Retief-Ambassador to Space (15 page)

The captain eyed the tiny man in
horror, comparing his height with Retiefs six-three. He shuddered.

"I know," he said into the
phone. "They're already here ..." He dropped the instrument back on
its hook, glanced at his panel, idly reached—

"That reminds me," Retief
said. He pointed the gun at the center of the captain's chest. "Order all
hands to assemble amidships," he said.

"They-they're already
there," the Krultch said unsteadily, his eyes fixed on the gun.

"Just make sure."

The captain depressed a key, cleared
his throat.

"All hands to the central feeding
area, on the double," he said.

There was a moment's pause. Then a
Krultch voice came back: "All except the stand-by crews in power section
and armaments, I guess you mean, Exalted One?"

"I said all hands, damn
you!" the officer snarled. He flipped off the communicator. "I don't
know what you think you'll accomplish with this," he barked. "I have
three hundred fearless warriors aboard this vessel; you'll never get off this
ship alive!"

Two minutes passed. The communicator
crackled. "All hands assembled sir."

"Willie, you see that big white
lever?" Retief said mildly. "Just pull it down, and the next one to
it."

The captain made as to move. The gun
jumped at him. Willie went past the Krultch, wrestled the controls down. Far
away, machinery rumbled. A distinct shock ran through the massive hull, then a
second.

"What was that?" the midget
inquired.

"The disaster bulkheads, sliding
shut," Retief said. "The three hundred fearless warriors are nicely
locked in between them."

The captain slumped, looking stricken.
"How do you know so much about the operation of my vessel?" he
demanded. "It's classified..."

"That's the result of stealing
someone else's plans; the wrong people may have been studying them. Now,
Willie, go let Julius and the rest of the group in; then I think we'll be ready
to discuss surrender terms."

"This is a day that will live in
the annals of treachery," the captain grated hollowly.

"Oh, I don't think it needs to
get into the annals," Retief said. "Not if we can come to a private
understanding, just between gentlemen ..."

It was an hour past sunrise when the
emergency meeting of the Gaspierre Cabinet broke up. Ambassador Sheepshorn,
emerging from the chamber deep in amiable conversation with an
uncomfortable-looking Krultch officer in elaborate full dress uniform, hailed
as he spied Retief.

"Ah, there, my boy! I was a
trifle concerned when you failed to return last evening, but as I was just
pointing out to the captain here, it was really all jutt a dreadful
misunderstanding. Once the Krultch position was made clear—that they really
preferred animal husbandry and folk dancing to any sort of warlike adventures,
the Cabinet was able to come to a rapid and favorable decision online
Peace-and-Friendship Treaty."

"I'm glad to hear that, Mr.
Ambassador," Retief said, nodding to the stony-faced Krultch commander.
"I'm sure we'd all rather engage in friendly competition than have to
demonstrate our negotiating ability any further."

There was a stir at the end of the
corridor; a harried-looking Krultch officer with a grimy Krultch yeoman in tow
appeared, came up to the captain, saluted.

"Exalted One, this fellow has
just escaped from a sort of magical paralysis—"

"It was that one," the
sailor indicated Retief. "Him and the others." He looked
reproachfully at Retief. "That was a dirty trick, telling us that was a
bomb you were planting; we spent a rough night waiting for it to go off before
we found out it was just a dope stick."

"Sorry," Retief said.

"Look, Exalted One," the
sailor went on in a stage whisper. "What I wanted to warn you about, that
Terry—the long one, with the pointed tail and the fiery breath; he's a warlock;
he waves his hands and giant white flying creatures appear—"

"Silence, idiot!" the
captain bellowed. "Have you no powers of observation? They don't merely
produce
birds; any fool could do
that!
They transform themselves! Now get out of
my sight! I plan to enter a monastery as soon as we return home, and I want to
get started on my meditating!" He nodded curtly and clattered away.

"Odd sort of chap," Sheepshorn
commented. "I wonder what he was talking about?"

