Diplomat at Arms (24 page)

            "Well,
gentlemen, the CDT certainly doesn't wish to be instrumental in undermining the
health of two such cooperative statesmen ..."

            "Ah
... how do you mean, cooperative?" Barf voiced the question cautiously.

            "You
know how it is, General," Retief said. "When one has impatient
superiors breathing down one's neck, it's a little hard to really achieve full
rapport with even the most laudable aspirations of others. However, if
Ambassador Biteworse were in a position to show the inspectors a peaceful
planet in the morning, it might very well influence him to defer the evacuation
until further study of the question."

            "But
... my two-pronged panzer thrust," the general faltered. "The
crowning achievement of my military career ...!"

            "My
magnificently coordinated one-two counter-strike!" Lib Glip wailed.
"It cost me two months' golf to work out those logistics!"

            "I
might even go so far as to hazard a guess," Retief pressed on, "that
in the excitement of the announcement of the armistice, I might even forget to
publish my historical findings."

            "Hrnmm,"
Barf eyed his colleague. "It might be a trifle tricky, at that, to flog up
the correct degree of anti-Blort enthusiasm on such short notice."

            "Yes;
I can foresee a certain amount of residual sympathy for Gloian institutions
lingering on for quite some time," Lib Glip nodded.

            "I'd
still have the use of my car, of course," the general mused. "As well
as my personal submarine, my plushed-up transport, and my various copters,
hoppers, unicycles, and sedan chairs for use on rough terrain."

            "I
suppose it would be my duty to keep the armed forces at the peak of condition
with annual War. Games," Lib Glip commented. He glanced at the general.
"In fact, we might even work out some sort of scheme for joint maneuvers,
just to keep the recruits sharpened up."

            "Not
a bad idea, Glip. I might try for the single-engine pursuit trophy
myself."

            "Ha!
Nothing you've got can touch my little beauty when it comes to close-in combat
work."

            "I'm
sure we can work out the details later, gentlemen," Retief said. "I
must be getting back to the Embassy now. I hope your formal joint announcement
will be along well before presstime."

            "Well
..." Barf looked at Lib Glip. "Under the circumstances ..."

            "I
suppose we can work out something," the latter assented glumly.

            "I'll
give you a lift back in my car, Retief," General Barf offered. "Just
wait till you see how she handles on flat ground, my boy ..."

            In the
pink light of dawn, Ambassador Biteworse and his staff waited on the
breeze-swept ramp to greet the party of portly officials descending from the
Corps lighter.

            "Well,
Hector," the senior member of the inspection team commented, looking
around the immaculate environs of the port. "It looks as though perhaps
some of those rumors we heard as to a snag in the disarmament talks were a
trifle exaggerated."

            Biteworse
smiled blandly. "A purely routine affair. It was merely necessary for me
to drop a few words in certain auditory organs, and the rest followed
naturally. There aren't many of these local chieftains who can stand up to the
veiled hint of a Biteworse."

            "Actually,
I think it's about time we began considering you for a more substantive post,
Hector. I've had my eye on you for quite some time ..." The great men
moved away, fencing cautiously. Beside Retief, a tiny, elderly local in striped
robes shook his head sadly.

            "That
was a dirty trick, Retief, getting a pardon directly from young Lib Glip. I
don't get much excitement over there in the stacks, you know."

            "Things
will be better from now on," Retief assured the oldster. "I think you
can expect to see the library opened to the public in the near future."

            "Oh,
boy," the curator exclaimed. "Just what I've been wishing for, for
years now! Plenty of snazzy young co-eds coming in, eager to butter an old
fellow up in return for a guaranteed crib sheet! Thanks, lad! I can see
brighter days a-coming!" He hurried away.

            "Retief,"
Magnan plucked at his sleeve. "I've heard a number of fragmentary rumors
regarding events leading up to the truce; I trust your absence from the
Chancery for an hour or two early in the evening was in no way connected with
the various kidnappings, thefts, trespasses, assaults, blackmailings, breakings
and enterings, and other breaches of diplomatic usage said to have
occurred."

            "Mr.
Magnan, what a suggestion." Retief took out a fan-folded paper, began
tearing it into strips.

            "Sorry,
Retief. I should have known better. By the way, isn't that an Old Plushniki
manuscript you're destroying?"

            "This?
Why, no. It's an old Chinese menu I came across tucked in the classified
despatch binder." He dropped the scraps in a refuse bin.

            "Oh.
Well, why don't you join me in a quick bite before this morning's briefing for
the inspectors? The Ambassador plans to give them his standard five-hour
introductory chat, followed by a quick run-through of the voucher files
..."

            "No
thanks. I have an appointment with Lib Glip to check out in one of his new
model pursuit ships. It's the red one over there, fresh from the factory."

            "Well,
I suppose you have to humor him, inasmuch as he's premier." Magnan cocked
an eye at Retief. "I confess I don't understand how it is you get on such
familiar terms with these bigwigs, restricted as your official duties are to
preparation of reports in quintuplicate."

            "I
think it's merely a sort of informal manner I adopt in meeting them,"
Retief said. He waved and headed across the runway to where the little ship
waited, sparkling in the morning sun.

-

            "Tell
him!" Ambassador Smallfrog said in a choked voice. "Tell his
Excellency to get down off that chandelier at once!" He plucked at
Magnan's sleeve appealingly. "But in a nice way, of course," he added.

            Magnan
nodded and rose briskly, glancing up in surprise at the amoeboid form of the
Minister of Foreign Affairs of Grote, richly garbed in scarlet satin and gold
braid, which clung to the ornate crystal lighting fixture above the table where
the four diplomats had been lunching on the Embassy terrace.

