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Chapter Two

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1

After a brief stop at the embassy's online resource center and a few quick words with Miss Mellonocker, the resource librarian, Retief made his way down two levels to the broad, high-ceilinged splendor of the entryway.

George, the janitor, was mopping up the floor, a jet-black sheet with a mirror's polish, representing the vast, star-clotted spiral of the Galaxy. "You fixin' on goin' out there, Mr. Retief?" he asked, looking up from his scuffzapper. The crowd noise rumbled ominously just beyond the embassy doors.

"I thought I'd take in a bit of the night air, George, yes."

"That's a durned ugly crowd out there, Mr. Retief. You be careful!"

"It can't possibly be any uglier than His Excellency on an eloquence jag."

"Oh, yeah. I sees whatcha mean. Have a nice stroll, sir."

"I'll do that."

Stepping through the high, broad, double doors, he stood on the small front portico. A trio of steps led down to the front yard, where a walkway split around a rather grotesque B'ruklian statue of an eight-legged cherub, a fountain spilling from its uplifted dagger-toothed mouth.

Beyond was the wall encircling the embassy grounds, and the front gate—high and ornately imposing in black iron bars and gingerbread.

The crowd outside was pressed up against the gate so tightly that the nearest members of the mob were literally pinned against the bars, their faces, arms, and torsos squeezed into the spaces in interesting displays of forced contortion.

The two young Marines on gate duty stood inside the grounds and to either side of the gate, rigidly at parade rest, but with a nervous cast to their features as the gate creaked ominously beneath the weight of many, many bodies. They heard Retief's approach, spun to face him, and snapped to attention, presenting ceremonial arms in a snappy dual salute.

"At ease, boys," Retief told them. "I'm not the saluting kind. How's it going?"

"Oh, hi, Mr. Retief," one of the Marines said, relaxing. "Thought you might be old Garter Guts checking up on us."

"'Garter Guts?'"

"Uh, Captain Martinet. Our CO."

"Yeah," the other guard said. "He always says he's gonna have guts for garters. Uh . . . do you know what garters are, Mr. Retief?"

"A kind of snake, native to Terra, among other things."

"Really? Poisonous?"

"Deadly."

"Wow." The Marine straightened a bit, standing a bit taller. "Cool!"

"Let's see what these folks want." Retief walked up to the gate, folded his arms, and leaned against the frame. Hundreds of people, all young, most human, swarmed in the plaza outside. Retief caught a distinctive, sweet smell, like sage, adrift in the air. A sandy-haired kid had his face and one arm trapped between the bars, pinned in place by the press of the crowd.

"Good evening," Retief said pleasantly.

"Uh . . . hi," the kid said, rolling his eyes to look up at Retief.

"That looks uncomfortable."

"Uh . . . that's, like, 'cause it is, y'know?"

"Why are you doing it?"

"Well, on accounta I can't move, see? I'm, like, stuck."

"So I see." Retief took the boy's limp hand and examined the class ring adorning one finger. "Sigma Omicron Beta," he observed. "Good fraternity?"

"Oh, it's, like, totally awesome, man!"

"Too right, dude," the student pinned next to the first kid said. "Like party-down central, y'know?"

"Lots of parties, eh?"

"Like fleaglin' right, man! It's like all the fleaglin' beer you can drink, all the fleaglin' joyweed you can smoke, all the fleaglin' nekkid chicks you can—"

"Good ol' Sig-Om-Bet, man," the first student said, nodding as well as he could with his head wedged against the bars of the gate. "It's the greatest, right, Bruce?"

"Right on, Zippie!"

"So . . . what are you doing here?"

Bruce tried to extricate his face from the gate, failed, and gave up. "We're like, exercisin' our rights t'peacefully assemble an', like, demonstrate in support of the, like, you know, like, the thingie, you know. . . ."

"I'm afraid I don't. What are you supporting?"

"Peace!" a girl caught in the press of the crowd a few feet back from the gate called out. "We support peace!"

"Uh-huh. So do I. But what are you doing demonstrating here?"

"This is the Terran Embassy!" the girl shouted. "It's, like, you know, government bureaucrats and stuff! Establishment PIGs, as in Purveyors of Ignominious Glibness! We're ordinary private citizens marching in order to exercise our Constitutional rights and to deliver our message to those in power: We want peace!"