"Just some sort of in-group joke,
I imagine," Retief said. "By the way, about that group of distressed
Terrans I mentioned to you yesterday—"

"Yes; I may have been a bit
abrupt with them, Retief; but of course I was busy planning my strategy for
today's meeting. Perhaps I was hasty. I hereby authorize you to put in a good
word for them."

"I took the liberty of going a
little further than that," Retief said. "Since the new treaty calls
for Terran cultural missions, I signed a six-months contract with them to put
on shows here on Gaspierre."

Sheepshorn frowned. "You went a
bit beyond your authority, Retief," he snapped. "I'd thought we might
bring in a nice group or two to read classic passages from the Congressional
Record, or perform some of the new silent music, and I had halfway promised the
Groaci Minister I'd have one of his nose-flute troupes—"

"I thought it might be a good
idea to show Terran solidarity, just at this juncture," Retief pointed out.
"Then, too, a demonstration of sword-swallowing, prestidigitation,
fire-eating, juggling, tight-rope walking, acrobatics, and thaumaturgics might
be just the ticket for dramatizing Terran versatility."

Sheepshorn considered with pursed
lips, then nodded. "You may have a valuable point there, my boy; we
Terrans
are
a versatile breed. Speaking of which, I wish you'd been
there to see my handling of the negotiation this morning! One moment I was all
fire and truculence; the next, as smooth as Yill silk."

"A brilliant performance, I
daresay, Mr. Ambassador."

"Yes, indeed." Sheepshorn
rubbed his hands together, chuckling. "In a sense, Retief, diplomacy
itself might be thought of as a branch of show business, eh? Thus, these
performers might be considered colleagues of a sort."

"True; but I wouldn't mention it
when they're within earshot."

"Yes; it might go to their heads.
Well, I'm off, Retief. My report on this morning's work will become a classic
study of diplomatic subtlety."

He hurried away. A Gaspierre with
heavy bifocal lenses edged up to Retief.

I'm with the
Gaspierre Morning
Exhalation
," he wheezed. "Is it true, sir, that you Terries can
turn into fire-breathing dragons at will ... ?"

A second reporter closed in. "I
heard you read minds," he said. "And about this ability to walk
through walls—"

"Just a minute, boys,"
Retief held up a hand. "I wouldn't want to be quoted on this of course,
but just between you and me, here's what actually happened, as soon as the
Ambassador had looked into his crystal ball ..."

 AN
EVENING BREEZE bearing the fragrance of ten-thousand year old Heo trees in
bloom moved across the Embassy dining terrace. In the distance pipes sounded
softly, picking out a haunting melody, like fairy feet retracing a forgotten
path through an enchanted forest. The setting sun, vast and smoky red, cast
crimson shadows along the leaf-shaded streets below.

 "A
pity all this is dying." First Secretary Magnan of the Terran Mission to
Sulinore waved a hand toward the fragile, crumbling towers silhouetted against
the dusk. "In spite of a million years of civilization and a reputation
for immortality, the Sulinorians seems impotent to stem the population decline.
I suppose in a century or less they'll all be gone."

 "With
ninety-nine per cent of the planetary surface devoted to cemeteries, historical
shrines and monuments to the past, there's not much room for the living,"
Second Secretary Retief commented. "And you can tie up a lot of minerals
in a planet-wide graveyard."

 "I
suppose you're referring to their belief that the world's supply of Divine
Effluvium is exhausted," Magnan sniffed. "Mere folklore.of course.
Still, one might almost be tempted to look into the matter of depletion of
essential elements—except that Corps policy forbids poking into local religious
doctrine. And in any event, they won't permit any deep-mining operations which
might disturb the hallowed dead—or the sleeping heroes, as they prefer to put
it."

 Magnan
cocked an eye at the small humanoid waiter standing at a discreet distance,
apparently lost in thought. "One can't help thinking that the modern
Sulinorian is a far cry from his legendary ancestors," he said behind his
hand. "Just compare these civilized little chaps with those ghastly
statues you see everywhere."

