Diplomat at Arms (21 page)

            "That's
thoughtful of you, Hector," Barf held up a tactile member in a restraining
gesture. "But as it happens, inasmuch as this will be the final campaign
of the War for Liberation of the Homeland, peacemaking efforts become
nugatory."

            "I
seem to recall similar predictions at the time of the Fall Campaign, the
pre-Winter Offensive, the Winter Counteroffensive, the post-Winter Anschluss,
and the pre-Spring Push," Biteworse retorted. "Why don't you
reconsider, General, before incurring a new crop of needless casualties?"

            "Hardly
needless, Hector. You need a few casualties to sharpen up discipline. And in
any case, this time things will be different. I'm using a new technique of
saturation leaflet bombing followed by intensive victory parades, guaranteed to
crumble all resistance. If you'll just sit tight—"

            "Sit
tight, and have the building blown down about my ears?" Biteworse cut in.
"I'm leaving for the provinces at once—"

            "I
think that would be unwise, Hector, with conditions so unsettled. Better stay
where you are. In fact, you may consider that an order, under the provisions of
martial Law. If this seems a trifle harsh, remember, it's all in a good cause.
And now I have to be moving along, Hector. I have a new custom-built VIP-model
armored car with air and music that I'm dying to test drive. Ta-ta." The
screen blanked abruptly.

            "This
is fantastic!" The Ambassador stared around at his staff for corroboration
of his assessment of the situation. "In the past, the opposing armies have
at least made a pretense of respecting diplomatic privilege; now they're openly
proposing to make us the center of a massive combined land, sea, and air
strike!"

            "We'll
have to contact Lib Glip at once," the Political Officer said urgently.
"Perhaps we can convince him that the capital should be declared an open
city!"

            "Sound
notion, Oscar," the Ambassador agreed. He mopped at his forehead with a
large monogrammed tissue. "Retief, keep trying until you reach him."

            Half a
minute later, the circular visage of the Gloian Foreign Minister appeared on
the screen, against a background of passing shopfronts seen through a car
window. Two bright black eyes peered through a tangle of thick tendrils not
unlike a tangerine-dyed oil mop capped by a leather Lindy cap with goggles.

            "Hi,
fellows," he greeted the Terrans airily. "Sorry to break our lunch
date, Biteworse, but you know how foreign affairs are: Here today and gone to
dinner, as the saying goes, I think. But never mind that. What I really called
you about was—"

            "It
was I who called
you!"
the Ambassador broke in. "See here, Lib
Glip; a highly placed confidential source has advised me that the capital is
about to become the objective of an all-out Blort assault. Now, I think it only
fair that your people should relinquish the city peaceably, so as to avoid a
possible interplanetary incident—"

            "Oh,
that big-mouth Barf has been at you again, eh? Well, relax, fellows;
everything's going to be OK. I have a surprise in store for those indigo
indigents."

            "You've
decided to propose a unilateral cease-fire?" Biteworse blurted. "A
munificent gesture—"

            "Are
you kidding, Biteworse? Show the white feather while those usurpers are still
in full possession of our hallowed mother world?" The Gloian leaned into
the screen. "I'll let you in on a little secret. The retreat is just a
diversionary measure to suck Barf into over-extending his lines. As soon as
he's poured all his available reinforcements into this dry run—whammo! I hit
him with a nifty hidden-ball play around left end and land a massive
expeditionary force on Blort! At one blow, I'll regain the cradle of the Gloian
race and end the war once and for all!"

            "I
happen to be directly in the path of your proposed dry run!" Biteworse
keened. "I remind you, sir, this compound is neither Gloian nor Blortian
soil, but Ter-ran!" A patch of plaster fell with a clatter as if to
emphasize the point.

            "Oh,
we won't actually bombard the Chancery itself—at least not
intentionally—unless, that is, Barfs troops try to use it as a sanctuary. I
suggest you go down into the subbasement; some of you may come through with
hardly a scratch."

            "Wait!
We'll evacuate! I hereby call upon you for safe-conduct—"

            "Sorry;
I'll be too busy checking out on the controls of my new hand-tooled pursuit
craft to arrange transport to the South Pole just now. However, after the
offensive—"

            "You'll
be manning a fighter?"

            "Yes,
indeed! A beaut. Everything on it but a flush John. I handle the portfolio of
Defense Minister in the War Cabinet personally, you know. And a leader's place
is with his troops at the front. Maybe not actually
at
the front,"
he amended. "But in the general area, you know."

            "Isn't
that a little dangerous?"

            "Not
if my G-2 reports are on the ball. Besides, I said this was an all-out
effort."

            "But
that's what you said the last time, when you were learning how to operate that
leather-upholstered tank you had built!"

            "True—but
this time it will be all-out all-out. And now I have to scoot or I'll have to
flip my own prop.

            You
won't hear from me again until after the victory, since I'm imposing total
communications silence now for the duration. Chou." The alien broke the
connection.

            "Great
galloping Galaxies." Biteworse sank into a plaster-dusted chair.
"This is catastrophic! The Embassy will be devastated, and we'll be buried
in the rubble."

            There
was a discreet tap at the conference room door; it opened and an apologetic
junior officer peered in. "Ah ... Mr. Ambassador; a person is here,
demanding to see you at once. I've explained to him—"

            "Step
aside, junior," a deep voice growled. A short, thick-set man in wrinkled
blues thrust through the door.

            "I've
got an Operational Instantaneous Utter Top Secret despatch for somebody."
He stared around at the startled diplomats. "Who's in charge?"

            "I
am," Biteworse barked. "These are my staff, Captain. What's this
despatch all about?"

