Galactic Diplomat (34 page)

The hatch moved, cycled open. A head came cautiously into
view in time to see the needler in Retief’s hand.

“Come on out,” Retief said.

The head dropped, and Chip snaked forward, rammed the iron
rod under the hatch near the hinge. The hatch began to cycle shut, groaned,
stopped. There was a sound of metal failing, and the hatch, popped, stood open.
Retief half rose, aimed the needler. The walls of the tank rang as the metal
splinters ricocheted inside.

“That’s one keg o’ beer I owe you, mister,” Chip said. “Now
let’s git outa here before the ship lifts and fries us.”

“The biggest problem the Jorgensen’s people will have is
decontaminating the wreckage,” Retief said.

Magnan
leaned forward. “Amazing,” he said. “They just kept coming, did they? Had they
no inter-ship communication?”

“They had their orders. And their attack plan. They followed
it.”

“What a spectacle! Over a thousand ships, plunging out of
control one by one as they entered the stress-field.”

“Not much of a spectacle. You couldn’t see them; too far
away. They all crashed back in the mountains.”

“Oh.” Magnan’s face fell. “But it’s as well they did; the
bacterial bombs—”

“Too cold for bacteria. They won’t spread.”

“Nor will the Soetti,” Magnan said smugly, “thanks to the
promptness with which I acted in dispatching you with the requisite data.” He
looked narrowly at Retief. “By the way, you’re sure
no . . . ah . . . message reached you
after your arrival?”

“I got something,” Retief said, looking Magnan in the eye.
“It must have been a garbled transmission. It didn’t make sense.”

Magnan coughed, shuffled papers. “This information you’ve
reported,” he said hurriedly. “This rather fantastic story that the Soetti
originated in the Cloud, that they’re seeking a foothold in the main galaxy
because they’ve literally eaten themselves out of subsistence; how did you get
it? The one of two Soetti we attempted to
question . . . ah,” Magnan coughed again. “There was an
accident,” he finished. “We got nothing from them.”

“The
Jorgensens took a Soetti from a wreck, still alive but unconscious. They
managed to get the story from him.”

“It’s immaterial, actually,” Magnan said. “The Soetti
violated their treaty with us the day after it was signed. Had no intention of
fair play. Far from evacuating the agreed areas, they had actually occupied
half a dozen additional minor bodies in the
Whate
system.”

Retief clucked sympathetically. “You don’t know who to trust,
these days,” he said. Magnan looked at him coldly.

“Spare me your sarcasm, Retief.” He picked up a folder from
his desk, opened it. “While you’re out that way, I have another little task for
you. We haven’t had a comprehensive wildlife census report from Brimstone
lately—”

“Sorry,” Retief said. “I’ll be tied up. I’m taking a month
off. Maybe more.”

“What’s that?” Magnan’s head came up. “You seem to forget—”

“I’m trying, Mr. Secretary. Goodbye now.” Retief reached out
and flipped the key. Magnan’s face faded from the screen. Retief stood up.

“Chip, we’ll crack that keg when I get back.” He turned to
Freya.

“Freya,” he said, “do you think you could teach me to ski by
moonlight?”

“For
all its spirit of detachment from petty local issues, the Corps was never slow
to interpose its majestic presence in the path of injustice. Under-Secretary
Sternwheeler’s classic approach to the problem of Aga Kagan aggression at
Flamme testified to the efficacy of tried diplomatic procedures backed by the
profound prestige of the Corps . . .”

—Vol. XV, Reel 3, 494 AE (AD 2955)

“I’m
not at all sure,” Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, “that I fully understand
the necessity of your absenting yourself from your post of duty at this time,
Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealt with in the usual
way—assuming any action is necessary.”

“I had a sharp attack of writer’s cramp, Mr. Secretary,”
Retief said. “So I thought I’d better come along in person—just to be sure of
making my point.”

“I seem to recall seeing a dispatch or two on the subject,”
Deputy Under-Secretary Magnan put in. “Unfortunately, this being
end-of-the-fiscal-year time, we found ourselves quite inundated with reports.
Reports, reports, reports—”

“Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan?”
the Under-Secretary barked.

“Gracious, no. I love reports—”

“It seems nobody’s told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years,”
Retief said. “They’re going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing on
Flamme. So far, I’ve persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for the Corps,
and not to take matters into their own hands.”

The Under-Secretary nodded. “Quite right. Carry on along the
same lines. Now, if there’s nothing further—”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” Magnan said, rising. “We
certainly appreciate your guidance—”

“There is a little something further,” said Retief, sitting
solidly in his chair. “What’s the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans?”

The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. “As
Minister to Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomatic
representative is merely to . . . what shall I
say . . . ?”

“String them along?” Magnan suggested.

“An unfortunate choice of phrase,” the Under-Secretary said.

“However, it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics.
The Corps must concern itself with matters of broad policy—”

“Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to
settle Flamme,” Retief said. “They were assured of Corps support.”

“I don’t believe you’ll find that in writing,” said the
Under-Secretary blandly. “In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time
a foothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Now the
situation has changed.”

“The
Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme,” Retief said. “They’re
cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set out forests. They’ve
just about reached the point where they can begin to enjoy it. The Aga Kagans
have picked this as a good time to move in. They’ve landed thirty detachments
of ‘fishermen’—complete with armored trawlers mounting 40mm infinite
repeaters—and two dozen parties of ‘homesteaders’—all male and toting rocket
launchers.”