"Those government bureaucrats and stuff are here to assist the peace process. . . ."

But the crowd had taken up the girl's battle cry. "We want peace! We want peace! We want peace! We wa—"

"I hear you!" Retief shouted, and the authoritative whip crack of his voice halted the chant in mid-want. In the startled silence, he added in a milder tone, "Just what is it you'd like us to do for you?"

"Uh . . . stop the war on Odiousita!" the girl said.

"Yeah," Bruce added. "Like, right on! Like, do the peace thingie, man!"

"As I said, I'm all for peace myself," Retief told them. "Unfortunately, some large and short-tempered folks who call themselves the Krll have decided to move into the Shamballa Cluster. They've snapped up a few dozen worlds already, and now they're trying to swallow Odiousita V. Corps Peace Enforcers were deployed there to catch the Krll's interest."

"You call using Hellbores and fractional-kiloton orbital bombardment a way to get someone's interest?" the girl yelled.

"Sometimes you need to whack the other guy upside the head with a two-by-four to get his attention, miss," Retief told her. "This is one of those times. So far, every negotiator and peace feeler we've sent to Odiousita has failed to come back. It's kind of hard to do the peace thingie one-sided. " He tilted his head to the side, intrigued. "You sound like a young woman of considerable experience, however. Who are you with?"

"I am an ordinary private citizen marching in order to exercise my legal—"

"Yeah, I got that part. Where did you learn about Hellbores and fractional-kiloton bombardments?"

"Uh . . . in school? Damned military-industrial-educational complex, always looking for ways to—"

"USC? I don't think so. They're strictly liberal arts, not a military university at all. They don't even have a Star Naval Officer's Training Cadre on campus, and if they don't have a Snotsie unit, you can hardly accuse them of being pro-war, now, can you?"

"Uh . . ."

"You guys who are in Sigma Omicron Beta . . . USC doesn't have a chapter. Just where did you people come from, anyway?"

"We're ordinary private citizens marching—"

"Yes, you are, and you're doing it very well, too. But someone organized all of this. And someone paid to bring you here to B'rukley. Now I happen to know that none of you from off-planet have visas or passports. If you had, we would have processed them through the embassy here, and we haven't. You! Zippie! Where are you from?"

"Uh . . . Dead End, man."

"Where's that?"

"Newbraska."

"That's an agro world about fifty lights from here. That's a heck of a long distance to march. You go to school there?"

"Sure do. Cornfed Veterinary, Horticultural, and Miscellaneous College of Conservative Arts."

"Bruce? How about you?"

"Uh, like, Maladu II, dude. Maladu Unitarian Surfin' Technology University, man."

"MUST U?

"Like, sometimes, dude, yeah. When you gotta, you gotta, y'know?"

"Maladu is a good eighty lights away. You guys come up with the gucks to make this trip all by yourselves?"

"Uh . . . college students? Man, like, you gotta be kiddin'!"

"All right, all right," the girl said. She was wedged into the crowd so tightly she could hardly move, but she managed to pull one arm up higher . . . higher . . .

"Ow! Hey, watch it!"

"Sorry." She finally reached her chest and plucked a card from her tightly filled sports bra. With much wiggling and shifting, she managed to extend her arm past Bruce's chin and hand the card to Retief.

"Aroused Citizenry for Halting Expansionism," he read. "Okay. That makes sense, I suppose. I've worked with ACHE before. But you're not saying that ACHE foots the bill. They're not exactly well financed."

"We have our sources," the girl said.

He glanced at the name under the ACHE logo. "Well, Miss Ann Thrope. If ACHE's not footing the bill for this little frat party, who is?"

"That's none of your business! We're ordinary private—"

"Let me explain some things, Miss Thrope. The Terran Embassy is here to serve the needs of distressed humans on B'rukley. You folks up in front look like you're turning blue, so you certainly qualify. However, if you hold visas issued by another government, you'll need to talk to them.

"Next. We here at the embassy do not make Corps policy when it comes to issues such as the current state of affairs on Odiousita. If, however, you would care to elect a small group of spokespersons, I'm sure someone in the embassy would be delighted to hear what you have to say and to deliver any message you might have to Sector Headquarters on Aldo Cerise.

