Diplomat at Arms (17 page)

“Sorry,” Retief said. “I’ll be tied up. I’m taking a month
off. Maybe more.”

“What’s that?” Magnan’s head came up. “You seem to forget—”

“I’m trying, Mr. Secretary. Goodbye now.” Retief reached out
and flipped the key. Magnan’s face faded from the screen. Retief stood up.

“Chip, we’ll crack that keg when I get back.” He turned to
Freya.

“Freya,” he said, “do you think you could teach me to ski by
moonlight?”

“For
all its spirit of detachment from petty local issues, the Corps was never slow
to interpose its majestic presence in the path of injustice. Under-Secretary
Sternwheeler’s classic approach to the problem of Aga Kagan aggression at
Flamme testified to the efficacy of tried diplomatic procedures backed by the
profound prestige of the Corps . . .”

—Vol. XV, Reel 3, 494 AE (AD 2955)

“I’m
not at all sure,” Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, “that I fully understand
the necessity of your absenting yourself from your post of duty at this time,
Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealt with in the usual
way—assuming any action is necessary.”

“I had a sharp attack of writer’s cramp, Mr. Secretary,”
Retief said. “So I thought I’d better come along in person—just to be sure of
making my point.”

“I seem to recall seeing a dispatch or two on the subject,”
Deputy Under-Secretary Magnan put in. “Unfortunately, this being
end-of-the-fiscal-year time, we found ourselves quite inundated with reports.
Reports, reports, reports—”

“Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan?”
the Under-Secretary barked.

“Gracious, no. I love reports—”

“It seems nobody’s told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years,”
Retief said. “They’re going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing on
Flamme. So far, I’ve persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for the Corps,
and not to take matters into their own hands.”

The Under-Secretary nodded. “Quite right. Carry on along the
same lines. Now, if there’s nothing further—”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” Magnan said, rising. “We
certainly appreciate your guidance—”

“There is a little something further,” said Retief, sitting
solidly in his chair. “What’s the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans?”

The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. “As
Minister to Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomatic
representative is merely to . . . what shall I
say . . . ?”

“String them along?” Magnan suggested.

“An unfortunate choice of phrase,” the Under-Secretary said.

“However, it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics.
The Corps must concern itself with matters of broad policy—”

“Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to
settle Flamme,” Retief said. “They were assured of Corps support.”

“I don’t believe you’ll find that in writing,” said the
Under-Secretary blandly. “In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time
a foothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Now the
situation has changed.”

“The
Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme,” Retief said. “They’re
cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set out forests. They’ve
just about reached the point where they can begin to enjoy it. The Aga Kagans
have picked this as a good time to move in. They’ve landed thirty detachments
of ‘fishermen’—complete with armored trawlers mounting 40mm infinite
repeaters—and two dozen parties of ‘homesteaders’—all male and toting rocket
launchers.”

“Surely
there’s land enough on the world to afford space to both groups,” the
Under-Secretary said. “A spirit of cooperation—”

“The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago. They
tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in, help them beat back some of the saurian
wildlife that liked to graze on people. The Aga Kagans didn’t want to play. The
Corps didn’t like the idea either; they wanted to see an undisputed
anti-Concordiatist enclave. But now that the world is tamed, the squatters are
moving in.”

“The
exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy—”

“I
want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,” Retief said.
“The Boyars are a little naïve; they don’t understand diplomatic triple-speak.
They just want to hold onto the homes they’ve made out of a wasteland.”

“I’m warning you, Retief!” the Under-Secretary snapped,
leaning forward, wattles quivering. “Corps policy with regard to Flamme
includes no inflammatory actions based on out-moded concepts. The Boyars will
have to accommodate themselves to the situation!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Retief said. “They’re not going
to sit still and watch it happen. If I don’t take back concrete evidence of
Corps backing, we’re going to have a nice hot little shooting war on our
hands.”

The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips, drummed his fingers
on the desk. “Confounded hot-heads,” he muttered. “Very well, Retief. I’ll go
along to the extent of a Note; but no further.”

“A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of
Corps Peace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme—”

“Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the
best I can do. That’s final.”

Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. “When will you
learn not to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you actively dislike
the idea of a promotion. I was astonished at the Under-Secretary’s restraint.
Frankly, I was stunned when he actually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will
have to draft it.” Magnan pulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. “Now, I wonder,
should I view with deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out
an apparent violation of technicalities . . .”

“Don’t bother,” Retief said. “I have a draft all ready to
go.”

“But how—?”

“I had a feeling I’d get paper instead of action. I thought
I’d save a little time all around.”

“At times your cynicism borders on impudence.”

“At other times it borders on disgust. Now, if you’ll run the
Note through for signature, I’ll try to catch the six o’clock shuttle.”

“Leaving
so soon? There’s an important reception tonight. Some of our biggest names will
be there. An excellent opportunity for you to join in the diplomatic
give-and-take.”

