Galactic Diplomat (16 page)

“No need for haste, Mr. Minister,” Fiss reassured him.
“Everything has been conducted with scrupulous regard for legality, I assure
you.”

“But
there seemed to be hundreds of your . . .
ah . . . esteemed compatriots about in the streets,” Barnshingle
pressed on. “And I had the distinct
impression that there were a number of highly irregular activities in progress—
”

“You refer perhaps to the efforts of some of our people to
remove certain obstacles—”

“Breaking down doors, to be precise,” Barnshingle said a
trifle snappishly. “As well as hauling away wagon-loads of merchandise from
shops, the owners of which appeared to be absent.”

“Ah, yes, impulse buying; hardly consonant with domestic
thrift. But enough of this delightful gossip, Mr. Minister. The matter I wished
to discuss with you . . .” Fiss gave the Minister a glowing account
of his peaceful take-over, citing chapter and verse each time the astounded
diplomat attempted to rumble a protest.

“And, of course,” he finished, “I wished to acquaint your
Excellency with the facts before permitting you to be subjected to ill-advised
counsel by hot-heads.”

“B-but, Great heavens, Drone-master—”

“Planetary Coordinator
Pro Tem
,” Fiss interjected
smoothly. “Now, I shall, of course, be happy to inspect your credentials at
once in order to regularize relations between the Corps and my government.”

“My credentials? But I’ve presented my credentials to Mr.
Rilikuk of the Foreign Office—”

“This is hardly the time to reminisce over vanished regimes,
Mr. Minister. Now . . .” Fiss leaned forward confidentially.
“You and I are, if I may employ the term, men of the world. Not for us the
fruitless expense of emotional energy over the
fait accompli
, eh? As for
myself, I am most eager to show you around my offices in the finest of the
towers of my capitol—”

“Towers? Capitol?”

“The attractive edifices just beyond the swampy area where
the local wild-life are now disporting themselves,” Fiss explained. “I have
assigned—”

“You’ve
violated the native Sanctum Sanctorum?” Barnshingle gasped.

“An unfortunate choice of words,” Fiss hissed. “Would you
have me establish my ministries here in this warren of one-story clay huts?”

“The Yalcans—” Barnshingle said weakly.

“The name of the planet is now Grudlu,” Fiss stated. “In
honor of Grud, the patron Muse of practicality.”

“Look here, Fiss! Are you asking me to turn my back on the
Yalcans and recognize you as the
de jure
government here? Simply on the
basis of this absurd legalistic rationalization of yours?”

“With the exception of a number of slanted adjectives, very
succinctly put,” Fiss whispered.

“Why in the world would I do a dastardly thing like that?”
Barnshingle demanded.

“Why, good for him,” Miss Braswell breathed behind Retief.

“Ah, yes, terms,” Fiss said comfortably. “First, your Mission
would, of course, be raised at once to Embassy level, at Grudlun insistence,
with yourself requested by name as Ambassador, naturally. Secondly, I have in
mind certain local commercial properties which might make a valuable addition
to your portfolio; I can let you in at investor’s prices—the entire transaction
to be conducted with the utmost discretion, of course, so as not to arouse
comment among the coarse-minded. Then, of course, you’ll wish to select a
handsome penthouse for yourself in one of my more exclusive
towers . . .”

“Penthouse? Ambassador? Portfolio?” Barnshingle babbled.

“I marvel at the patience Your Excellency has displayed in
tolerating the thinly-veiled insult implied in your assignment to grubby
quarters in this kennel,” Fiss commented. “Why, a person could disappear in
this maze of old crockery and never be heard from again . . .”

“Disappear?” Barnshingle croaked. “And wha-what if I
refuse . . . ?”

“Refuse? Please, Mr. Minister—or more properly, Mr.
Ambassador—why release the fowl of fancy to flutter among such morbid trees of
speculation?”

“What about my staff? Will
they . . . ah . . . ?”

“Suitable bribes will be offered,” Fiss whispered crisply.
“Pray don’t give it another thought. All surviving members of the Mission will
present a united front—with the exception of the two criminals now skulking in
the former Legation, of course,” he added.

