Retief-Ambassador to Space (21 page)

 "Mud
smooth nice my up messing are fellows these, Magnan Mister, hey!" the
local protested in his scratchy voice.

 "It's
all right, Freddy," Magnan soothed. "Ah ... headquarters from shots
big, they're," he added in an undertone.

 Inside,
Rainsinger stared about incredulously at the runners of vine poking in through
shattered windows, the dried and caked mud through which footpaths led to the
grand staircase, itself well nigh buried under a luxuriant growth of coiling
green weed. He started as a sharp-nosed rat scurried into view, scuttled away
into the shelter of a pile of brush heaped carelessly beside the balustrade.

 "Shall
we have a look at the chancery wing?" he inquired in ominous tones.

 "Say,
where do we eat lunch?" the portly attache looked around curiously.

 "Maybe
we'd better not go up just yet ..." Magnan broke off as a cascade of brown
water came surging down from the landing above, bearing with it a flotsam of
papers, twigs, vigorously swimming small animals and other odds and ends. The
stream struck the floor, sluiced its way across to the exit and poured out into
the street, eliciting a loud cry from Freddy.

 "Conception
esthetic whole my up loused they've!" his voice was hoarse with
indignation. "On going what's?"

 "Unplugged
drains those got I, Magnan Mister Oh!" a cheery Slunthan voice called from
above.

 "Hmmm.
Unfortunate timing," Magnan said. "But at least it scoured a path for
us." He led the way up the stairs and along a corridor, the walls of which
were obscured by a ragged growth of vines, through which discolored wallpaper
was visible. He ducked under a festoon of creepers undulating in a doorway,
waved the team members into his spacious office. Rainsinger stopped dead as his
eye fell on the mud-clotted weeds layering the floor, the slab of rough
ironwood spanning two upended oil drums serving as a desk, the clustered stems
crowding the glassless windows.

 There
was a moment of profound silence. Then:

 "Gentlemen!"
The trade mission chief's voice had something of the quality of a volcano
preparing to erupt. "During my career I've encountered slackness,
inefficiency and disorder at many a station. A little dust on the filing
cabinets, a few dope-stick burns in the upholstery, gum wrappers in the
John—even some minor discrepancies in the voucher files—all these are normal
concomitants of life at a remote post. But this!" His voice rose. "This
model town, built with CDT funds as a gift to the Slunchan people less than six
months ago—a perfect example of civic design produced by the most skillful Deep
Think teams on the departmental payroll! Look at it! A blighted area! A pest
hole! And the consulate general itself! Two inches of mud in the main lounge!
Broken drains flooding the halls! Rats, mice and vermin swarming in every nook
and cranny! Weeds sprouting in the corridors! Broken glass! Vanished
furnishings! Vandalism! Dereliction of duty! Destruction of Corps property! And
withal— no berp-nuts!"

 With
an effort he pulled his voice back into the lower registers and directed a
chilling gaze at Magnan.

 "Sir,
as of this moment you may consider yourself suspended, relieved of duty and
under close house arrest! Under emergency powers vested in me under Article
Nine, Section Four, Title Two of Corps Regulations, I'm taking personal
command!"

 "But—but,
sir!" Magnan protested. "I haven't yet had time to settle in, as it
were. The mud crabs ate the furniture; and the conditions here—the mud tides
and the cinder storms, and the shortage of local labor and ... and ..."

 "Say,
I was wondering—how about a sandwich," the fat attache put in.

 "No
excuses!" Rainsinger bellowed. "We built the town to point these
benighted natives the way to higher living standards and an increased
consumption of Terry-manufactured goods! A fine example you've set, sir! But
I'll do what I can in the eleventh hour to retrieve the situation!"

 He
whirled on his staff.

 "Blockchip,
you'll take a detail and attend to the broken plumbing. Horace—" he
addressed the stout attache— "you'll see to shovelling out the mud from
the ground floor. Poindexter will seal off the upper floors and fumigate. As
for you, Mr. Magnan—I'm suspending your arrest long enough for you to round up
an adequate labor force to unload the cargo I brought in." He looked at
his old-fashioned strap watch.

