Galactic Diplomat (4 page)

“Requested?” the Qornt honked.

“Ah . . . demanded,
that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered. Instructed. And, of course, we’ll be
only too
pleased to follow any other
instructions you might have—
”

“You don’t quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary,” Retief
said. “This isn’t—”

“Silence, confound you!” Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt
looked at Retief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth, and
stuffed a length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around and
held him facing Retief.

“If you don’t mind my taking this opportunity to brief you,
Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said blandly, “I think I should mention that this isn’t
an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the Peace Enforcement Corps.”

Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador
Nitworth’s mouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. “We felt,” he said, “that
the establishment of a Foreign Brigade with the P E Corps structure would
provide the element of novelty the Department has requested in our recruiting,
and at the same time would remove the stigma of Terrestrial chauvinism from
future punitive operations.”

Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the
gag, caught the Qornt’s eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides.

“I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun,” Retief
said. Magnan edged closer. “What about the gag?” he whispered.

“Let’s leave it where it is for a while,” Retief murmured.
“It may save us a few concessions.”

An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered
across his desk at Retief and Magnan.

“This entire affair,” he rumbled, “has made me appear to be a
fool!”

“But
we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just how clever you
are,” Magnan burbled.

Nitworth purpled. “You’re skirting insolence, Magnan,” he
roared. “Why was I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at
the sight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced?”

“We tried to get through, but our wave-lengths—”

“Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the
spectacle of those armed horrors advancing.”

“Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking—”

“I did NOT panic!” Nitworth bellowed.
“I merely adjus
ted to the apparent circumstances.
Now, I’m of two minds as
to the advisability
of this foreign legion idea of yours. Still, i
t may have merit. I
believe the wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruise
in an uninhabited sector of space—”

The
office windows rattled. “What the devil—!” Nitworth turned, stared out at the
ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale blue light. The
vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third—

Nitworth whirled on Magnan. “What’s this! Who ordered these
recruits to embark without my permission?”

“I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr.
Secretary,” Retief said. “There was that little matter of the Groaci
infiltrating the Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it.”

“Call them back! Call them back at once!”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. They’re under orders to
maintain total communications silence until completion of the mission.”

Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a
thoughtful expression dawned. He nodded. “This may work out,” he said. “I
should call them back, but since the fleet is out of contact, I’m unable to do
so, correct? Thus, I can hardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in
chastising the Groaci.” He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan.

“Very well, gentlemen, I’ll overlook the irregularity this
time. Magnan, see to it the Smørbrødian public are notified they can remain
where they are. And by the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of
the indetectible drive the Qornt use?”

“No, sir. That is, yes, sir.”

“Well? Well?”

“There isn’t any. The Qornt were there all the while.
Underground.”

“Underground? Doing what?”

“Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch.”

Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood
talking to a tall man in a pilot’s coverall.

“I’ll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—your
recruiting scheme, Retief,” Magnan said. “Suppose you run into the city to
assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?”

Magnan raised his eyebrows. “You’re remarkably compliant
today, Retief. I’ll arrange transportation—”

“Don’t bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was
the pilot who ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.”

Magnan nodded curtly.

“I’ll
be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief,” the pilot said. He
moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye. “An uncouth sort, I
fancied. I trust you’re not consorting with his kind
socially . . .”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Retief said. “We just want to
go over a few figures together.”

“Oft
has the Corps, in its steadfast championing of minority rights, run foul of the
massive influence of entrenched pressure groups. Consul General (later
Secretary) Magnan stirringly reaffirmed hallowed Corps principles of fair play
in his deft apportionment of minerals properties in the
Belt . . .”

—Vol. III, Reel 21, 481 AE (AD 2942)

Consul-General
Magnan gingerly fingered a heavily rubber-banded sheaf of dog-eared documents.
“I haven’t rushed into precipitate action on this claim, Retief,” he said. “The
consulate has grave responsibilities here in the Belt. One must weigh all
aspects of the situation, consider the ramifications; what consequences would
arise from a grant of minerals rights on the planetoid to this claimant?”

“The claim looked all right to me,” Retief said. “Seventeen
copies with attachments. Why not process it? You’ve had it on your desk for a
week.”

Magnan’s eyebrows went up. “You’ve a personal interest in
this claim, Retief?”

“Every day you wait is costing them money; that hulk they
use for an ore-carrier is in a parking orbit piling up demurrage.”

“I see you’ve become emotionally involved in the affairs of a
group of obscure miners; you haven’t yet learned the true diplomat’s happy
faculty of non-identification with specifics—or should I say identification
with non-specifics?”

“They’re not a wealthy outfit, you know. In fact, I
understand this claim is their sole asset—unless you want to count the
ore-carrier.”

“The consulate is not concerned with the internal financial
problems of the Sam’s Last Chance Number Nine Mining Company.”

“Careful,” Retief said. “You almost identified yourself with
a specific that time.”

“Hardly, my dear Retief,” Magnan said blandly. “The
implication is mightier than the affidavit. You should study the records of the
giants of Galactic diplomacy: Crodfoller, Wormwell, Spradley, Nitworth,
Sternwheeler, Barnshingle; the roll-call of those names rings like the majestic
tread of . . . of . . .”

“Dinosaurs?” Retief suggested.

“An apt simile,” Magnan nodded. “Those mighty figures, those
armored hides—”

“Those tiny brains . . .”

Magnan smiled sadly. “I see you’re indulging your penchant
for distorted facetiae. Perhaps one day you’ll learn the true worth of their
contributions.”