“Magnan? Why, he’s one of my most reliable
men . . .”

“Perhaps something could be managed in the case of Mr.
Magnan, since you express an interest. As for the other—he will return to Groac
to stand trial for assorted crimes against the peace and dignity of the
Groacian state.”

“I really must protest . . .” Barnshingle said
weakly.

“Your Excellency’s loyalty is most touching. And now, if
you’d just care to sign here . . .” An underling handed Fiss a
document which he passed to Barnshingle.

“Why, the old phoney!” Miss Braswell gasped. “He’s going to
do it!”

“It’s time to break this up,” Retief whispered to Oo-Plif.
“I’ll take care of Fiss; you hit the others—”

“On contrary, Retief-Tic,” the Yalcan replied. “Most improper
to interfere with natural course of events.”

“Maybe you don’t understand; Barnshingle’s about to sign away
your rights to Yalc. By the time you drag it though the courts and recover, you
may all be dead. The Groaci are zealous in the field of wildlife control—”

“No matter; we Yalcans pacifistic folk; not like butt in.”

“In that case, I’ll have to do it alone. You’ll take care of
Miss Braswell—”

“No, not even alone, dear Retief-Tic. Not in spirit of Yalcan
Pacifism.” Something hard prodded Retief’s chest; he looked down at the power
gun in Oo-Plif’s lower right hand.

“Why, you old stinker,” Miss Braswell said. “And I thought
you were sweet!”

“Hope soon to recoup good opinion, Braswell Ticcim,” Oo-Plif
said. “Now silence, please.”

In the room, Barnshingle and Fiss were making congratulatory
noises at each other.

“Matter of fact,” Barnshingle said, “I never felt these
Yalcans were ready for self-government. I’m sure your wardship will be just
what they need.”

“Please—no meddling in internal affairs,” Fiss said. “And,
now, let us away to more appropriate surroundings. Just wait until you see the
view from your new suite, Mr. Ambassador . . .” They departed,
chattering.

“Well, you’ve had your way, Oo-Plif,” Retief said. “Your
pacifism has a curiously spotty quality. Just why do you object to preventing
our unfortunate Minister from making an idiot of himself?”

“Forgive use of weapon, Retief-Tic. Foolishness of
Barnshingle Tic-Tic-Tic not important—”

“He’s a three-tic man now?”

“Promotion just received at hands of Five-eyes. Now away to
bog, all buddies together, eh?”

“Where’s the rest of Barnshingle’s staff? They were together
on the crater-viewing expedition.”

“All tucked away in house few alleys from here. Better get
wiggle on now; climax of festival arrive soon.”

“Good night, does your silly old carnival mean more to you
than your own planet?” Miss Braswell demanded.

“Voom Festival of great national importance,” Oo-Plif stated,
opening and closing his bony mandibles like the two halves of a clam—a
mannerism indicating polite amusement.

Following the Yalcan’s instructions, Retief squeezed through
narrow passages, found his way out into the inevitable dark alley, Miss
Braswell’s hand holding tightly to his. The sounds of looters and their
vehicles had diminished to near-silence now. A turbine growled along a nearby
street, going away. They came out into a side street, surveyed the deserted
pavement, the scattered discards of the Groaci homesteaders. Above the low
roof-lines, the mile-distant towers of the shrine were a blaze of gorgeous
light.

“It looks so pretty, all lit up,” Miss Braswell said. “I’m
just amazed that you’d let those nasty little Groaci walk in and take it all
away from you.”

Oo-Plif laughed, a sound like sand in a bearing. “Towers
tributes to deities. Fate of towers in deities’ hands now.”

“Hmmmph. They could have used a little help from you,” Miss
Braswell sniffed.

“Looks like the new owners have cleared out for now,” Retief
said. “All over at the towers, throwing a party in honor of Independence Day.”

“Time go to dandy hot bog,” Oo-Plif said. “Big event soon
now.”

Moving
briskly along the empty street under the light of the fourth moon, now high in
the sky, they reached the corner. Down the wide cross-avenue, the flaring
torches of
the revelers at the bog sparkled
cheerfully. The faint sound of Yalcan voices raised in song were audible now in
the stillness.