 The
local turned, approached the table, a polite expression on his elfin features.

 "You
wished something, sir?"

 "Why,
ah, tell me." Magnan cleared his throat. "How does the Sulinorian in
the street feel about all this? Wouldn't you be willing to see a modest
rock-mining operation set up here to unlock some of those scarce elements that
are tied up in the planetary crust?"

 "Modest,
my lord? The figure I heard was a million metric tons per day per unit, and
Great Tussore knows how many units." He looked toward the ruin-crowned
skyline. "
Rather the easy erosion of eons than eaten by industry's
engines insatiable,"
he quoted. "At least that's what the poet
Eulindore said a couple of millenia ago. Me, I wouldn't know."

 "But
what about importation?" Magnan persisted.

 "Why,
your Administrative Council turned thumbs down flatly on the CDT proposal that
we haul in a few million cubic miles of useful minerals and establish raw
material dumps that all could draw on freely!"

 "I
guess we'd rather look at the landscape the way it is, sir," the
Sulinorian said. "And besides, rooting in a dump isn't our style. You
know, a race of heroes and all that." He flicked an imaginary crumb from
the table. "How about another flagon of ancient wine, my lords? Laid down
by Yodross in the year 574,635. That would be about 3600 B.C., old Terry
reckoning."

 "I
think not—" Magnan broke off as the table-side P.A. unit pinged and lit
up. The plump features of Ambassador Shindlesweet snapped into mirror-bright
focus on the one-way screen.

 "Ah,
gentlemen," the portly diplomat beamed. "It's my pleasure to inform
the staff that the Blug delegation has, after all, been prevailed upon to be
present at the Peace Conference here on Sulinore."

 "What,
those
bloodthirsty little killers?" Magnan gasped. "With their
armor and their opaque atmosphere helmets and their sneaky ways? Why, everybody
knows they're the Groaci's protégés, and responsible for all the
fighting!"

 "At
least that's a dozen or so Blugs that won't be off plundering somewhere—as long
as the conference is on anyway," Retief pointed out.

 "...
a gesture which reflects their sincere desire to see peace restored to the
Sector," Shindlesweet was rumbling on. "And with all due modesty, I
think I may say—"

 A
pale visage sporting five stalked eyes crowded onto the screen, thrusting the
Terrestrial ambassador aside.

 "As
you're perhaps aware," the Groaci ambassador whispered in his faint voice,
"it was through my efforts as co-sponsor of the present talks that this
happy eventuality was brought about. And—"

 "Look
here, Mr. Ambassador," Shindlesweet muttered from the side of his mouth,
turning a glassy smile to the camera. "I was on the air first!"

 "Hogging
the limelight, as usual, George," the Groaci hissed. "An unfortunate
habit of yours. But as I was saying," he addressed the screen, "I was
able, through deft handling of a number of sensitive issues—"

 "Now
just a minute, Shith!" The Terran forced his way back to center screen.
"When I agreed to lend the weight of Terran participation to your
confounded gab-fest, I—"

 "Ha!
You begged me on bended anterior ginglymus joint to be permitted to crowd
in!"

 "Why,
you little—"

 "Ah-ah,"
Ambassador Shith admonished. "No racial epithets, George. Open mike,
remember?"

 Retief
and Magnan had a last quick glimpse of Shindlesweet's rage-flushed features as
he reached to blank the screen.

 "Well,
the peace talks are off to a rousing start," Retief said cheerfully.
Magnan shook his head, looking grave.

 "I
foresee no good to come of this gathering." He rose and looked at his watch.
"We've time for a constitutional before dinner, Retief. And if we're to
dine cheek by mandible with our Groaci colleagues at tonight's banquet, I for
one have need of a hearty appetite."

 A
block from the renovated palace housing the Terran Chancery, Magnan plucked at
Retief's arm.