Galactic Diplomat (22 page)

“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.”

“What are you proposing, Mr. Retief?”

“That we proceed to make planetfall as scheduled, greet our
welcoming committee with wide diplomatic smiles, hint at largesse in the
offing, and settle down to observe the lie of the land.”

“Just what I was about to suggest,” Magnan said.

“That might be dangerous,” Sternwheeler said.

“That’s why I didn’t suggest it,” Magnan said.

“Still it’s essential that we learn more of the situation
than can be gleaned from official broadcasts,” Sternwheeler mused. “Now, while
I can’t justify risking the entire Mission, it might be advisable to dispatch a
delegation to sound out the new regime—”

“I’d like to volunteer,” Magnan said, rising.

“Of course, the delegates may be murdered—”

“—but unfortunately, I’m under treatment at the moment.”
Magnan sat down.

“—which will place us in an excellent position, propaganda-wise.”

“What a pity I can’t go,” the Military Attaché said. “But my
place is with my troops.”

“The only troops you’ve got are the Assistant Attaché and
your secretary,” Magnan pointed out.

“Say, I’d like to be down there in the thick of things,” the
Political Officer said. He assumed a grave expression. “But, of course, I’ll be
needed here, to interpret results.”

“I
appreciate your attitude, gentlemen,” Sternwheeler said, studying the ceiling.
“But I’m afraid I must limit the privilege of volunteering for this hazardous
duty to those officers of more robust physique, under forty years of age—”

“Tsk. I’m forty-one,” Magnan said.

“—and with a reputation for adaptability.” His glance moved
along the table.

“Do you mind if I run along now, Mr. Ambassador?” Retief
said. “It’s time for my insulin shot.”

Sternwheeler’s mouth dropped open.

“Just kidding,” Retief said. “I’ll go. But I have one
request, Mr. Ambassador: no further communication with the ground until I give
the all-clear.”

Retief grounded the lighter in the center of Glave spaceport,
cycled the lock, and stepped out. The hot yellow Glavian sun beat down on a
broad expanse of concrete, an abandoned service cart, and a row of tall ships
casting black shadows toward the silent control tower. A wisp of smoke curled
up from the shed area at the rim of the field. There was no other sign of life.

Retief walked over to the cart, tossed his valise aboard,
climbed into the driver’s seat, and headed for the operations building. Beyond
the port, hills rose, white buildings gleaming against the deep green slopes.
Near the ridge, a vehicle moved ant-like along a winding road, a dust trail
rising behind it. Faintly, the tiny rap! of a distant shot sounded.

Papers littered the ground before the Operations Building.
Retief pushed open the tall glass door, stood listening. Slanting sunlight
reflected from a wide, polished floor, at the far side of which illuminated
lettering over empty counters read IMMIGRATION, HEALTH, and CUSTOMS. He crossed
to the desk, put the valise down, then leaned across the counter. A worried
face under an over-sized white cap looked up at him.

“You can come out now,” Retief said. “They’ve gone.”

The man rose, dusting himself off. He looked over Retief’s
shoulder. “Who’s gone?”

“Whoever it was that scared you.”

“Whatta ya mean? I was looking for my pencil.”

“Here it is.” Retief plucked a worn stub from the pocket of
the soiled shirt sagging under the weight of braided shoulder-boards. “You can
sign me in as a Diplomatic Representative; a break for you—no formalities
necessary. Where can I catch a cab for the city?”

The man eyed Retief’s bag. “What’s in that?”

“Personal belongings under duty-free entry.”

“Guns?”

“No, thanks, just a cab, if you don’t mind.”

“You got no gun?” the man raised his voice.

“That’s right, fellows,” Retief called out. “No gun; no
knife, not even a small fission bomb; just a few pairs of socks and some
reading matter.”

A brown-uniformed man rose from behind the Customs counter,
holding a long-barreled blast-rifle centered on the Corps insignia stitched to
the pocket of Retief’s powder-blue blazer.

“Don’t try nothing,” he said. “You’re under arrest—”

“It can’t be overtime parking; I’ve only been here five
minutes.”

“Hah!” the gun-handler moved out from the counter, came up to
Retief. “Empty out your pockets!” he barked. “Hands over head!”

“I’m just a diplomat, not a contortionist,” Retief said, not
moving. “Do you mind pointing that thing in some other direction?”

“Looky here, Mister, I’ll give the orders. We don’t need
anybody telling us how to run our business—”

“I’m telling you to shift that blaster before I take it away
from you and wrap it around your neck,” Retief said conversationally. The cop
stepped back uncertainly, lowering the gun.

“Jake! Horny! Pud! Come on out!”

