Retief-Ambassador to Space (7 page)

 "Retief!"
Magnan piped over the roar of the waters. "The ... the dam broke!"

 Retief
nodded judiciously. "Yes, Mr. Magnan," he said. "I think you
could say that."

 Retief
and Magnan waded past the tattered remains of the soggy huts thrusting up from
the swirling, mud-brown waters that covered the site of the South Skweeman
capital, inundated by the flood that had swept down so abruptly an hour
earlier. Ambassador Treadwater stood with his staff before the remains of the
Chancery hut, waist deep in the flow. "Ah, there you are, Magnan." He
turned to look disapprovingly at the new arrivals. "Remind me to speak to
you about punctuality. I'd almost begun to wonder if you'd met with foul play.
Even considered sending someone after you."

 "Mr.
Ambassador—about all this water—"

 "Hark!"
Someone raised a hand torch, shot its blue-white beam out across the water,
picked up the low silhouette of an inflated dinghy on which a number of
bedraggled, knobby-kneed Groaci crouched. Several Skweemans splashed forward to
intercept the craft.

 "Well,
nice of you to drop in, my dear Shish," Treadwater called. "Most
unfortunate that your engineers have apparently proved unequal to their task.
Possibly their slide-rules were out of adjustment. Still their timing was good,
conflagration wise."

 He
smiled sourly as the staff chuckled dutifully.

 "Bah,
the design was flawless," Shish whispered as the raft bobbed on the
ripples. "We were sabotaged!"

 "Sabotage?"
Treadwater surveyed the Groaci Ambassador as haughtily as his sodden puce
cutaway would allow. "I think you are as aware as I that import of
explosives to an emergent planet like Skweem is quite impossible, but for
certain industrial types allocated to massive engineering projects."

 "You
suggest that Groaci detonants were employed in this dastardly fashion? Why, the
very idea ..." Shish fell sulkily silent.

 "Confidentially,
Retief," Magnan whispered behind his hand, "Just what do you
supposed'd happen to the dam?"

 "Possibly
someone got their wires crossed," Retief murmured.

 "Now,
Mr. Ambassador," Treadwater said. "I fear I shall have to expropriate
your conveyance for official CDT use. I find it necessary to remove to my hill station
at once to prepare my dispatches." He broke off as a muddy scarecrow
faintly recognizable as the Agricultural Attache splashed up to join the group.

 "Did
you notice the current change, Mr. Ambassador?" he cried gaily. "The
water's draining off into the river bed now—and the new channel cut by the
flood is just this side of the border. I fancy we'll have no more interference
from these meddlesome Groaci—oh, Ambassador Shish," he nodded to the
sodden dignitary. "Nice night Your Excellency."

 "Bah,"
Shish replied.

 The
attache was rubbing his hands together. "My preliminary study seems to
indicate that the inundation has deposited a good six inches of new topsoil
over a large portion of South Skweem. All scoured off Northern Skweem, of
course, but then, they
will
allow defective dams to be built on
their land ..." His voice trailed off. He pointed across the rapidly
receding waters. Amid much splashing, a large party of Skweemans was
approaching at a rapid clip.

 "Gad!"
Colonel Pluckwyn boomed. "We're being invaded!"

 "Here,
do something!" Treadwater turned to Shish. "They're your allies! Tell
them to go along quietly and we'll see about a handsome CDT reparation for any
inconvenience—"

-

 "I
claim sanctuary!" Shish whistled in agitation. "Treadwater, it's your
duty to protect me and my chaps from these soreheads!"

 "They
do
appear somewhat irate." Magnan began backing away. "Don't
lose your heads, gentlemen!" Treadwater croaked. "We'll demand the
privileges of honorable prisoners of war—"

 "We
haven't lost, yet," Retief pointed out.

 "An
excellent point, Mr. Retief." The Ambassador reached for the Groaci raft.
"I hereby appoint you as a special committee to meet with these fellows
and study their grievances. If you can drag the talks out for an hour, the rest
of us will go for help."

 "Quite
an honor, my boy," Colonel Pluckwyn said, as he tumbled a faintly
protesting Groaci over the side. "And you merely a Second Secretary."

 "I
don't think we should do anything hasty," Retief said. "Now that the
North Skweemans have had a taste of Groaci sponsorship, they may be ready for
our program."

 Councillor
Lith, showing signs of wear and tear, surfaced beside Retief, having been
replaced by a Terran aboard the raft. "Some day, Terry, the truth of this
affair will out," he hissed in faint Groaci ferocity.

 "Why
be pessimistic?" Retief responded. "If you play your cards right, the
North Skweemans may never learn that the dam was placed so that when the basin
was full you could open the flood gates and wipe out their capital along with
anything that might have been left of South Skweem, leaving an open field for a
Groaci take-over."

 "What?
Are you suggesting—"

 "I'd
suggest dawn as a reasonable deadline," Retief went on. "If you wade
along with Ambassador Treadwater, you can get off a 'gram and have a ship in
here to pick you up by then. I can't guarantee that I can keep it quiet much
longer than that."

 "Hey!"
Dimplick shouted suddenly. "Look at the placard they're waving!"
Retief glanced toward the approaching North Skweemans, coming up rapidly now.

 "Why,
those appear to be hastily lettered pro-Terry slogans," the Political
Officer burst out.

 "Have
you lost your wits?" Treadwater rumbled. He peered through the gloom.
"Hmmm. It appears you're right." He straightened his back. "Just
as I expected, of course. I knew that my policies toward these fellows would
bear fruit, given time." He shot Magnan a reproving look. "A pity you
chose to go junketing just at the climactic point of the finesse. You missed a
valuable lesson in diplomatic subtlety."

 Magnan
opened his mouth, caught a look from Retief, closed it again.

 "I'm
sure we were all fooled by Your Excellency's apparent total inactivity,
sir," he gulped.

 "Exactly."
Treadwater beamed around at the others as the front-runners of the North
Skweeman delegation arrived, uttering cries of delight and pledging eternal
friendship. "It appears we'll have a solid electorate behind us,
gentlemen! My job—that is to say, the future of Terran-Skweeman relations seems
secure. Now, if we just had an adequate Project Proposal to offer Sector
Headquarters, our cup would be brimming." He stepped forward, began
shaking members left to right. "Sir!" Secretary Dimplick bounded
forward. "I've a dandy notion! Why not build a new capital for United
Skweem to replace the former city swept away by the flood?"

 "Of
course!" Colonel Pluckwyn chimed in. "My idea exactly; just waiting
for an appropriate moment to mention it. I'd also suggest a massive aid program
to rectify the other ravages of the disaster."

 "Food!"
the Agricultural Attache shouted. "I think I can justify a schedule of
deliveries under the Chrunchies for Lunchies program that will keep two dozen
Corps bottoms in use for the next fiscal quarter!"

 "Superb,
gentlemen!" Treadwater warbled. "I can see promotions all around—to
say nothing of extra staff, monuments to Skweeman independence and democratic
solidarity, larger operational budgets, and a magnificent new Terran Chancery
rising from the ruins!"

 "Say,
Mr. Retief." The junior Third Secretary plucked at his sleeve. "I
thought these North Skweemans were little better than dacoits and brigands;
suddenly they're welcomed as bosom friends.

 "True,
they're a shifty lot," Retief confided as he accepted a moist Skweeman
handshake. "But who are we to be choosy?"

-

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.