"I'm
Magnan, Charge in the absence of the Minister," Magnan said.
Fiss
waved his eyes. "The Minister is not here?"
"No,
he's off mountain climbing. Very keen on sports. Now, ah, may I ask where your
other forty-nine vessels might be?"
"Just
where is the Minister to be found?" Fiss enquired.
"I
really can't say," Magnan sniffed. "We've had no word for two days.
Now, about your other ships." Magnan persisted.
"There
are, I believe, forty-nine cities here on this charming little world,"
Fiss said smoothly. "One transport is calling at each."
"Curious
way to conduct a tour." Magnan broke off as a cargo port rumbled open and
a heavy six-wheeled vehicle churned out. Rows of multi-eyed Groaci heads peered
over open sides, on which the words GROAC PLANETARY TOURS, INC. had been
hastily lettered. A second vehicle followed the first, and a third and fourth.
Magnan gaped as the emerging carriers took up positions in an orderly double
file.
"Here,
what's this, Fiss?" he blurted. "These are tourists?"
"Of
course? What else? Please note the presence of ladies and also a number of
lovable Groaci grubs. Yes, innocent, fun-loving tourists all."
"Why
are they in armored cars?" Magnan watched as the vehicles moved off in the
direction of the towering glass temples. "Here, where are they
going?"
"Since
the entire populace is fully occupied with Voom festival activities," Fiss
hissed blandly, "Groac Tours has thoughtfully arranged to occupy available
unused housing."
"Why,
that's the local Holy of Holies," Magnan expostulated. "You can't go
in there!"
"The
structures are not in use," Fiss whispered. "And I see no objection
on the part of the aborigines." He indicated the cab driver who was
watching indifferently as the first tractor moved under a graceful crystalline
arch into the sparkling glass-bricked avenue.
"Hey,
Mac-Tic," the driver called to Retief in Yale. "Time's up. I wanna
get there before the mud cools!"
"Are
you out of your mind, Mr. Fiss?" Magnan demanded. "You're
deliberately precipitating an incident! I'm warning you, I'll refer this to
Sector HQ and call for a squadron of Peace Enforcers!"
"What
need for Peace Enforcers, my dear fellow?" Fiss murmured. "Peace
reigns! We are unarmed. No act of violence is contemplated."
"We'll
see about this!" Magnan fumed. He turned and stamped toward the waiting
taxi.
"So
thoughtful of you to welcome us," Fiss's faint voice followed him. "I
shall be calling at the Legation later to arrange a number of formalities. All
quite legal, I assure you."
"It's
worse than I thought," Magnan groaned to Retief as he climbed into the
cab. "When a Groaci starts citing statutes, you can be sure there's
mischief afoot!"
"This
is incredible!" Magnan barked at the screen where Oo-Rilikuk's
multi-colored visage nodded blandly against a background of sinuously moving
Yalcan dancing-wenches. "You calmly admit that these foreigners are
occupying every pagoda on the planet, strewing dope-stick butts and—"
"This
is Voom season, Mr. Magnan," Rilikuk said reasonably. "What could be
more fitting?"
"Your
concept of propriety confounds me. There are fifty thousand of these
fellows—and I have the distinct impression they're planning an extended
stay!"
"Very
likely," Rilikuk agreed, twitching in time to the music in the background.
"And now, if you'll excuse me ..." The screen blanked.
Magnan
threw up his hands. "I don't like it, Retief. There's an aspect of this
we're missing."
A
chime sounded. The door opened and the Groaci Fiss bustled in, breathing
noisily under the weight of a heavy briefcase.
"Ah,
Mr. Magnan! So good of you to await me. I have the papers here." He
hoisted the case onto the desk and undid stout straps. "I'm sure you'll
find all in order: Territorial claims, governmental charter, application for
League membership—"
"What's
this?" Magnan scanned the heavy documents. "What are you saying sir?
That Yale—that the Groaci—that you—"
"Quite
right," Fiss nodded. "This world is now Groaci property."
There
was a loud crash from the direction of the now deserted street. Magnan
swiveled, stared out at a band of businesslike Groaci, hard at work on a shuttered
shop with pry-bars.
"What
are they doing?" he yelped. "Mr. Fiss, order those vandals away at
once! The situation is getting out of hand!"
"Not
at all. Those chaps are merely following my instructions. And now if you have
any belongings you wish to take along—"
"Eh?
Belongings? I'm not going anywhere."
"Permit
me to contradict you," Fiss hissed softly, prodding a paper with a
damp-looking finger. "This is the eviction order. I find that this humble
structure will adequately fulfill my requirement for a field-office here in the
village."
"F-field
office?"
"I
expect we shall be busy here for a few days," Fiss said.
"Transferring useful items to our quarters," He waved airily toward
the sparkling towers beyond the swamp.
"You're
violating the Legation?" Magnan's eyes bulged.
