"Sir,"
Magnan piped up. I'd just like—"
"Now,
naturally, we're prepared to underwrite a generous program of planetary
development to assist your people in settling in," Pennyfool hurried on.
"I had in mind about a half a billion to start ..."He paused to gauge
reaction. "Per year, of course," he amended, judging the omens,
"with adequate bonuses for special projects, naturally. Now, I'd say a
staff of say two hundred to begin with ...?"
"Pennyfool,
I have a dreadful node-ache," Shilth hissed. "Why don't you go jump
down an elevator shaft?" He patted back a counterfeit yawn and stalked
away.
"Well,
I can see that this is going to be a challenge," Pennyfool said, staring
after the alien. "The tricky fellow is going to hold out for two billion,
no doubt."
"Mr.
Ambassador, I have good news," Magnan said hastily. "We can save the
taxpayers those billions. Verdigris belongs to me!"
"See
here, Magnan, the privation can't have scrambled your meager wits already!
You've only been here seventy-two hours!"
"But,
sir—there's no need to promise Shilth the moon—"
"Aha!
So that's what he's holding out for. Well, I see no reason the negotiation
should founder over a mere satellite." Pennyfool turned to pursue Shilth.
"No,
no, you don't quite grasp my meaning," Magnan yipped, grabbing at his
superior's sleeve.
"Unhand
me, Magnan!" Pennyfool roared. "I'll see to your release after other,
more vital matters are dealt with. In the meantime, I suggest you set a good
example by cobbling a record number of shoes or whatever task they've set
you—"
"Master,
is this person troubling you?" a torn-metal voice inquired. Magnan and
Pennyfool whirled to see a rust covered hedge-clipper looming over them,
four-foot-clippers at the ready.
"No,
that's quite all right, Albert," Magnan said acidly. "I
like
being
bullied."
"You're
quite certain you don't wish him trimmed to a uniform height?"
"No.
I just want him to listen to what I have to say."
Albert
clacked the shears together with a nerve-shredding sound.
"I—I'd
love to listen to you, my dear Magnan," Pennyfool said rapidly.
Magnan
delivered a brief account of his capture of the planet. "So you see,
sir," he concluded, "the whole thing is Terran property."
"Magnan!"
Pennyfool roared; then with a glance at Albert lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Do you realize what this means? When I reported the Groaci here ahead of
us, I was appointed as Terran Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister
Plenipotentiary to the confounded place! If we own it, then pfft! There goes my
appointment!"
"Great
heavens, sir," Magnan paled at the announcement. "I had no
idea!"
"Look
here, do you suppose we could get the Groaci to take it back?"
"What,
stay here, surrounded by these mobile moldy monstrosities?" Shilth, who
had returned silently, hissed. "Never! I demand repatriation!"
Retief
caught Magnan's eye as Pennyfool turned to soothe the Groaci.
"What
is it, Retief? Can't you see I'm at a critical point, careerwise?"
"I
have a suggestion," Retief said ...
As
Magnan rejoined Pennyfool, Shilth was still hissing imprecations.
"Master,
what say I prune this fellow a bit?" Albert proposed. "He seems to
have sprouted too many eyes."
"Not
unless he says another word," Magnan said. He turned to Pennyfool with a
thoughtful look. "I say, sir, suppose I should come up with a scheme which
will insure you confirmation, and which will at the same time reflect favorably
on the Terran image? You know, the kindly, selfless, helping-hand sort of
thing?"
"Yes,
yes?"
"I
daresay once established here, you'd want to surround yourself with a staff
widely versed in local problems—"
"Naturally.
There are plenty of reliable team-men available doing Underground research work
in subterranean libraries back at Sector. Get on with it, Magnan."
"I
want the Counsellorship," Magnan said crisply.
"You,
number two man in my Embassy? Ridiculous! I'd have to jump you over the heads
of men with vast experience under their belts!"
"Most
of my experience has been at a somewhat higher level," Magnan said
loftily. "No Counsellor-ship, no scheme."
"What's
this, Magnan, blackmail?" Pennyfool gasped.
"Precisely,"
Magnan said.
Penny
wise opened his mouth to yell, then closed it and nodded.
"Magnan,
it's apparent you're more familiar with the techniques of diplomacy than I suspected.
I accept. Now, just what do you have in mind?"
"It's
a bit unusual," Ambassador Pennyfool said complacently, glancing out the
window of his freshly refurbished office on the top floor of a newly excavated
tower of green-anodized aluminum serving as CDT chancery. "But on the
other hand, it is a challenge."
"Gracious,
yes," Counsellor Magnan said, nodding . "The first Terran envoy to
present credentials to a mechanical Head of State."
