Diplomat at Arms (26 page)

            "Hi,
Ben," a breathy voice called from beyond the gate. "Anything I can do
for you?" Magnan executed a two-step, registering astonishment.

            "That
709 of yours needs work, Ben," the same faint voice commented. "What
brings a Terry First Secretary, on foot already, to the gates of the Groacian
Mission on such a warm afternoon?"

            "Just
passing by, Fith," Magnan replied in a tone of Casual Indifference.

            "Don't
waste a 301 on me, Ben," Fith suggested. "If you expect to get a
glimpse of some nefarious doings right out in the driveway, forget it.
Ambassador Shiss is too old a campaigner for that. He's got a special
nefarious-stuff room for that kind of caper. When you see a news release that
cites 'a confidential Groacian source' that means the dope is hot from there.
Not that us peace-loving Groaci go in for skullduggery, you understand."

            "Of
course, of course, Fith—but what in the world are you, a company grade officer,
doing pulling two on and four off, while lesser personnel are keeping the help
harmoniously adjusted to life at a hardship post?"

            "Oh,
I see somebody's been slipping you dope on life in the Groaci Foreign Service,
Ben. I didn't realize your system was so good. As for the guard detail: well,
Ben, frankly, His Excellency has had it soft for me ever since he caught me
climbing into a tub of hot sand with the Lady Trish last Wednesday, when the
old goof was supposed to be safely off watching a game of flat-ball over at the
Inertian Consulate. All perfectly innocent, of course; her ladyship just asked
me to check the temperature of her bath for her, to be sure she wouldn't get
any damage to the ziff-nodes from that high infra-red radiation, you
know."

            "But
of course, Fith—we're both beings-of-the-world. By the way, I don't suppose
you've seen anything of my colleague, Mr. Retief?"

            "Nope,
I'm just keeping four or five eyes out for that character D'ong, the local
Minister of Foreign Affairs, supposed to be here any time now. You don't happen
to see an official limousine corning with the poor boob in it, do you?"

            "No—but
here's the poor boob himself."

            Magnan
whirled at the soft voice behind him. D'ong stood at his elbow, a serene
expression on his rather lumpy features.

            "Why,
Ben, fancy meeting you here," he said. "I hardly expected the
pleasure again so soon."

            "Well,
that's diplomacy, Your Excellency. One keeps ninning into the same people—like
Fith, here—just beyond the gate, that is. He was Consular Officer at Slunch
when I was a mere Third Secretary. And then later, at Furtheron, we both served
on the Chumship Team, arbitrating the Civil War. That's where I got this gash
on the arm." Magnan turned his cuff to expose a crescent-shaped scar.

            "Nasty,"
D'ong commented. "Got that in the war, did you?"

            "No,
at the conference table. Between us, Mr. Minister," he continued in a
whisper, "While Fith, like all Groaci, can be a charming fellow, he has a
tendency to bite when crossed."

            "Well,
enough of nostalgia for the moment, Ben," D'ong said. "I musn't keep
Ambassador Shiss waiting. Until tomorrow at the jelly flower judging,
then?"

            "Ah,
Mr. Minister—"

            "Just
call me D'ong," the Grotian said affably. "All that formality gives
me a swift pain in the zop-slot."

            "Sure,
er, D'ong," Magnan agreed. "I was just saying, why don't you and I
just sneak off for a couple quick saucers of tea, and let old Shiss stew in his
own juice for a while. After all, protocol requires that
he
ought to be
calling on you, instead of vice versa."

            "I
couldn't think of it, Ben. One doesn't stand up a fellow being, no matter how
tiresome he may be."

            "Frankly,
D'ong, I have a feeling Shiss is up to no good. I don't like the idea of him
enticing you in there all alone. Suppose I just go along as an escort, sort of,
you know."

            "I
hardly think—" D'ong started, and paused at a sudden outburst of breathy
Groaci shouting from beyond the wall. There was a rasp of a bolt being
withdrawn, and the massive gate swung back. A platoon of Groaci peace-keepers
in flaring helmets and chrome-plated greaves with red and green jellybeans
emerged in a ragged column of twos.