            "Heavens!
How did he get up there?" he murmured. "He didn't seem the athletic
type. Retief!" He whispered sharply to the broad-shouldered diplomat
seated to his right. "Do something! But use no force, of course."

            Retief
rose, studying the manner in which the short, digitless limbs of the alien were
entwined among the branching arms of the chandelier. He drew on his Jorgenson
cigar to bring it to a cherry-red glow, then held the hot end close to the
purple-pink hide of the alien's exposed elbow, or possibly knee. The limb,
immediately contracted, scrambling for new purchase farther from the source of
discomfort. Retief continued to apply heat to exposed portions of the Grotian's
hide until the alien had retracted his pseudopods and contracted his bulk into
a gourd-shaped form dangling by a single jointless limb and quivering
nervously.

             "Dearie
me, Retief," Magnan chirped. "I'm not at all sure Terran-Grote
relations are being cemented by your somewhat drastic technique. You'd better
let well enough alone now."

            "Actually,
I haven't touched him," Retief said. "And I doubt that his Excellency
would pay any attention to a simple request. He seems pretty much wrapped up in
himself."

            "Retief,
shhh," Magnan interposed hastily, "that came very close to being a
racially biased remark!"

            "I'm
not sure where he keeps his IQ," Retief reassured his senior, "but by
now it must be squeezed pretty flat."

            "Retief,
hush! He's listening—see how he has his ear cocked."

            "Actually,"
Retief said, studying the puckered organ on the undercurve of the alien's bulk,
"I think you'll find that's more of a navel."

            "Correct,
my boy," said a mellow voice which seemed to issue from the general
direction of the dangling diplomat. "Pray excuse my probably
unconventional act in retreating to this convenient perch. I'll be glad to
descend now, since it seems Freddy's upset about it."

            "But
Mr. Minister, we heard you didn't speak Terry," Magnan wailed.
"That's why Ambassador Smallfrog has been communicating with you in
sign-language all week."

            "Indeed?
I assumed poor Freddy was merely afflicted of Oompah, praised be his
name."

            Magnan
resumed his seat and picked at his shrimp cocktail, which consisted of a glass
goblet half full of ketchup, with half-a-dozen medium-sized boiled shrimp
arranged about its rim. He glanced up as the alien official, once again
equipped with various arms and legs, all neatly fitted to the appropriate
sleeves and legs of his Terran-tailored satin finery, settled himself in his
seat.

            "Why,
Mr. Ambassador, you fair gave me a turn," Magnan exclaimed. "I didn't
even notice you climbing down. In which connection," he went on, "may
I inquire just why Your Excellency found it expedient to take up a position on
the chandelier just at that time?"

            "Doubtless
bad protocol on my part, Ben," Foreign Minister D'ong replied
apologetically. "But I was quite upset to find that a number of small
innocent creatures had crept into my pudding and expired there. Alas, how
melancholy." He dabbed with his CDT-crested paper napkin at an eye-like
organ from which a large tear was welling.

            "Pudding?"
Magnan echoed in a puzzled tone. "But dessert hasn't been served
yet."

            "He
means his shrimp cocktail," Retief pointed out quietly. Magnan glanced at
the glass cup half filled with red shrimp sauce before the alien.

            "I
don't er ... quite ... ah ... understand, Your Excellency," he murmured.
"Creatures? Do you suggest that you found a ... er ... cockroach, or some
sort of vermin in your cocktail?"

            "Not
at all, my dear Ben," D'ong replied. "I simply noted that some
charming little fellows, doubtless household pets, had crept over the rim of my
cup to steal a bit of the tasty red pudding and had slipped and fallen in and
there perished, poor little ones; how too, too sad."

            "Retief,
he thinks shrimp are pets," Magnan whispered urgently. "Tell
him."

            "Better
not," Retief said. "It might not be diplomatic."

            "To
be sure, to be sure," Magnan concurred.

            "By
the way, Mr. Minister," he went on, "how
did
you get down from
that chandelier? I was sitting right here, and it seemed as if one second you
were up there, and the next you were sitting beside me."

            "I
whiffled, of course," the Grotian said calmly, as he stared mournfully at
his cocktail cup.

            "How
exactly does one whiffle?" Magnan leaned forward to inquire.

            "First,
one must cinch up the sphincters nice and tight," D'ong said mildly.
"Then it's essential to take care not to cogitate on trivia, diplomacy,
for example. Having thus placed oneself in the proper spiritual frame of
reference, one simply concentrates on the desired destination, and
whiffles."

            "Gosh,
sir, it sounds simple," Magnan gushed. "Retief, just think of staff
meetings ... just when you think you can't stand it another second—just tighten
up the old sphincters, think of a comfy park bench— and you're off!"

            "Sounds
OK," Retief agreed.

            "I
can't wait to try." Magnan said.

            "You'll
never whiffle while thinking of staff meetings," D'ong sighed. "Now I
must put the concept out of mind or I won't even be able to twaffle."

            "Twaffle,
sir? What's that?" Magnan cried. "Is it anything like whiffle?"

            "Not
in the least, Ben," D'ong said coolly.

            "What
the devil's
this?"
the voice of Ambassador Smallfrog boomed out
abruptly.

            "Gracious,
that's his 4-c Bellow," Magnan whispered, looking anxiously at Retief.

            "Wrong,
Ben!" Smallfrog roared, "That was my 4-z, and I've heard tell I have
one of the finest 4-z's in the corps! Two demerits! Now," he proceeded
more calmly, "what's the meaning of this?" He held up a small,
greenish crustacean whose long antennae waved aimlessly. At that moment Magnan
yelped and groped in his lap.