            "Beats
me. I'm Merchant Service. Some Navy brass hailed me and asked me to convoy it
in. Said it was important." He extracted a pink emergency message form
from a pouch and passed it across to Biteworse.

            "Captain,
perhaps you're unaware that I have two emergencies and a crisis on my hands
already!" Biteworse looked at the envelope indignantly.

            The
sailor glanced around the room. "From the looks of this place, I'd say you
had a problem, all right, Mister," he agreed. "I ran into a few
fireworks myself, on the way in here. Looks like Chinese New Year out
there."

            "What's
the nature of the new emergency?" Magnan craned to read the paper in
Biteworse's hand.

            "Gentlemen,
this is the end," Biteworse said hollowly, looking up from the message
form. "They'll be here first thing in the morning."

            "My,
just in time to catch the action," Magnan said.

            "Don't
sound so complacent, you imbecile!" Biteworse yelped. "That will be
the final straw! An inspection team, here to assess the effectiveness of my
pacification efforts, will be treated to the sight of a full-scale battle
raging about my very doorstep!"

            "Maybe
we could tell them it's just the' local Water Festival—"

            "Silence!"
Biteworse screeched. "Time is running out, sir! Unless we rind a solution
before dawn our careers will end in ignominy."

            "If
you don't mind sharing space with a cargo of Abalonian Glue-fish eggs, you can
come with me," the merchantman offered over a renewed rumble of artillery.
"It will only be for a couple of months, until I touch down at Adobe. I
hear they've got a borax mining camp there where you can work out your board
until the Spring barge convoy shows up."

            "Thank
you," Biteworse said coldly. "I shall keep your offer in mind."

            "Don't
wait too long. I'm leaving as soon as I've off-loaded."

            "All
right, gentlemen," the Ambassador said in an ominous tone as the captain
departed in search of coffee. "I'm ordering the entire staff to the
cellars for the duration of the crisis. No one is to attempt to leave the
building, of course. We must observe Barfs curfew. We'll be burning the
midnight fluorescents tonight— and if by sunrise we haven't evolved a brilliant
scheme for ending the war, you may all compose suitable letters of
resignation—-those of you who survive!"

            In the
corridor, Retief encountered his local clerk-typist, just donning a floppy
beret dyed a sour orange as an expression of his political alignment.

            "Hi,
Mr. Retief," he greeted the diplomat glumly. "I was just leaving. I
guess you know the Blorts are back in town."

            "So
it appears, Dil Snop. How about a stirrup cup before you go?"

            "Sure;
they won't have the streets cordoned off for a while yet."

            In Retief
s office, the clerk parked his bulging briefcase and accepted a three-finger
shot of black Bacchus brandy, which he carefully poured into a pocket like a
miniature marsupial's pouch.

            He
heaved a deep sigh. "Say, Mr. Retief, when that Blue incompetent shows up,
tell him not to mess with the files. I've just gotten them straightened out
from the last time."

            "I'll
mention your desires," Retief said. "You know, Snop, it seems strange
to me that you Gloians haven't been able to settle your differences with the
Blorts peaceably. This skirmishing back and forth has been going on for quite a
while now, with no decisive results."

            "Hundreds
of years, I guess," Snop nodded. "But how can you settle your
differences with a bunch of treacherous, lawless, immoral, conscienceless,
crooked, planet-stealing rogues like those Blorts?" Dil Snop looked
amazed, an effect he achieved by rapidly intertwining the tendrils around his
eyes.

            "They
seem harmless enough to me," Retief commented. "Just what did they do
that earns them that description?"

            "What
haven't they done?" Dil Snop waved a jointed member. "Look at this
office—a diplomatic mission! Bullet holes all over the place, shrapnel scars on
the walls—"

            "The
shrapnel scars were made by your boys in orange the last time they took
over," Retief reminded him.

            "Oh.
Well, these little accidents will happen in the course of foiling the enemy's
efforts to ravish our foster home—and this, mind you, sir, after they've
invaded the hallowed soil of Plushnik I, swiped the entire planet, and left us
to scrabble for ourselves on this lousy world!"

            "Seems
like a pretty fair planet to me," Retief said. "And I was under the
impression this was your homeland."

            "Heck,
no! This place? Pah! That"—Dil Snop pointed through window at the looming
disk of the nearby sister planet—"is my beloved ancestral stamping
ground."

            "Ever
been there?"

            "I've
been along on a few invasions, during summer vacations. Just between us,"
he lowered his voice, "it's a little too cold and wet for my personal
taste."

            "How
did the Blorts manage to steal it?"

            "Carelessness
on our part," Snop conceded. "Our forces were all over here,
administering a drubbing to them, and they treacherously slipped over behind
our backs and entrenched themselves."

            "What
about the wives and little ones?"

            "Oh,
an exchange was worked out. After all, they'd left their obnoxious brats and
shrewish mates here on Plushnik II."

            "What
started the feud in the first place?"

            "Beats
me. I guess that's lost in the mists of antiquity or something." The
Gloian put down his glass and rose. "I'd better be off now, Mr. Retief. My
reserve unit's been called up, and I'm due at the armory in half an hour."

            "Well,
take care of yourself, Dil Snop. I'll be seeing you soon, I expect."

            "I
wouldn't guarantee it. Old Lib Glip's taken personal command, and he burns
troops like joss sticks." Snop tipped his beret and went out. A moment
later, the narrow face of Counsellor Magnan appeared at the door.

            "Come
along, Retief. The Ambassador wants to say a few words to the staff; everyone's
to assemble in the commissary in five minutes."