 "I'll
expect to see this building spotless by sundown, in time for a reception to be
held this evening at eight o'clock sharp. Full formal attire, including clean
fingernails! I'll show these natives how civilized Terrans live—and inspire the
wish to emulate us!"

 "Ah—there
might be a little trouble about the local labor," Magnan spoke up.
"The Slunchans have rigid taboos against working on weekdays."

 "This
is Sunday!"

 "How
true, sir. Unfortunately, they don't work on Sundays, either."

 "Offer
them double wages!"

 "They
don't use money."

 "Then
offer them what they want!"

 "All
they want is for us to go away."

 "Mr.
Magnan." Rainsinger cut him off with an ominous tone. "I suggest you
discontinue your obstructionism at once, or the word 'insubordination' will be
cropping up in my report, along with a number of other terms non-conducive to
rapid advancement in the service!" He broke off to grab up a bound volume
of Corps regulations from the improvised desk and hurl it at an inquisitive
vine rat which poked its snout above the window sill.

 "Oh,
I wouldn't do that, sir," Magnan blurted. "In about five hours—"

 "Save
your advice!" Rainsinger roared. "I'm in charge here now! You may
make yourself useful by ringing up the Slunchan Foreign Minister and making me
an appointment. I'll show you how to handle these locals! In an hour I'll have
him begging for Terran imports!"

 "Ah,
about lunch," the stout attache began.

 "I'll
have him here in a jiffy," Magnan said. He stepped to the door. "Oh,
Freddy," he called. A moment later a Slunchan appeared in the doorway.

 "It
is what; boss, yeah?" the local looked around the office. "Mat floor
a for sneakweed the using, effect snazzy a that's, say!" he exclaimed.

 "Mr.
Rainsinger, may I present—" Magnan started.

 "Here,
isn't this the fellow who was raking mud at the front door as we came in?"
Rainsinger demanded.

 "Yes,
indeed. Of course Freddy is just filling in for the regular man. As I was
saying, may I present Sir Frederik Gumbubu, K.G.E., L. deC., N.G.S., Slunchan
Minister of Foreign Affairs."

 "A
Foreign Minister? A part-time janitor?" Rainsinger took the proffered hand
gingerly.

 "Know
you, do to ministering foreign my got I've," the Slunchan said
defensively. "Janitor time full a be to me expect couldn't you, all after,
well." He rolled a ball of dried mud between his fingers, lined up on a
framed photo of the sector undersecretary and scored a bull's-eye.

 "Mr.
Magnan, I stand astounded at your ingenuity," Rainsinger said in a voice
like broken crockery. "Not content with failing in your mission while
violating every regulation in the book, you invent a unique offense by
demeaning an official of a friendly foreign power to the performance of menial
tasks in your own Consulate!"

 "But,
sir! Freddy's one of the few locals with a taste for Pepsi. And the only way he
can get it," he added behind his hand, "is to work here. I pay him
off with a case a week."

 "Get
somebody else!"

 "Job
my me lose to trying you are—hey?" Freddy broke in.

 "I
can't!" Magnan wailed. "Scout's honor, sir— they won't work!"

 "Union
labor the with beef a for looking you're maybe," Freddy said. "Action
fast you promise can I, member sole and president the be to happen I as
and!"

 "Look
here, ah, Sir Frederik." Rainsinger faced the foreign minister. "I'm
sure we can work out a mutually agreeable arrangement. You round up and send
along about a hundred good workers, and I'll see to it that Slunch is given
full Most Favored Nation status in the new Trade Agreement I'm about to
propose."

 "It
do can't, nope," the Slunchan said shortly.

 "Now,
don't be hasty, Mr. Minister," Rainsinger persisted. "I'm prepared to
promise you prompt shipment of any items you care to' name. What about a nice
line of genuine machine-loomed antimacassars, inscribed with patriotic and
inspirational mottos? I can make you an attractive price on lots of a hundred
thousand."

 Sir
Frederik shook his flat head sadly. "Items luxury afford can't we,
bringing nuts-berps prices the at— nix!"

