Galactic Diplomat (3 page)

“Oh, sure, Qorn.”

“You bet.”

“I’m convinced.”

Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. “All for one and one for
all, that’s us.”

“And you’re the one, eh Qorn?” Retief commented.

Magnan cleared his throat. “I sense that some of you
gentlemen are not convinced of the wisdom of this move,” he piped, looking
along the table at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests, and staring
eyes.

“Silence!” Qorn hooted. “No use your talking to my loyal
lieutenants anyway,” he added. “They do whatever I convince them they ought to
do.”

“But I’m sure that on more mature consideration—”

“I can lick any Qornt in the house,” Qorn said. “That’s why
I’m Qorn.” He belched again.

A
servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with a crash at
Magnan’s feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrapped three loops around
Magnan’s wrists, snapped a lock in place.

“You, next!” The guns pointed at Retief’s chest. He held out
his arms. Four loops of silvery-grey chain in half-inch links dropped around
them. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through the ends and
closed it.

“Now,” Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand.
“There’s a bit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them?”

“Let them go,” the blue and flame Qornt said glumly.

“You can do better than that,” Qorn hooted. “Now, here’s a
suggestion: we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,
say—and ship them back—”

“Good lord! Retief, he’s talking about cutting off our ears
and sending us home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal!”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a
trimming,” Retief commented.

“It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put
up a reasonable scrap,” Qorn said judiciously. “I have a feeling that they’re
thinking of giving up without a struggle.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” the blue-and-flame Qornt said. “Why should
they?”

Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. “Take
these two,” he hooted. “I’ll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender!”

“Well,” Magnan started.

“Hold it, Mr. Magnan,” Retief said, “I’ll tell him.”

“What’s your proposal?” Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his
goblet. “A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I can
assure you, it’s useless. We Qornt LIKE to fight—”

“I’m afraid you’ve gotten the wrong impression, Your
Excellency,” Retief said blandly. “We didn’t come to negotiate. We came to
deliver an ultimatum . . .”

“What?” Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered.

“We plan to use this planet for target practice,” Retief
said. “A new type hell bomb we’ve worked out. Have all your people off of it in
seventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences.”

“You have the gall,” Qorn stormed, “to stand here in the
center of Qornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains—”

“Oh, these,” Retief said. He tensed his arms; the soft
aluminum links stretched, broke. He shook the light metal free. “We diplomats
like to go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn’t want to mislead
you. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I—”

Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt at the table
craned, jabbering.

“I told you they were brutes,” Zubb shrilled.

Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. “I don’t care what
they are!” he honked. “Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready
ships—”

“And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace
Enforcers, with a hundred megatons/second firepower each.”

“Retief—” Magnan tugged at his sleeve. “Don’t forget their
superdrive—”

“That’s all right; they don’t have one.”

“But—”

“We’ll
take you on!” Qorn French-horned. “We’re the Qorn! We glory in battle! We live
in fame or go down in—”

“Hogwash,” the flame-and-blue Qornt cut in. “If it wasn’t for
you, Qorn, we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having
to prove anything.”

“Qorn,
you seem to be the firebrand here,” Retief said. “I think the rest of the boys
would listen to reason—”

“Over my dead body!”

“My idea exactly,” Retief said. “You claim you can lick any
man in the house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on the
floor, and we’ll see how good you are at backing up your conversation.”

Magnan hovered at Retief’s side. “Twelve feet tall,” he
moaned. “And did you notice the size of those hands?”

Retief watched as Qorn’s aides helped him out of his formal
trappings. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. I
doubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard pounds here.”

“But that phenomenal reach—”

“I’ll peck away at him at knee level; when he bends over to
swat me, I’ll get a crack at him.”

Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a
snort.

“Enough! Let me at the upstart!”

Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised
backward-jointed arms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny
feet clacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitors and bejeweled
Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on the combatants.

Qorn
struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut at Retief, who
leaned aside, caught a lean shank below the knee. Qorn bent to haul Retief from
his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker took him just below the beak. A
screech went up from the crowd as Retief leaped clear.

Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck
the alien’s off-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed
to the floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behind the
narrow back, seized Qorn’s neck in a stranglehold, and threw his weight
backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at an awkward angle. He
squawked, beat his free arm on the floor, reaching in vain for Retief.

Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before
him.

“Need I remind you, sir,” he said icily, “that this is an
official diplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterested
parties.”

Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. “I must ask you to
hand me your weapons, Zubb.”

“Look here,” Zubb began.

“I MAY lose my temper,” Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns,
passed them to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turned
back to watch the encounter.

Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn’s left
wrist, bound it to the alien’s neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn’s
shoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrapped it around
one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qorn flopped, hooting. At
each movement, the constricting loop around his neck jerked his head back, the
green crest tossing wildly.

“If
I were you, I’d relax,” Retief said, rising and releasing his grip. Qorn got a
leg under him. Retief kicked it. Qorn’s chin hit the floor with a hollow clack.
He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbs and gay silks.

Retief turned to the watching crowd. “Next?” he called.

The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. “Maybe this would
be a good time to elect a new leader,” he said. “Now, my qualifications—”

“Sit down,” Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the
table, seated himself in Qorn’s vacated chair. “A couple of you finish trussing
Qorn up; then stack him in the corner—”

“But we must select a leader!”

“That won’t be necessary, boys. I’m your new leader.”

“As I see it,” Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an
empty wine glass, “you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don’t particularly
like to fight.”

“We don’t mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of
course, as Qornt, we’re expected to die in battle. But what I say is—why rush
things?”

“I have a suggestion,” Magnan said. “Why not turn the reins
of government over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group—”

“What
good would that do? Qornt are Qornt; and it seems there’s always one among us
who’s a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to follow him.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s the way it’s done.”

“Why not do it another way?” Magnan offered. “Now, I’d like
to suggest Community singing—”

“If we gave up fighting, we might live too long; then what
would happen?”

“Live too long . . .” Magnan looked puzzled.

“When estivating time comes, there’d be no burrows for us;
and anyway, with the new Qornt stepping in next Awakening—”

“I’ve lost the thread,” Magnan said. “Who are the new Qornt?”

“After
estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they’re Qornt, of course. The Gwil become
Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosize into Verpp—”

“You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-mannered naturalists—will
become warmongers like Qorn?”

“Very likely; ‘the milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qornt,’
as the old saying goes.”

“What do Qornt turn into?” Retief asked.

“Hmmmm. That’s a good question. So far, none have survived
Qornthood.”

“Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways?” Magnan
asked. “What about taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance—”

“Don’t mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It’s great
sport to sit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashing
off to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. But we prefer
a nice numerical advantage. Now, this business of tackling you Terrestrials
over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea what your strength was—”

“But now that’s all off, of course,” Magnan chirped. “Now
that we’ve had diplomatic relations and all—”

“Oh,
by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days; after all, we’re Qornt; we have
to satisfy our drive to action.”

“But
Mr. Retief is your leader, now. He won’t let you . . .”

“Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack Day comes. And even
if he orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the other
Centers—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the invasion is definitely
on.”

“Why don’t you go invade somebody else?” Magnan suggested.
“Now, I could name some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of
course.”

“Hold everything,” Retief said. “I think we’ve got the basis
of a deal here . . .”

At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt,
Retief and Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDT
Sector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged, flying an
Ambassadorial flag below a plain white banner.

“Curious,” Magnan commented. “I wonder what the significance
of the white ensign might be?”

Retief
raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrements, a rasp of Qornt
boots. Retief looked back along the line. The high white sun flashed on bright
silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes, ceremonial swords, the polished
butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather.

“A brave show indeed,” Magnan commented approvingly. “I
confess the idea has merit—”

The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two
fat-tired wheels, tyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomat
stepped out.

“Why, Ambassador Nitworth,” Magnan glowed. “This is very kind
of you—”

“Keep cool, Magnan,” Nitworth said in a strained voice.
“We’ll attempt to get you out of this . . .” He stepped past
Magnan’s outstretched hand and looked hesitantly at the ramrod-straight line of
Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond at the eighty-five tall Qornt
dreadnoughts.

“Good afternoon, sir . . . ah, Your
Excellency,” Nitworth said, blinking up at the leading Qornt. “You are
Commander of the Strike Force, I assume?”

“Nope,” the Qornt said shortly.

“I . . . ah . . . wish
to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuate the Headquarters,” Nitworth
plowed on.

“Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said. “This—”

“Don’t panic, Retief. I’ll attempt to secure your release,”
Nitworth hissed over his shoulder. “Now—”

“You will address our leader with more respect!” the tall
Qornt hooted, eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up.

“Oh, yes indeed, sir . . . Your
Excellency . . . Commander. Now, about the invasion—”

“Mr. Secretary,” Magnan tugged at Nitworth’s sleeve.

“In heaven’s name, permit me to negotiate in peace!” Nitworth
snapped. He rearranged his features. “Now, Your Excellency, we’ve arranged to
evacuate Smørbrød, of course, just as you requested—”