Retief-Ambassador to Space (4 page)

"Retief, no time linger over
succulent native dishes," Haccop said. "Plenty big game of Red Eye
just getting under way at Tavern of Golden Ale Keg. ..."

"Don't rush me, Haccop. Order us
a second round of drinks—but none for Mr. Magnan. He doesn't indulge. The
Ambassador doesn't approve of booze."

Magnan blinked at him thoughtfully.

"Ah, Retief, knowing your skill
with the pasteboards and the, er, galloping dominoes, why couldn't you secure
sufficient capital to provision Ambassador Pinchbottle and the others without
the necessity for their stripping all that blubber?"

Retief sampled the fresh drink the
waiter put before him, nodded appreciatively.

"Mr. Magnan, the ship won't
arrive for at least six weeks, possibly longer. Would you recommend that a
nonaccredited diplomat with Ambassador Pinchbottle's personality be permitted
to run loose among the Rockamorrans for that length of time?"

Magnan looked grave, swallowed hard.
"I see what you mean, Retief; but if he finds out, he'll be furious.
..."

"I don't intend to burden him
with the knowledge, Mr. Magnan. Do you?"

Magnan pursed his lips.
"No," he said. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him, eh?"
He
managed a tentative smile. "Speaking of which, I think I'll have that
drink after all."

 JAME
RETIEF, Second Secretary of the Terrestrial Embassy to South Skweem, turned at
a shrill hail from the low doorway of one of the squat grass huts lining the
dusty main street of the capital village.

 "Good
mornings, Terry," a knobby, brown-mottled, four-foot alien with a
bewildering variety of appendages waved a couple of the latter at the diplomat.
"How's trick? Say, I've been meaning to ask ones of you fellow a question:
any chance of you Terry supplying a little economic aid in the forms of a new
roofs for my pad here?" the Skweeman gesticulated with half a dozen limbs.
"Every time it rain, all the squish goes out of my mud pack."

 "Sorry,
Mr. Uptakapacheenobufers, but you know the ground-rules. Much as we Terries
want to impress you people with a Public Works Project, it can't be anything
useful. According to the Underground Deep-Think Teams back at Sector, that
might be taken as an implied criticism of your culture."

 The
Skweeman made a rubbery noise indicating mild disappointment. "Yous know
I'd likes to throw my weights behind the Terry program, but without a few goody
to show for it, what's the percentage?"

 "I
see what you mean, Mr. Uptakapacheenobufers. I'd better start by installing a
couple of new transistors in that language teacher I lent you. It seems to have
imparted a faulty grasp of the plural."

 "Hecks,
Retief, call me 'takapacheenobufers for shorts. I guess we're chum now, after
those snort we had together last night. Wows, what a hangovers!"

 "Speaking
of headaches, I have to hurry along to Staff Meeting. Too bad about the roof,
but if you think of something spectacularly superfluous the town needs, hasten
to let Ambassador Treadwater know. He's sweating out his next E.R."

 Retief
went along to the large hut which served as the Terran Chancery; inside, he
took a camp stool among the staff assembled before a low split-bamboo podium
which sagged visibly under the bulk of the chief of Mission.

 "Now,
then," the Ambassador opened the meeting briskly. "First this morning
we'll take a look at the challenge which confronts us, gentlemen." He
signalled and the lights dimmed. A projector hummed. On the rostrum, a
life-sized, three-dimensional, vividly colored image of a stubby, boxy Skweeman
appeared under a glowing legend reading KNOW YOUR ENEMY. Treadwater tapped the
solidogram with his rubber-tipped pointer.

 "This,
gentlemen," he stated, "might appear to some of you to bear a
superficial resemblance to our great allies, those valiant freedom fighters,
the South Skweemans. However, to a practiced eye it's at once apparent that it
is, in fact,
a North
Skweeman. Note the sly expression, the
general air of inscrutability, the fierce cast of eye ..." The pointer
rapped each feature in turn.