“No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in
something mild, like a dinosaur hunt.”

“When you get there, I hope you’ll make it clear that this
matter is to be settled without violence.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep the peace, if I have to start a war
to do it.”

On the broad veranda at Government House, Retief settled
himself comfortably in a lounge chair, accepted a tall glass from a
white-jacketed waiter, and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, a gorgeous
blaze of vermilion and purple that reflected from a still lake, tinged the
broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars among flower beds.

“You’ve done great things here in sixty years, Georges,” said
Retief. “Not that natural geological processes couldn’t have produced the same
results, given a couple of hundred million years.”

“Don’t belabor the point,” the Boyar Chef d’Regime said,
“—since we seem to be on the verge of losing it.”

“You’re forgetting the Note.”

“A
Note,” Georges said, waving his cigar. “What the purple polluted hell is a Note
supposed to do? I’ve got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers camped in the middle of what
used to be a fine stand of barley, cooking sheep’s brains over dung fires not
ten miles from Government House—and up-wind at that.”

“Say, if that’s the same barley you distill your whiskey
from, I’d call that a first-class atrocity.”

“Retief,
on your say-so, I’ve kept my boys on a short leash. They’ve put up with plenty.
Last week, while you were away, these barbarians sailed that flotilla of
armor-plated junks right through the middle of one of our best oyster breeding
beds. It was all I could do to keep a bunch of our men from going out in
private helis and blasting ’em out of the water.”

“That wouldn’t have been good for the oysters, either.”

“That’s what I told ’em. I also said you’d be back here in a
few days with something from Corps HQ. When I tell ’em all we’re got is a piece
of paper, that’ll be the end. There’s a strong vigilante organization here
that’s been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn’t held them back with
assurances that the CDT would step in and take care of this invasion, they
would have hit them before now.”

“That would have been a mistake. The Aga Kagans are tough
customers. They’re active on half a dozen worlds at the moment. They’ve been
building up for this push for the last five years. A show of resistance by you
Boyars without Corps backing would be an invitation to slaughter—with the
excuse that you started it.”

“So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these
goat-herders take over our farms and fisheries?”

“Those goat-herders aren’t all they seem. They’ve got a
first-class modern navy.”

“I’ve
seen ’em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around on animal-back, wear
dresses down to their ankles—”

“The ‘goat-skin’ tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in
the same factory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes you
mention. The animals are just for show; back home they use helis and ground
cars of the most modern design.”

The Chef d’Regime chewed his cigar.

“Why the masquerade?”

“Something to do with internal policies, I suppose.”

“So we sit tight and watch ’em take our world away from us.
That’s what I get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobbered
these monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world.”

“Slow down, I haven’t finished yet. There’s still the Note.”

“I’ve got plenty of paper already; rolls and rolls of it.”

“Give diplomatic processes a chance,” said Retief. “The Note hasn’t
even been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results.”

“If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you’re
out of luck. From what I hear, he’s likely to come back with his ears stuffed
in his hip pocket.”

“I’ll deliver the Note personally,” Retief said. “I could use
a couple of escorts—preferably strong-arm lads.”

The Chef d’Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. “I
wasn’t kidding about these Aga Kagans,” he said. “I hear they have some nasty
habits. I don’t want to see you operated on with the same knives they use to
skin out the goats.”

“I’d be against that myself. Still the mail must go through.”

“Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief?”

“A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic
custom,” Retief said.

The Chef d’Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. “I used
to be a pretty fair elbow-wrestler myself,” he said. “Suppose I go
along . . . ?”

“That,” said Retief, “should lend just the right note of
solidarity to our little delegation.” He hitched his chair closer. “Now,
depending on what we run into, here’s how we’ll play it . . .”

Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the
capital, a black-painted official air car flying the twin flags of Chief of
State and Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.
Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d’Regime waved his cigar glumly at
the surrounding hills.

“Fifty years ago this was bare rock,” he said. “We’ve bred
special strains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and we
followed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We planned to put
the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like the goats will get
it.”

“Will that scrub-land support a crop?” Retief said, eyeing
the lichen-covered knolls.

“Sure.
We start with legumes, follow up with cereals. Wait until you see this next
section. It’s an old flood plain, came into production thirty years ago. One of
our finest—”

The air car topped a rise and the Chef dropped his cigar,
half rose, with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads
among a stand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar’s
arm.

“Keep calm, Georges,” he said. “Remember, we’re on a
diplomatic mission. It wouldn’t do to come to the conference table smelling of
goats.”

“Let me at ’em!” Georges roared. “I’ll throttle ’em with my
bare hands!”

A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working.

“Look at that long-nosed son of a—!” The goat gave a derisive
bleat and took another mouthful of ripe grain.

“Did you see that?” Georges yelled. “They’ve trained the son
of a—”

“Chin up, Georges,” Retief said. “We’ll take up the goat
problem along with the rest.”