Why was I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at
the sight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced?”

“We tried to get through, but our wave-lengths—”

“Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the
spectacle of those armed horrors advancing.”

“Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking—”

“I did NOT panic!” Nitworth bellowed. “I merely adjusted to
the apparent circumstances. Now, I’m of two minds as to the advisability of
this foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believe the
wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruise in an
uninhabited sector of space—”

The
office windows rattled. “What the devil—!” Nitworth turned, stared out at the
ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale blue light. The
vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third—

Nitworth whirled on Magnan. “What’s this! Who ordered these
recruits to embark without my permission?”

“I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr.
Secretary,” Retief said. “There was that little matter of the Groaci
infiltrating the Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it.”

“Call them back! Call them back at once!”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. They’re under orders to
maintain total communications silence until completion of the mission.”

Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a
thoughtful expression dawned. He nodded. “This may work out,” he said. “I
should call them back, but since the fleet is out of contact, I’m unable to do
so, correct? Thus, I can hardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in
chastising the Groaci.” He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan.

“Very well, gentlemen, I’ll overlook the irregularity this
time. Magnan, see to it the Smørbrødian public are notified they can remain
where they are. And by the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of
the indetectible drive the Qornt use?”

“No, sir. That is, yes, sir.”

“Well? Well?”

“There isn’t any. The Qornt were there all the while.
Underground.”

“Underground? Doing what?”

“Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch.”

Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood
talking to a tall man in a pilot’s coverall.

“I’ll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—your
recruiting scheme, Retief,” Magnan said. “Suppose you run into the city to
assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?”

Magnan raised his eyebrows. “You’re remarkably compliant
today, Retief. I’ll arrange transportation—”

“Don’t bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was
the pilot who ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.”

Magnan nodded curtly.

“I’ll
be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief,” the pilot said. He
moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye. “An uncouth sort, I
fancied. I trust you’re not consorting with his kind
socially . . .”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Retief said. “We just want to
go over a few figures together.”

“For
all their professional detachment from emotional involvement in petty local
issues, tough-minded CDT envoys have ever opened their hearts to long-suffering
peoples striving to cast off the yoke of economic oppression. At Glave,
Ambassador Sternwheeler’s dedicated group selflessly offered their services,
assisting the newly unshackled populace in savoring the first fruits of
freedom . . .”

—Vol. IV, Reel 71, 492 AE (AD 2953)

Retief
turned back the gold-encrusted scarlet cuff of the mess jacket of a First
Secretary and Consul, gathered in the three eight-sided black dice, shook them
by his right ear, and sent them rattling across the floor to rebound from the
bulkhead.

“Thirteen’s the point,” the Power Section Chief called. “Ten
he makes it!”

“Oh . . . Mr. Retief.” A tall thin youth
in the black-trimmed grey of a Third Secretary flapped a sheet of paper from
the edge of the circle surrounding the game. “The Ambassador’s compliments,
sir, and will you join him and the staff in the conference room at
once . . .”

Retief
rose and dusted his knees. “That’s all for now, boys,” he said. “I’ll take the
rest of your money later.” He followed the junior diplomat from the ward room,
along the bare corridors of the crew level, past the glare panel reading
NOTICE—FIRST CLASS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT, through the chandeliered and draped
ballroom and along a stretch of soundless carpet to a heavy door bearing a
placard with the legend CONFERENCE IN SESSION.

“Ambassador Sternwheeler seemed quite upset, Mr. Retief,” the
messenger said.

“He usually is, Pete,” Retief took a cigar from his breast
pocket. “Got a light?”

The Third Secretary produced a permatch. “I don’t know why
you smoke those things instead of dope-sticks, Mr. Retief,” he said. “The
Ambassador hates the smell.”

Retief nodded. “I only smoke this kind at conferences; it
makes for shorter sessions.” He stepped into the room. Ambassador Sternwheeler
eyed him down the length of the conference table.

“Ah, Mr. Retief honors us with his presence. Do be seated,
Retief.” He fingered a yellow Departmental dispatch. Retief took a chair,
puffed out a dense cloud of smoke.

“As I have been explaining to the remainder of my staff for
the past quarter hour,” Sternwheeler rumbled, “I’ve been the recipient of
important intelligence.” He blinked at Retief expectantly. Retief raised his
eyebrows in polite inquiry.

“It seems,” Sternwheeler went on, “that there has been a
change in regime on Glave. A week ago, the government which invited the
dispatch of this mission—and to which we’re accredited—was overthrown. The
former ruling class has fled into exile, and a popular workers’ and peasants’
junta has taken over.”