“Surely
there’s land enough on the world to afford space to both groups,” the
Under-Secretary said. “A spirit of cooperation—”

“The Boyars needed some co-operation sixty years ago. They
tried to get the Aga Kagans to join in, help them beat back some of the saurian
wildlife that liked to graze on people. The Aga Kagans didn’t want to play. The
Corps didn’t like the idea either; they wanted to see an undisputed
anti-Concordiatist enclave. But now that the world is tamed, the squatters are
moving in.”

“The exigencies of diplomacy require a flexible policy—”

“I
want a firm assurance of Corps support to take back to Flamme,” Retief said.
“The Boyars are a little naïve; they don’t understand diplomatic triple-speak.
They just want to hold onto the homes they’ve made out of a wasteland.”

“I’m warning you, Retief!” the Under-Secretary snapped,
leaning forward, wattles quivering. “Corps policy with regard to Flamme
includes no inflammatory actions based on out-moded concepts. The Boyars will
have to accommodate themselves to the situation!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Retief said. “They’re not going
to sit still and watch it happen. If I don’t take back concrete evidence of
Corps backing, we’re going to have a nice hot little shooting war on our
hands.”

The Under-Secretary pushed out his lips, drummed his fingers
on the desk. “Confounded hot-heads,” he muttered. “Very well, Retief. I’ll go
along to the extent of a Note; but no further.”

“A Note? I was thinking of something more like a squadron of
Corps Peace Enforcers running through a few routine maneuvers off Flamme—”

“Out of the question. A stiffly worded Protest Note is the
best I can do. That’s final.”

Back in the corridor, Magnan turned to Retief. “When will you
learn not to argue with Under-Secretaries? One would think you actively dislike
the idea of a promotion. I was astonished at the Under-Secretary’s restraint.
Frankly, I was stunned when he actually agreed to a Note. I, of course, will
have to draft it.” Magnan pulled at his lower lip thoughtfully. “Now, I wonder,
should I view with deep concern an act of open aggression, or merely point out
an apparent violation of technicalities . . .”

“Don’t bother,” Retief said. “I have a draft all ready to
go.”

“But how—?”

“I had a feeling I’d get paper instead of action. I thought
I’d save a little time all around.”

“At times your cynicism borders on impudence.”

“At other times it borders on disgust. Now, if you’ll run the
Note through for signature, I’ll try to catch the six o’clock shuttle.”

“Leaving
so soon? There’s an important reception tonight. Some of our biggest names will
be there. An excellent opportunity for you to join in the diplomatic
give-and-take.”

“No, thanks. I want to get back to Flamme and join in
something mild, like a dinosaur hunt.”

“When you get there, I hope you’ll make it clear that this
matter is to be settled without violence.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep the peace, if I have to start a war
to do it.”

On the broad veranda at Government House, Retief settled
himself comfortably in a lounge chair, accepted a tall glass from a
white-jacketed waiter, and regarded the flamboyant Flamme sunset, a gorgeous
blaze of vermilion and purple that reflected from a still lake, tinged the
broad lawn with color, silhouetted tall poplars among flower beds.

“You’ve done great things here in sixty years, Georges,” said
Retief. “Not that natural geological processes couldn’t have produced the same
results, given a couple of hundred million years.”

“Don’t belabor the point,” the Boyar Chef d’Regime said,
“—since we seem to be on the verge of losing it.”

“You’re forgetting the Note.”

“A
Note,” Georges said, waving his cigar. “What the purple polluted hell is a Note
supposed to do? I’ve got Aga Kagan claim-jumpers camped in the middle of what
used to be a fine stand of barley, cooking sheep’s brains over dung fires not
ten miles from Government House—and up-wind at that.”

“Say, if that’s the same barley you distill your whiskey
from, I’d call that a first-class atrocity.”

“Retief,
on your say-so, I’ve kept my boys on a short leash. They’ve put up with plenty.
Last week, while you were away, these barbarians sailed that flotilla of
armor-plated junks right through the middle of one of our best oyster breeding
beds.
It was all I could do to keep a bunch
of our men from going
out in private helis and blasting ’em out of the
water.”

“That wouldn’t have been good for the oysters, either.”

“That’s what I told ’em. I also said you’d be back here in a
few days with something from Corps HQ. When I tell ’em all we’re got is a piece
of paper, that’ll be the end. There’s a strong vigilante organization here
that’s been outfitting for the last four weeks. If I hadn’t held them back with
assurances that the CDT would step in and take care of this invasion, they
would have hit them before now.”

“That would have been a mistake. The Aga Kagans are tough
customers. They’re active on half a dozen worlds at the moment. They’ve been
building up for this push for the last five years. A show of resistance by you
Boyars without Corps backing would be an invitation to slaughter—with the
excuse that you started it.”

“So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these
goat-herders take over our farms and fisheries?”

“Those goat-herders aren’t all they seem. They’ve got a
first-class modern navy.”

“I’ve
seen ’em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around on animal-back, wear
dresses down to their ankles—”

“The ‘goat-skin’ tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in
the same factory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes you
mention. The animals are just for show; back home they use helis and ground
cars of the most modern design.”

The Chef d’Regime chewed his cigar.

“Why the masquerade?”

“Something to do with internal policies, I suppose.”

“So we sit tight and watch ’em take our world away from us.
That’s what I get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobbered
these monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world.”

“Slow down, I haven’t finished yet. There’s still the Note.”

“I’ve got plenty of paper already; rolls and rolls of it.”