Three more brown uniforms emerged from concealment.

“Who are you fellows hiding from? The top sergeant?” Retief
glanced over the ill-fitting uniforms, the unshaved faces, the scuffed boots.
“Tell you what—when he shows up, I’ll engage him in conversation, and you beat
it back to the barracks and grab a quick bath—”

“That’s enough smart talk.” The biggest of the three
newcomers moved up to Retief. “You stuck your nose in at the wrong time. We
just had a change of management around here.”

“I heard about it,” Retief said. “Who do I complain to?”

“Complain? What about?”

“The port’s a mess,” Retief barked. “Nobody on duty to
receive official visitors! No passenger service facilities! Why, do you know I
had to carry my own bag—”

“All right, all right, that’s outside my department. You
better see the boss.”

“The boss? I thought you got rid of the bosses.”

“We did, but now we got new ones.”

“They any better than the old ones?”

“This guy asks too many questions,” the man with the gun
said. “Let’s let Sozier answer ’em.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s the Military Governor of the City.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Retief said. “Lead the way,
Jake—and don’t forget my bag.”

Sozier was a small man with thin hair oiled across a shiny
scalp, prominent ears, and eyes like coal chips set in rolls of fat. He
glowered at Retief from behind a polished desk occupying the center of a
spacious office.

“I warned you off,” he snapped. “You came anyway.” He leaned
forward and slammed a fist down on the desk. “You’re used to throwing your
weight around, but you won’t throw it around here! There’ll be no spies
pussy-footing around Glave!”

“Looking for what, Mr. Sozier?”

“Call me General!”

“Mind if I sit down?” Retief pulled out a chair, seated
himself, and took out a cigar. “Curiously enough,” he said, lighting up, “the
Corps has no intention of making any embarrassing investigations. We deal with
the existing government, no questions asked—” His eyes held the other’s.
“Unless, of course, there are evidences of atrocities or other illegal
measures.”

The coal-chip eyes narrowed. “I don’t have to make
explanations to you or anybody else—”

“Except, presumably, the Glavian Free Electorate,” Retief
said blandly. “But tell me, General—who’s actually running the show?”

A speaker on the desk buzzed. “Hey, Corporal Sozier! Wes’s
got them two hellions cornered. They’re holed up in the Birthday Cake—”

“
General
Sozier, damn you! And plaster your big mouth
shut!” He gestured to one of the uniformed men standing by.

“You! Get Trundy and Little Moe up here—pronto!” He swiveled
back to Retief. “You’re in luck; I’m too busy right now to bother with you. You
get back over to the port and leave the same way you came—and tell your blood-sucking
friends the easy pickings are over as far as Glave’s concerned. You won’t
lounge around here living high and throwing big parties and cooking up deals to
get fat on the expense of the working man.”

Retief dribbled ash on Sozier’s desk and glanced at the green
uniform front bulging between silver buttons.

“Who paid for
your
pot-belly, Sozier?” he inquired
carelessly.

Sozier’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I
could have you shot—”

“Stop playing games with me, Sozier,” Retief rapped. “There’s
a squadron of Peace Enforcers standing by just in case any apprentice statesmen
forget the niceties of diplomatic usage. I suggest you start showing a little
intelligence about now, or even Horny and Pud are likely to notice.”

Sozier’s fingers squeaked on the arms of his chair. He
swallowed.

“You might start by assigning me an escort for a conducted
tour of the capital,” Retief went on. “I want to be in a position to confirm
that order has been re-established, and that normal services have been
restored—otherwise, it may be necessary to send in a Monitor Unit to straighten
things out.”

“You can’t meddle with the internal affairs of a sovereign
world—”

Retief sighed. “The trouble with taking over your boss’s job
is discovering its drawbacks. It’s disillusioning, I know, Sozier—but—”

“All right! Take your tour! You’ll find everything running as
smooth as silk! Utilities, police, transport, environmental control—”

“What about Space Control? Glave Tower seems to be off the
air.”

“I shut it down. We don’t need anything from outside.”

“Where’s the new Premier keeping himself? Does he share your
passion for privacy?”

The general got to his feet. “I’m letting you take your look,
Mr. Big Nose. I’m giving you four hours. Then out! And the next meddling
bureaucrat that tries to cut atmosphere on Glave without a clearance gets
burned!”

“I’ll need a car.”

“Jake! You stick to this bird. Take him to the main power
plant, the water works, and the dispatch center, ride him around town and show
him we’re doing OK without a bunch of leeches bossing us; then dump him at the
port—and see that he leaves.”

“I’ll plan my own itinerary, thanks. I can’t promise I’ll be
finished in four hours—but I’ll keep you advised.”