 "Ah
... Mr. Ambassador." Colonel Pluckwyn, the Military Attache, raised an
interrogatory finger from his seat in the front row. "I don't believe that
last organ was precisely an eye. More of an ear, I think you'll find."

 "Whatever
it is, it has a fierce cast!" Treadwater snapped. "Now let's move
along to the coloration." He studied the simulacrum. "Hmm—an
offensive greenish purple with clashing dun rosettes."

 "Golly,
Mr. Ambassador," the Cultural Attaché's voice piped from the rear.
"Maybe I'm mixed up, but aren't
our
Skweemans the same
color?"

 "Certainly
not! Quite the opposite! The South Skweeman is characterized by a soothing
overall tan-nish tone, tastefully set off with purply-green rosettes. Not the
same at all."

 "Yes,
but—"

 "Now,
about the warts." The Ambassador pursued his point. "Note that this
fellow has large blue ones, with tufts of yellowish hair."

 "But,
sir—isn't that what the South Skweemans have?"

 Treadwater
smiled patronizingly. "A common mistake, Dimplick. Actually, the South
Skweeman is adorned with somewhat smaller warts, bearing attractive tufts of
golden
hair."

 "Oop,
my mistakes, boss," a thin South Skweeman voice chirped from the direction
of the projector.

 "Looks
like I accidentally slipped in a shots of the South Skweeman Minister of Eats
and Drinks. A nice likeness, too, made just before the mob got him." The
image flicked out of existence and another, obscurely different, took its place.

 "Well,
I'm sure we all get the general idea, anyway," the Cultural Attache
offered breathlessly, as Treadwater's face took on a dangerous shade of purple.

 "Yeah—
these
are a shot of the common foe," the projectionist announced.
"Boy, will you look at those look of ferocity?"

 "Take
it away!" Treadwater bellowed. "And I suggest you look to your
labels, sir, before you create an international incident!" He yanked his
pale violet lapels back in line. "Now, it's time to get on to the
substantive portion of today's briefing." He beetled his brows at his
audience.

 "You're
all aware that the success of our mission here depends on establishing the
legitimacy of the government to which I—that is; we—are accredited. Namely,
that of Free Skweem, formerly known as South Skweem. We are similarly aware
that next month's plebiscite will determine once and for all whether the mantle
of planetary leadership falls on the shoulder of our sturdy allies, the South
Skweemans, or on the bowed backs of the North Skweeman insurgents, the
satellites of the unprincipled Groaci."

 "I
have a suggestion," the Political Officer broke in excitedly. "We
could hire some of the rougher local patriots to patrol the polling places,
weeding out undesirables, distributing special disappearing ballots among the
opposition and making a few minor adjustments to the counting machines to
insure a victory for democratic processes!"

 "This
is no time for subtlety," Treadwater stated flatly. "We must impress
the locals of both political persuasions with our superior capacity to bestow
largesse. We need, gentlemen, a large and impressive symbol of Terran
generosity and technical virtuosity. The floor is now open for your
suggestions."

 The
Ambassador waited. The silence was profound.

 "Gentlemen,"
Treadwater said ominously, "a full week has passed since I first requested
suggestions from the staff—and as of today, the net response has been
nil!"

 A
shuffling of feet greeted the accusation.

 "A
curious lethargy seems to have afflicted you, gentlemen." The Ambassador
stared around belligerently. "This, while a certain foreign mission daily
entrenches itself more securely, prestige-wise, by virtue of a certain probably
illegal but nonetheless highly effective propaganda device. I refer, of course,
to the dam the Groaci have bestowed on their North Skweeman toadies."

 "I
propose we build a dam too," someone said quickly.

 "Wonderful
notion," the Economic Officer rumbled. "About to suggest it
myself—"

 "Say,
Charlie, you're hitting right in there this morning," a First Secretary
offered. There were clucks and chuckles of admiration from the rest of the
staff. Treadwater waited for the approbation to die down.