"There
has been a change of status quo since my arrival," Fiss pointed out.
"No formal relations exist between my government and the CDT. Therefore
this is merely an office, and you are unregistered aliens."
"This
is an outrage!" Magnan sputtered. "I'm not leaving!"
"So?"
Fiss murmured. He stepped to the door, opened it, waved in a quartet of
bigger-than-average Groaci.
"To
intimidate the soft ones," he hissed in Groaci. "To make threatening
gestures."
Two
of the newcomers stepped to Retief. He took them casually by their thin necks,
escorted them to the window and tumbled them out. The second pair jumped at him
in time to meet a stiff-arm which slammed both of them onto their backs. Fiss
emitted a weak but impassioned bleat.
"Unhand
them, brute! These are lawfully appointed bailiffs!"
Retief
helped the stunned Groaci after their fellows and took a step toward Fiss. The
Tour Director squeaked and darted through the door.
"Retief!"
Magnan yelped. "Stop! After all, these papers—"
Retief
gathered in the parchments, tossed them after the intruders. The outraged face
of Tour Director Fiss appeared at the opening.
"Ruffians!
Bandits! Our legal and just claim—"
"—isn't
worth the plastic it's printed on," Retief stated. "And if any more
tourists wander into the Legation I won't be so polite with them."
Fiss
turned and made frantic gestures to the foraging crew. "To enter and evict
the madmen!" he hissed. "To cast them forth bodily!"
The
several dozen Groaci who had gathered moved in a body toward the Legation door.
"I'm
disappointed in you, Fiss," Retief said, shaking his head sadly. "I
thought you were going to pretend that this was all perfectly legal, and here
you are about to violate a diplomatic mission in broad daylight."
Fiss
hesitated, then hissed an order to his men. They halted.
"Very
well, Soft One," he whispered. "What need of force? Unlike the higher
races, you require water at frequent intervals, I believe. Since, alas, I
cannot authorize further deliveries through the village mains, you will soon
emerge to seek it. We will be waiting."
Magnan
tottered to Retief's side. "Mr. Fiss," he croaked. "This is
madness! You can't possibly hope to justify this outrageous seizure."
"On
the contrary, Mr. Magnan," Fiss waved a fistful of paper. "If you
will re-read your Colonial Code, Title Three, Section XI, paragraph 9b, you
will find that, and I quote, 'any planetary body lacking an indigenous culture
may be considered as available for homesteading by any Power covenant to these
articles'."
"Surely,
Fiss, you don't imply that Yale is uninhabited! Great Heavens, the world is
known throughout the Sector for the beauty of its glass and ceramic work."
"I
refer further to paragraph 12d,
ibidem,"
Fiss bored on, "which
provides the following criteria for determination of cultural level within the
meaning of the Code (a) an active, organized government competent to represent
native interests; (b) a degree of social organization characterized by cities
of at least one thousand inhabitants; and (c) individual or group I.Q., (as
applicable) averaging .8 "standard" as evidenced by GST Test
scores."
"Have
you lost your wits?"Magnan cut in. "You're standing in the midst of a
Yalcan City! I deal daily with representatives of the Yalcan government! As for
intelligence—"
"Inhabited
city, Mr. Magnan, permit me to remind you. Minimum population, one thousand
individuals." Fiss waved a hand at the empty street. "I see no
individuals here."
"But
they're all away participating in a festival!"
"As
for government," Fiss continued blandly, "I have been totally
unsuccessful in discovering any
active
organization. I confess I have
been unable to secure a specimen of the local fauna for I.Q. Testing, but I
feel sure any such effort would be unrewarding."
"You
deliberately timed this coup to take advantage of local customs!" Magnan
said in a shocked tone. "The code will be amended, Fiss!"
The
Groaci vibrated his throat sac, a contemptuous gesture.
"Ex post facto
legal
manipulations can hardly be expected to affect the present situation
retroactively, my dear Magnan."
Magnan
clutched at the edge of the window. "Retief," he gasped weakly.
"This is insane, but I have a sudden, awful conviction that he's legally
on firm ground."
"Of
course," Fiss went on, "article 68 of the Code expressly prohibits
occupation by force of any world, cultured or otherwise. However, since our
arrival was carried out in complete tranquility, this is hardly germane."
"The
festival will be over tomorrow," Magnan burst out. "What then?"
"Now
that we have established legal possession of this planet," Fiss whispered,
"it will, of course, be necessary to enforce the just laws which are even
now being enacted. To this end, certain arms are of course necessary." He
spat rapid Groacian at a trio of newcomers in black hipcloaks, who silently
produced heavy particle-guns from sequinned holsters strapped to their thighs.
"You
aren't planning—violence?" Magnan gasped. "Not against
us!"
"As to that," Fiss
whispered, "I was about to point out that naturally, a formal request for
diplomatic status addressed to the present regime would, of course, receive
consideration."