“Mr. Ambassador,” Counselor Magnan broke in, rising; “I’d
like to be the first—” he glanced around the table—“or one of the first,
anyway—to welcome the new government of Glave into the family of planetary
ruling bodies—”

“Sit down, Magnan!” Sternwheeler snapped. “Of course the
Corps always recognizes
de facto
sovereignty. The problem is merely one
of acquainting ourselves with the policies of this new group—a sort of
blue-collar coalition, it seems. In what position that leaves this Embassy I
don’t yet know.”

“I suppose this means we’ll spend the next month in a parking
orbit,” Counselor Magnan sighed.

“Unfortunately,”
Sternwheeler went on, “the entire affair has apparently been carried off
without recourse to violence, leaving the Corps no excuse to step in—that is,
it appears our assistance in restoring order will not be required.”

“Glave was one of the old Contract Worlds,” Retief said.
“What’s become of the Planetary Manager General and the technical staff?—And
how do the peasants and workers plan to operate the atmospheric purification
system, and weather control station, and the tide-regulation complexes?”

“I’m more concerned at present with the status of the
Mission. Will we be welcomed by these peasants and workers, or peppered with
buckshot?”

“You say that this is a popular junta, and that the former
leaders have fled into exile,” someone said. “May I ask the source of this
information, Mr. Ambassador?”

“The dispatch cites a ‘reliable Glavian source.’”

“That’s officialese for something cribbed from a broadcast
news tape,” Retief commented. “Presumably the Glavian news services are in the
hands of the revolution. In that case—”

“Yes, yes, there is the possibility that the issue is yet in
doubt; of course, we’ll have to exercise caution in making our approach; it
wouldn’t do to make overtures to the wrong side.”

“Oh, I think we need have no fear on that score,” the Chief
of the Political Section spoke up. “I know these entrenched cliques; once
challenged by an aroused populace, they scuttle for safety—with large balances
safely tucked away in neutral banks.”

“I’d like to go on record,” Magnan piped, “as registering my
deep gratification at this fulfillment of popular aspirations—”

“The most popular aspiration I know of is to live high off
someone else’s effort,” Retief said. “I don’t know of anyone outside the Corps
who’s managed it.”

“I’d like to propose that immediate arrangements be made for
a technical mission,” Magnan said. “It’s my experience that one of the most
pressing needs of newly established democracies is—”

“Is someone to tell them how to run what they’ve stolen after
they’ve kicked out the legitimate owners,” Retief suggested.

The Political Officer blinked at Retief. “Are you implying
approval of technocratic totalitarianism?”

“I won’t know,” Retief said, “until I look that up in a
dictionary.”

“Gentlemen!”
Sternwheeler bellowed. “I’m awaiting your constructive suggestions—not an
exchange of political views. We’ll arrive off Glave in less than six hours. I
should like before that time to have developed some notion regarding to whom I
shall expect to offer my credentials!”

There was a discreet tap at the door; it opened and the young
Third Secretary poked his head in.

“Mr. Ambassador, I have a reply to your message—just received
from Glave. It’s signed by the Steward of the GFE, and I thought you’d want to
see it at once . . .”

“Yes, of course; let me have it.”

“What’s the GFE?” someone asked.

“It’s the revolutionary group,” the messenger said, passing
the message over.

“GFE? GFE? What do the letters signify?”

“Glorious Fun Eternally,” Retief suggested. “Or possibly
Goodies For Everybody.”

“I believe that’s ‘Glavian Free Electorate’,” the Third Secretary
said.

Sternwheeler stared at the paper, lips pursed. His face grew
pink. He slammed the paper on the table.

“Well, gentlemen! It appears our worst fears have been
realized! This is nothing less than a warning! A threat! We’re advised to
divert course and by-pass Glave entirely. It seems the GFE wants no
interference from meddling foreign exploiters, as they put it!”

Magnan rose. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Ambassador, I want to
get off a message to Sector HQ to hold my old job for me—”

“Sit down, you idiot!” Sternwheeler roared. “If you think I’m
consenting to have my career blighted—my first Ambassadorial post whisked out
from under me—the Corps made a fool of—”

“I’d like to take a look at that message,” Retief said. It
was passed along to him. He read it.

“I don’t believe this applies to us, Mr. Ambassador.”

“What are you talking about? It’s addressed to me—by name!”

“It merely states that ‘meddling foreign exploiters’ are
unwelcome. Meddling foreigners we are, but we don’t qualify as exploiters unless
we show a profit—and this appears to be shaping up as a particularly profitless
venture.”