“I already have my suspicions.”

The intercom chimed. Miss Gumble’s features appeared on the
desk screen.

“Mr. Leatherwell to see you, Mr. Magnan. He has no
appointment—”

Magnan’s eyebrows went up. “Send Mr. Leatherwell right in.”
He looked at Retief. “I had no idea Leatherwell was planning a call. I wonder
what he’s after?” Magnan looked anxious. “He’s an important figure in Belt
minerals circles. It’s important to avoid arousing antagonism, while
maintaining non-commitment. You may as well stay. You might pick up some
valuable pointers technique-wise.”

The door swung wide; Leatherwell strode into the room, his
massive paunch buckled into fashionable vests of turquoise velvet and hung with
the latest in fluorescent watch charms. He extended a large palm, pumped
Magnan’s flaccid arm vigorously.

“Ah, there, Mr. Consul-General. Good of you to receive me.”
He wiped his hand absently on his thigh, eyeing Retief questioningly.

“Mr. Retief, my Vice-Consul and Minerals Officer,” Magnan
said. “Do take a chair, Mr. Leatherwell. In what capacity can I serve today?”

“I am here, gentlemen,” Leatherwell said, putting an immense
yellow briefcase on Magnan’s desk and settling himself in a power rocker, “on
behalf of my company, General Minerals. General Minerals has long been aware,
gentlemen, of the austere conditions obtaining here in the Belt, to which
public servants like yourselves are subjected.” Leatherwell bobbed with the
pitch of the rocker, smiling complacently at Magnan. “General Minerals is more
than a great industrial combine; it is an organization with a heart.”
Leatherwell reached for his breast pocket, missed as the chair pitched, tried
again.

“How do you turn this damned thing off?” he growled.

Magnan half-rose, peering over Leatherwell’s briefcase. “The
switch just there—on the arm . . .”

The executive fumbled. There was a click, and the chair
subsided with a sigh of compressed air.

“That’s better.” Leatherwell drew out a long slip of blue
paper.

“To alleviate the boredom and brighten the lives of that
hardy group of Terrestrials laboring here on Ceres to bring free enterprise to
the Belt,” he intoned, “General Minerals is presenting to the consulate—on
their behalf—one hundred thousand credits for the construction of a Joy Center,
to be equipped with the latest and finest in recreational equipment, including
a Gourmet Model C banquet synthesizer, a forty-foot sublimation chamber, a
five-thousand-tape library—with a number of choice items unobtainable in
Boston—a twenty-foot Tri-D tank, and other amenities too numerous to mention.”
Leatherwell leaned back, beaming expectantly.

“Why, Mr. Leatherwell—we’re overwhelmed, of
course . . .”
Magnan smiled dazedly past the briefcase.
“But, I wonder if it’s quite proper . . .”

“The gift is to the people, Mr. Consul. You merely accept on
their behalf.”

“I wonder if General Minerals realizes that the hardy
Terrestrials laboring on Ceres are limited to the consular staff?” Retief said.
“And the staff consists of Mr. Magnan, Miss Gumble, and myself—”

“Mr. Leatherwell is hardly interested in these details,
Retief,” Magnan cut in. “A public-spirited offer indeed, sir. As Terrestrial
Consul—and on behalf of all Terrestrials here in the Belt—I accept with a
humble awareness of—”

“Now, there was one other little matter,” Leatherwell said.
He leaned forward to open the briefcase, glancing over Magnan’s littered
desk-top. He extracted a bundle of papers, dropped them on the desk, then drew
out a heavy document, passed it across to Magnan.

“Just a routine claim. I’d like to see it rushed through, as
we have in mind some loading operations in the vicinity next
week . . .”

“Certainly, Mr. Leatherwell.” Magnan glanced at the papers,
paused to read. He looked up. “Ah . . .”

“Something the matter, Mr. Consul?”
Leatherwell demanded.

“It’s just that—ah—I seem to recall—as a matter of
fact . . .” Magnan looked at Retief. Retief took the papers,
looked over the top sheet.

“95739-A. Sorry, Mr. Leatherwell. General Minerals has been
anticipated. We’re processing a prior claim—”

“Prior claim?” Leatherwell barked. “You’ve issued the grant?”

“Oh, no indeed, Mr. Leatherwell,” Magnan replied quickly.
“The claim hasn’t yet been processed—”

“Then there’s no difficulty,” Leatherwell boomed. He glanced
at his finger watch. “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait and take the grant along
with me. I assume it will only take a minute or two to sign it and affix seals
and so on?”

“The other claim
was
filed a full week ago—” Magnan
started.

“Bah!” Leatherwell waved a hand impatiently. “These details
can be arranged.” He fixed an eye on Magnan. “I’m sure all of us here
understand that it’s in the public interest that minerals properties go to
responsible firms, with adequate capital for proper development.”

“Why, ah,” Magnan said.

“The Sam’s Last Chance Number Nine Mining Company is a duly
chartered firm,” Retief said. “Their claim is valid—”

“I know that hole-in-corner concern,” Leatherwell snapped.
“Mere irresponsible opportunists. General Minerals has spent millions—millions,
I say—of the stockholders’ funds in minerals explorations. Are they to be
balked in realizing a fair return on their investment because
these . . . these . . . adventurers
have stumbled on a deposit? Not that the property is of any real value, of
course,” he added. “Quite an ordinary bit of rock. But General Minerals would
find it convenient to consolidate its holdings.”