            "To
surround the soft ones instanter!" a non-com whispered in harsh Groaci.
The troops at once formed a ragged circle around Magnan and D'ong, power-guns
at the ready.

            "Here,
here, I protest!" Magnan cried. "Captain Fith!" He fixed the
officer with an Indignant Stare (491-a). "You're making a serious blunder!
Call off your boys at once!"

            "You
know how it is, Ben," Fith said in his accent-less Terran. "Orders
are orders and all that jazz. Instructions were to pick up this clown
here—" he indicated D'ong with a twitch of a stalked ocular— "and you
just got caught in the works. No hard feelings."

           
"Au
contraire,
I shall have very hard feelings indeed unless I receive an
immediate apology—and Minister D'ong too, of course."

            "To
desist from fraternizing with inferiors," a hoarse Groaci voice called
from beyond the wall. "To do your duty at once, Captain—ah, Major, that
is, as soon as you have him bound hand, foot, and incidental members and deposited
in my office."

            "You
see how it is, Ben." Fith said sadly. "His Excellency is taking a
personal interest in this caper." He turned to address the corporal of the
guard.

            "You
heard His Excellency. He him up! Be quick about it, nest-fouling litter-mate of
drones!"

            The
corporal paused to jot a note on his cuff, then laid hands on Magnan, who
huddled close to D'ong.

            "Not
the Terry—
him!"
Brevet-Major Fith snapped.

            "Steady,
Ben," D'ong murmured. "Fm sure there'll eventually be a nice note of
apology from the Groaci Foreign Office. But—" he broke off, grasping
Magnan's wrist as the Terran groped in the Grotian's jacket pocket.

            -"What
in the world do you want with that, Ben?" he inquired mildly. "It's
only an old tea bag."

            "As
to that," Magnan hastened to explain, "I merely intended to save it
from the clutches of the Groaci."

            "Whatever
for? It's just a souvenir of my Great-aunt R'oot's visit to Terra a few
centuries ago. I keep it for sentimental reasons. Poor auntie passed away last
week, leaving me a few hundred million in gold squiggs and green stamps. Decent
old girl. I remember when she used to dandle me on a knee she extruded just for
the purpose. Alas, poor, kindly Aunt R'oot. I won't be seeing her again, unless
she decides to furfle—and I don't see why she should."

            "To
... to furfle? Goodness, D'ong, how does one furfle?"

            "First,
one has to be dead. Quite dead, you understand, Ben. Indisputably beyond the
quaffling stage."

            "Mmm
... 'beyond quaffling stage'," Magnan repeated, nodding wisely. "Dead,
you say?" he inquired abruptly.

            "No
gossiping among the prisoners," the penetrating voice of Ambassador Shiss
called from beyond the wall. "Let's get this show on the road,
Lieutenant," he added sharply.

            Fith
leaped as if prodded by an electrospur. "There goes the old
promotion," he mourned. "Hustle 'em inside, boys," he added to
his troops.

            A moment
later the silent street was empty.

-

            At the
Terran Embassy gate, Retief paused as the Marine guard snapped to attention,
then cleared his throat.

            "Uh,
excuse me, Mr. Retief," the boy said. "But Mr. Magnan was asking for
you. Did he get you OK, sir?"

            "Not
yet, Jimmy. Which way did he go?"

            "He
was headed for the Groaci Embassy, looking for D'ong. Funny thing about old
D'ong: he slipped right past me. I hope I didn't goof letting him get away with
it."

            "Not
at all, Jim. I'm going to stroll down that way and see what there is to be
seen."

            "Watch
yourself, Mr. Retief. I don't trust them Groaci no farther'n I can throw
one."

            Retief
ambled along the shaded walk, enjoying the cedar-scented evening air. Grote's
large pale-blue sun was near the horizon, and the shadows were dense beneath
the heo trees. Nearing the Groaci Embassy, he studied the high grayish-ochre
walls, topped with corroded spikes. Before the gate he paused, stooped to pick
up a flattened tea bag from among the trampled leaves. He studied it
thoughtfully, dropped it into his pocket, and approached the peep-hole in the
massive metal gate. He rapped on it twice, and it slid back to reveal a cluster
of eye-stalks in plain G.I. eye-shields.