 "The
dam constructed by the Groaci engineers at the point where the river loops
briefly into North Skweem," he purred, "has not only crippled South
Skweeman commerce, but has effected a drought which is rapidly starving our
brave allies into an advanced state of malnutrition, complicated by dust storms.
Add to this the unfortunate flooding of that portion of the nation's farmland
lying above the dam and we see, gentlemen, a striking example of creative
public relations—unhappily, in the service of the opposition. Now—" he
smiled thinly at the group— "will someone kindly tell me what possible
detriment would accrue to our rivals if I were so ill-advised as to construct
still another navigational hazard in what was once this nation's main artery of
communication!" His voice rose to an apoplectic bellow on the last words.
No one volunteered a reply.

 A
junior Third Secretary raised a hand timidly. Treadwell blinked expectantly.

 "Ah
... sir. The dam is creating a sizable lake, I understand. What do the Groaci
have in mind doing with all that water?"

 "Eh?
Do? Nothing, of course!" the Ambassador snapped. "The entire project
was designed merely to harass me! Or rather, us! The proud and independent
populace of South Skweem, that is to say!"

 "Oh."
The young man subsided.

 "Well,
then," the Ambassador went on, icily calm now. "Let us try again,
gentlemen, avoiding, if possible, the idiotic."

 "Well,
Mr. Ambassador, Project Proposals are a tricky proposition," the quavering
voice of the elderly Press Attache offered. "There was quite a row kicked
up in certain journals concerning that hundred-man bird bath the CDT built for
the Quornt before we discovered they were allergic to water. And it will be
quite a while before we live down the shoe factory we gave the Jaq, since they
seem to have no feet to speak of. And there was a certain amount of criticism
of—"

 "I'm
well aware of the history of the fiasco, as practiced by my colleagues,"
Treadwater cut him off glacially. "It is precisely for that reason that I
am determined to present to Sector Headquarters a Proposal which will bear
microscopic scrutiny, farce-wise. Now, thinking caps, men! I needn't remind you
that we are caught between the mortar of Groaci expansionism and the pestle of
Corps policy. If the government to which we are accredited is not starved out
from under us, we still face an unfilled Project Quota."

 "Damned
awkward, sir," Colonel Pluckwyn murmured. "Couldn't we just give the
beggars a touch of the old quirt? A small fractional megatonner, say, just to
teach 'em their manners."

 "Bomb
Headquarters?" Treadwater looked astonished.

 "Actually
I was thinking of the North Skweemans, sir, but your suggestion has
merit—"

 "Colonel,
I think you'd better report to the dispensary after Staff Meeting, for skull
X-rays," Treadwater said bleakly. "I suspect the plates will come out
blank. Now, let's move along to Mr. Magnan's report." The Ambassador
glanced expectantly over the seated diplomats.

 "Magnan?
Where is the fellow, drat it!" The Ambassadorial eye fixed on Retief.
"You, there. What's-your-name. Magnan's your chief, I believe. Where the
devil is he?"

 "Mr.
Magnan failed to confide in me, Your Excellency," Retief said.

 "Didn't
your Excellency send him over to call on the Groaci Ambassador?" Dimplick
queried.

 "Of
course," Treadwater agreed. "I instructed him to unobtrusively scout
out the effects of the new dam under cover of the protocol visit. It is that on
which I wish his report."

 "Mr.
Magnan went across the line into North Skweem, alone?" Retief inquired
casually.

 "I
believe that is where his Groacian Excellency is usually to be found,"
Treadwater replied testily, glancing at his finger watch. "And he was distinctly
directed to be back before tiffin time."

 "The
present crisis may have thrown off the tiffin schedule," Retief
conjectured.

 Treadwater
frowned ominously. "Are you suggesting the scoundrels may have so far
forgotten their protocol as to have
detained
an accredited diplomat in
the performance of his duty?"

 
"Something
seems to have detained him," Pluckwyn offered.

 "I
hope he didn't go sniffing too closely around the dam," the Political
Officer said soberly. "Those North Skweemans can be pretty nasty. I saw
some atrocity photos our visual aid people mocked-up, based on reliable
rumors—"