"And last. If whoever is backing you is genuinely concerned about bringing peace to the Shamballa Cluster, I suggest you have them get in touch with the Interplanetary Tribunal for Curtailment of Hostilities. ITCH is sponsored in part by the Terran government but includes representatives from several interested worlds. Several members of the Embassy staff are on the ITCH panel. I can set up a meeting for your sponsors. Now . . . is there anything else I can help you kids with? Or shall we call it a night?"

"You can't brush us off that easy!" Ann screamed. "We demand action! We demand to be heard!"

"I think I've heard you."

"We're gonna come over that wall and make sure you did!" a heavyset student behind Ann yelled. He turned his head and addressed the crowd at his back. "It's like the lady says, guys! These embassy-types is just Purveyors of Ignominious Glibness! That means they talk fast and you can't trust 'em! I says we go over the wall now! Who's with me?"

"You're forgetting the Marine guards, fellows," Retief said mildly. "I'm sure they don't want to hurt anyone, but they are under orders to protect this installation."

"Haw! Them guys?" another male voice bellowed. "They don't even got loaded guns!"

"Really?" Retief asked, looking surprised. "Let's see about that!" Turning, he walked back to the two Marine guards. "Attention on deck!" Retief snapped. Both Marines came to rigid positions of attention by force of conditioned reflex.

"Inspection . . . harms!"

The guard in front of him went to present arms, extending his weapon in front of him. Retief took the blast rifle, made a show of snapping open the charge chamber, and flipping a power pack free.

"Huh?" The Marine started to say something, but Retief froze him with a hard glare.

"Easy, son," he said just loudly enough for the boy to hear. "Play along."

He examined the power pack carefully, holding it up and turning it under the brilliant starlight for a close look, then ostentatiously snapped it back into the charge chamber, snicked the receiver slide shut, and tossed the rifle back to the Marine. Performing a crisp about-face, he strode three paces forward to stand in front of the other guard. As before, he took the guard's blast rifle, popped a power pack out for close inspection, reinserted it, and tossed it back to its owner.

"Carry on, men!" Retief growled.

The crowd had grown strangely silent during this brief ritual; silent, that was, except for a flurry of quickly whispered warnings.

"Geeze! Didja see that?"

"Those blast rifles are charged!"

"Toby said the guards didn't have no power packs in their guns!"

"Yeah! Somebody's been lyin' to us!"

"Hey, I gotta go back to the dorm, man. Homework, y'know?"

"Hey, get outa my way!"

"Move it! C'mon! Move!"

"Getchur thumb outa my eye!"

"Ow!"

Slowly, like the changing of the tide, the mob began to pull back from the embassy gates. Bruce and Zippie were the last two remaining, trying to pry themselves free from the iron bars.

"You boys need a hand?"

"Uh, no, thanks, mister! We was just, like, goin', y'know?" Bruce pulled his head free with an audible pop!, rubbed the startling red indentations on either side of his face, and worked his jaw back and forth. "Man! Like, I didn't think I was ever gonna, like, get outa there!"

"Let's get back to the hotel, dude," Zippie said. "We gotta talk to the Broodie about this!"

"I'm with ya, man."

In another few moments, the plaza beyond the gates was deserted, forlornly empty save for scattered beer and soda cans, and a number of leaflets scudding about with the breeze. Retief reached down through the bars, picked up one of the leaflets, and glanced through it.

Turning, then, he nodded at the two Marines. "Good work, men. You seem to have dispersed the crowd quite nicely."

"Uh, it wasn't us, Mr. Retief!"

"No!" the other Marine said. "And how didja do that trick with the power packs? I know my power rifle had an empty charge chamber, 'cause Captain Martinet inspected it before we came out here!"

"Yeah, Mr. Retief! What gives?"

"Oh," Retief said, producing a Mark XVII MOD 5 M-29 blast rifle power pack in his hand. He tossed it, caught it, turned his hand . . . then opened his hand again—empty. He passed one hand over the other, turned his hand over—and the power pack was back. Another pass, a twist of the wrist—and the hand was empty. With his other hand, Retief reached out and pulled the wandering power pack from the startled Marine's left ear.