 Rainsinger
took the minister's elbow in a fatherly grip. "Now, Freddy ..."

 "It's
no use, sir," Magnan interposed glumly. "Lord knows I've tried. But
they're incurably content. They already have everything they want."

 "That's
enough of your defeatism," Rainsinger snapped. "You'd best be on your
way, and take Mr. Retief with you. I'll pitch in myself, as soon as I've given
a few more instructions. We have a great deal of ground to cover if we're to be
ready to receive our guests in four and a half hours!"

 "Well,
Magnan," Rainsinger complacently surveyed the chattering conversational
groups of Slunchans and Terrans dotted across the gleaming ballroom floor,
newly ornamented along one wall by a tasteful display of engraved headstones
and funerary urns. "I must say we've acquitted ourselves creditably. And
I've taken measures to insure conditions don't deteriorate again." He
lifted a glass from a passing tray borne by a Slunchan who limped heavily.

 "Hmmm.
Chap seems to have a cast on his foot," the Inspector remarked.
"Couldn't you have secured able-bodied personnel to staff the catering
function, Magnan?"

 "He's
not actually injured, sir," Magnan said. "He just happened to step in
some, er, material."

 "Say,
isn't that a lump of powdered tombstone adhering to his foot?" Rainsinger
demanded suspiciously. "I hope you haven't handled my cargo
carelessly!"

 "Say,
when are the sandwiches coming?" the stout attache inquired testily.

 "Ah,
here comes the premier," Magnan cut in as a loose-hided local approached,
rotating a hula-hoop with his torso. "Hi, there, your Excellency. May I
present Mr. Rainsinger our new, er, ah. Sir, Mr. Blabghug, the leader of the
Slunchan people in their fight against, ah, whatever it is they're fighting
against."

 Rainsinger
nodded curtly, eyeing the muddy tracks across the floor left by the chief
executive. "See here, Blabghug," he said in a no-nonsense tone.
"I'd like to request that you have your people step up the street-cleaning
program. Those pavements are a gift of the Terrestrial taxpayer."

 "Too,
was it gesture nice a and," Blabghug acknowledged cheerfully. "Them
see to get never we bad too."

 "Yes.
My point exactly. Now, Mr. Prime Minister; I've been here for only five hours,
but I've already gotten a firm grasp of the situation and I see what the source
of our problem is. Once we've cleared up the more active vermin—"

 "Vermin
what?"

 "That
little monster, for one!" Rainsinger nodded sharply toward an inquisitive
rodentoid nose poking around the nearest door.

 "Kidding
be must you," Blabghug said. "Rats-vine the for wasn't it if—"

 "As
soon as we've completed dusting with fast-acting pesticides, we'll see no more
of the creatures," Rainsinger bored on. "Meanwhile, a few zillion
tons of weed killer will control these man-eating vines you've been tolerating
so complacently."

 "About
talking you're what know don't you," Blabghug protested.

 "I
know how to conduct a clean-up campaign!" Rainsinger came back hotly.
"This state of affairs is an insult to the Slunchan people and a
reflection on the Terran Consulate! I've already set wheels in motion—"

 He
broke off as a low rumble tinkled the newly polished glass of the chandelier. A
deep-throated
ba-rooom!
sounded, like a distant cannonade, followed by a
vast, glutinous
smooosh!

 
Magnan
glanced at his watch. "Right on time," he said.

 The
Slunchan premier cocked his head thoughtfully. "Usual than fluid more
little a sounds that," he commented. "High early an for ready get
better we'd."

 "What
the devil's he saying, Magnan?" Rainsinger muttered in an aside. "I
can't make out one word in three."

 "High
mud in a few minutes," Magnan translated, as a second shock rocked the
ballroom. A heavy splattering sounded, as of moist material raining against the
building.

 "Up
button to time, oh-oh," Blabghug warned. He stepped to the nearest window
and slammed shut a set of improvised shutters.

 "What's
this, Mr. Retief?" Rainsinger inquired. "Some sort of religious
observation? Tribal taboo sort of thing?"