“Just what is this big event we’re hurrying to make?” Retief
inquired.

Oo-Plif indicated the large satellite overhead. “When number
four moon reach position ten degrees west of zenith—Voom!”

“Oh, astrological symbolism.”

“Not know big word—but only one time every ninety-four years
standard all four moon line up. When this happen—Voom time here!”

“Voom,” Retief said. “Just what does the word signify?”

“Fine old Yalcan word,”
Oo-Plif said. “Terry equivalent . . .
ummm . . .”

“Probably untranslatable.”

Oo-Plif snapped the fingers of his upper left hand.

“I remember,” he said. “Mean ‘earthquake’!”

Retief stopped dead.

“You did say—‘earthquake’?”

“Correct Retief-Tic—”

Retief’s left fist slammed out in a jack-hammer punch to the
Yalcan’s midriff plates. The tall creature oofed, coiled into a ball, all four
legs scrabbling, the four arms groping wildly.

“Sorry, pal,” Retief muttered, catching up the power gun. “No
time to argue.” He grabbed Miss Braswell’s hand and started off at a dead run
down the deserted avenue toward the towering castle of light.

They skidded to a halt at a gleam from an opening door ahead.
A pipe-stem-legged Groaci hurried from a building, a bulging sack over one
knobby shoulder. A second helmeted looter trotted behind, lugging a handsome
ten gallon spittoon.

“They’ve got a heli,” Retief said softly. “We need it. Wait
here.”

Miss Braswell clutched his hand even tighter. “I’m scared!”

The
two scavengers were clambering into their dark machine now. Running lights
sprang into diamond brilliance. The turbos whirred. Retief disengaged his hand,
ran across the thirty feet of open pavement and jumped, just as the heli
lifted. There were faint, confused cries from the startled Groaci; one fumbled
out a power rifle in time for Retief to jerk it from his grasp, toss it over
the side. The heli canted wildly, narrowly missing a decorated cornice. Retief
got a grip on a bony neck, propelled the owner over the side, heard a faint
yelp as he hit. An instant later, the second followed. Retief caught the
controls, brought the heli around in a tight turn, dropped it in beside Miss
Braswell.

“Oh! I was afraid it was you that fell overboard, Mr.
Retief!” She scrambled up beside him, lent a hand to tumble the gaboon out to
smash thunderously on the tiles. On a nearby roof, the two dispossessed Groaci
keened softly, like lost kittens. The heli jumped off, lifted swiftly and
headed for the glass towers.

The city of glass spread over forty acres, a crystalline
fantasy of towers, minarets, fragile balconies suspended over space, diaphanous
fretwork, airy walkways spun like spider-webs between slim spires ablaze with
jewel-colored light. Retief brought the heli in high, settled in a stomach-lifting
swoop toward the tallest of the towers.

“Miss Braswell, you can operate this thing, can’t you?”

“Sure, I’m a good driver, but—”

Retief threw the drive into auto-hover three feet above a
tiny terrace clinging to the spire. “Wait here; I’ll be back as soon as I can.
If anybody else shows up, get out of here fast and head for the bog!”

“The . . . the bog?”

“It’ll
be the safest place around when the quake hits . . . !” He
was over the side, across the five-foot wide shelf of water-clear glass, and
through an opening arched with intertwined glass vines hung with sparkling
scarlet and purple berries. A narrow stair wound down, debouching into a round
chamber walled with transparent murals depicting gardens in the sun. Through the
glass, lighted windows in the next tower were visible, and beyond, the
silhouettes of half a dozen Groaci and a tall, paunchy Terrestrial.

Retief found more stairs, leaped down them, whirled through
an archway of trellised glass flowers. A narrow crystal ribbon arched across
the void to the lighted entry opposite. He pulled off his shoes, crossed the
bridge in five quick steps.

Voices were audible above, and dark shadows moved to the
pebble-glass ceiling. Retief went up, caught a brief glimpse of five
richly-draped Groaci under an ornate chandelier, fingering elaborate Yalcan
wine glasses and clustering about the stooping, chinless figure of Minister
Barnshingle.