"I
don't know," the Military Attache said darkly. "Freeing these
inanimate objects and letting them set up in business for themselves may create
a dangerous precedent. What if my cybernetic military equipment, for example,
should start getting ideas about pensions and promotions?"
"And
office machines," the Budget and Fiscal Officer said worriedly. "If
my bookkeeping computers took it into their transistors to start agitating for
civil rights I shudder to contemplate the consequences in terms of, say, late
pay checks."
"I'm
already having trouble with my Motor Pool picking up liberal ideas," the
Admin Officer wagged his head, frowning. "I've had to enact strict rules
against fraternization with the natives."
There
was a musical chime from the desk screen. The square-cornered sense-organ panel
of Planetary Secretary Albert Sand-in-the-Gears appeared.
"Ah,
there, Pennyfool," the robotic Chief of State said in a tone as genial as
his vocal equipment would allow, 'i hoped I'd find you in. I was just ringing
up to ask whether you'd care to join me on the links this afternoon for a few
holes of ballistic golf."
"I'm
sorry, Mr. President," the Terran said shortly. "A game in which one
is required to score eight holes-in-one out of ten from a tee seven miles from
the green is not my strong suit."
"Of
course. I keep forgetting you're not equipped with telescopic sights. A
pity." The President sighed, a sound like tearing steel. "It was
difficult enough grasping the idea of the superiority of my inferiors; trying
to behave as equals is even more trying. No offense intended, of course."
"Mr.
President—who's that sitting behind you?" Pennyfool asked sharply.
"Ah,
forgive me. This is Special Trade Representative Shilth, of Groac. His
government has sent him along to assist in getting the Verdigrian economy
rolling."
"How
long has he been here?"
"Long
enough to demonstrate my indispensability," Shilth leaned forward to leer
at the Terrans. "I've already concluded Trade Agreements with a number of
hard currency markets for export of Verdigrian antiquities."
"You
didn't," Pennyfool gasped.
"Oh,
have no fear, they're not the real thing." Shilth waggled an eye at
Magnan, who pretended not to notice. "Though we let it be noised about
that they're all bootleg National Treasures."
"Oh,
I see. Reproductions?" Pennyfool grunted.
"Just
so you don't ship any irreplacable objets d'arte off-planet."
"We
won't. We require them as patterns for the matter duplicators."
"Eh?"
"The
locals are digging them out by the truckload; they sort them, discard the rejects—broken
pots and the like—then scrub up the choice items and send them along to the
duplication centers. We already have a dozen plants in full swing. Our ceramic
fingering-knobs are already a sensation with the cultured set. In a year
Verdigris will be known as the antique capital of the Eastern Ann."
"Matter
duplicators? You're flooding the Galaxy with bogus antiques?"
"Bogus?
They're identical with the real thing, to the last molecule."
"Hah!
The genuine articles are priceless examples of Verdigrian art; the copies are
just so much junk!"
"But,
my dear Pennyfool—if one can't distinguish a masterpiece from a piece of junk
...?"
"
I
can detect the genuine at a glance!"
"Show
me," the Groaci said, and whipped out a pair of seemingly identical shapes
of lumpy blue-glazed clay the size and approximate shape of stunted rutabagas.
"...
but unfortunately, I have something in my eye," Pennyfool subsided, poking
at the offending organ.
"A
pity. I would have enjoyed a demonstration of your expertise," Shilth
cooed.
"Well,
gentlemen, that tears it," the Ambassador said to his staff after the
screen had blanked. "After all my delicate maneuvering to secure
self-determination for these unfortunate relics of a by-gone age, and to place
the CDT in a position of paternal influence visa-vis their emergent nation, the
infernal Groaci have stolen a march on us again. Fake antiques, indeed!"
"Goodness,
I see what you mean, Mr. Ambassador," Magnan said sympathetically.
"Why didn't
we
think of doing that?"
In
the Chancery corridor ten minutes later, Magnan mopped at his thin neck with a
large floral-patterned tissue.
"Heavens,
who'd have thought he'd fly into such a passion?" he inquired of Retief.
"After all, it isn't as if those silly little gobs of mud possessed an
intrinsic merit."
"Oh,
I don't know," Retief said. "They're not bad, considering that the
locals have to mass-produce them and bury them at night when nobody's
looking."
"Retief!"
Magnan stopped dead. "You don't mean ...?"
"It
seemed like a good idea to sidetrack the Groaci away from the genuine
stuff," Retief pointed out, in a completely serious voice. "Just in
case any of it had any sentimental value."
"Fake
fakes," Magnan murmured. "The concept has a certain euphony."
They
paused beside a pair of double doors opening onto an airy balcony two hundred
feet above the freshly scrubbed city. As they stepped out, a small copter with
a saddle and handlebars came winging in across the park to hover just beyond
the balustrade.