            "Evening,
Captain," Retief said. "Where's Magnan?"

            "To
imply that I, a peace-loving Groacian national, doing his simple duty, am aware
of the comings and goings of Terry First Secretaries?" a breathy voice
replied, then added in accent-free Terran: "Shucks, Retief, I just came on
duty. You had an idea Ben was here?"

            "Never
mind, Fith. I just thought maybe we could skip the formalities and get right to
the point: if you boys are holding Mr. Magnan in your compound against his
will, we'll have to call out a squadron of Peace Enforcers to make it clear,
one more time, that you can't get away with it."

            "Curious
fancy on your part, Retief. Why would we Groaci be interested in detaining a
mere Terry?"

            "Skip
it. Where's D'ong?"

            "You
refer to the feckless local Foreign Minister? He is, I believe, closeted at
this moment with His Excellency, Ambassador Shiss, discussing means of
enhancing Grote-Groaci relations—not that it's any of your business."

            "Better
check your manual, Fith. This is too early in the negotiation to start using
your 931-yup (Tentative Insolence). Better stick to a 21-boo (Cautious Impertinence)
for the present, or old Shiss will have you on the carpet for impairing
Terry-Groaci relations."

            "Mmm.
To withdraw now, Retief, to see to my routine duties, such as inspecting my
sluggards all unaware, gold-bricking in the therapeutic sand-pit, instead of
cleaning their pieces as instructed. Ciao." He slammed the peep-hole
cover.

            Retief
went along to the corner and glanced down the narrow avenue that ran along the
north side of the Groaci Embassy compound. The leaf-strewn sidewalks were
deserted. A lone Yllian delivery van was slumped at the curb near the rear gate
to the compound. Retief noted that it bore a legend painted in Yllian
characters that resembled the word 'egg-nog', indicating that it was the Yllian
Consul-General's formal garbage truck. He noted as he passed it that it listed
heavily to starboard. A sour odor of fermenting refuse hung over the grubby
vehicle. Retief snorted and tried the gate. It was solidly locked. He stepped
back and kicked it at lock height. There was a metallic tinkle and the gate
swung ajar. At once, the snout of a Groaci power-gun poled through the opening,
then withdrew. There was a creak of unoiled hinges behind Retief and he turned
to see a heavy gray-skinned Yill ponderously emerging from the side door of the
garbage truck.

            "You
Terries got a eye on this dump, too, huh?" the Yill said in a glutinous
voice. "Some funny stuff going on around here. One of our boys came over
to deliver a birthday stew to His Groacian Ex, the AE and MP, and never came
out again. Swell glimp-egg stew it was, too, aged six months, just ripe enough,
but not
too
ripe, you know?"

            "How
long ago was that, F'Lin-lin?" Retief inquired.

            "About
two weeks, come sundown; hey, I just noticed—they goofed and left the gate
open."

            "Careful,"
Retief cautioned as the Yill approached the gate, "There's a power-gun
just inside."

            "Sure,
I know all that stuff," F'Lin-lin said carelessly. Reaching the gate, he
thrust it open, and instantly stepped back and flattened himself against the
fence beside it. When the gun muzzle poked out F'Lin-lin grabbed it, and held
on.

            "Watch
it," Retief advised. "If he's on the ball he'll set it at low beam
and maximum choke and it'll be red-hot in a few seconds."

            F'Lin-lin
grunted and released the gun, which at once withdrew, while the Yill blew on
his palm and muttered. Retief took up a position against the fence on the hinge
side of the gate. After a few seconds, a finger-like member poked out
hesitantly. Retief caught the six-inch stalk, tipped by a bulbous blue ocular,
and held it gently but firmly as it twitched frantically.

            "Nice
going, Retief," F'Lin-lin said. "I always wanted to pull one of their
wiggly eyeballs out by the roots. Interesting to see how much stress it'll take
to do it."