He tucked the pack into the guard's jacket pocket. "You should be more careful of these, son. Don't let them wander off like that." Turning to the other Marine, he pulled a second power pack from the behind the man's head and dropped it into his uniform pocket.

"Just in case, fellows," Retief said.

"Hey, thanks!"

"Yeah! I don't feel quite so naked now!"

"Don't lock and load unless it's absolutely necessary," Retief told them. "And . . . it's our little secret, right?"

"Right, Mr. Retief!"

"Semper fi, fellows." Retief opened the gate and stepped out into the deserted plaza. "Watch the store. I'll be back in a little while."

And he walked off into the starlit night.

2

While the Plaza of Articulate Naiveté had been nicely cleared out, the web of streets and avenues leading to the plaza remained fairly crowded. While many of the marchers appeared to be wandering off to wherever it was they'd come from, a carnival atmosphere had embraced those who remained. Shops, restaurants, and bars were reopening if they weren't open already in order to take advantage of the influx of tourists.

Of those students who'd been closest to the embassy gate, however, there was no sign. "Too bad," Retief murmured to himself. "I wonder who 'Broodie' is?"

Deciding to follow up on a feeling he had, Retief strolled through the crowds toward the Avenue of Much Walking. The neon sign for Joe's Bar and Bookstore was visible up ahead when Retief decided that he'd picked up a tail.

And a fairly obvious one at that. He stopped in front of a window display filled with native crafts and pretended to look at the contents while stealing a sideways look at his follower.

The moment Retief stopped to look in the window, the other stopped as well, feigning interest in the produce of a native gopplefruit stand. He couldn't be certain, but Retief was pretty sure it was the same Grothelwaith he'd noticed earlier in the evening. Most of the members of that somewhat shy and furtive race tended to be tall and lean, some as tall as seven feet, their graceful forms all but masked by the long, black cloaks and hoods they favored. This one stood only about five feet from his cloak-hidden feet to the pointed top of his hood, and he had a tubby, somewhat stiff look about him.

Turning, suddenly, Retief walked straight toward the loitering Grothelwaith, who seemed momentarily paralyzed by indecision when he saw the Terry diplomat bearing down on him. He started to turn left, then right, then executed a wobbly dither in mid-street.

"Hello, there!" Retief called cheerily. "Haven't we met before?"

Twin yellow lights gleamed brightly within the depths of the hood, but the being gave no reply. Instead, when Retief was almost upon him, he whirled and began walking quickly away.

Retief took an extra long step, bringing his foot down on the swirling hem of the being's cloak. The Grothelwaith took another shuffling step forward, uttered a harshly sibilant cry, and fell over onto his back.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Retief said. "Let me help you up! . . ." Reaching down, he grasped the hood of the alien's garment and gave a sharp tug.

"Littermate of drones!" the being rasped in a throaty whisper. "To unhand me, vile soft one! . . ."

With the hood pulled back, a pair of penlights with round, yellow lenses mounted atop a pair of stiff wires were revealed as the alien's glowing eyes; behind and between the fake oculars, five weirdly stalked eyes protruded from the being's cloaked shoulders, weaving back and forth and even twisting around one another in agitation.

"Why . . . Broodmaster Shtliff! I wasn't expecting to see you on B'rukley." He shifted into accent-free Groaci as he pulled the being to his feet. "To be a long way indeed from the pleasant hives and warm sand pits of noble Groac. To be wondering what you are doing here disguised as a soft one."

"To be none of your business, nebsnoot Terry," Shtliff hissed, angrily jerking the hood back into place. "To keep your oversized gloof organ out of the business of your betters!"

The Groaci's normally breathy whisper sounded muffled, as though he was speaking through a mask, and Retief thought he could hear the faint and rhythmic whishh-pop of some sort of breathing device.

"I will," Retief said, shifting back to Standard, "if you can tell my gloof organ why you were following me and why the Groaci First Assistant Minister of Sneaky Affairs on B'rukley is wearing such unfashionable attire."

"As to the second," Shtliff said with breathy disdain in the same language, "I find the long cloak keeps out the night chill of this dank and unwholesome planet. As to the first, I fear your delusional misapprehension is but further evidence of the well-known tendency of Terries to xenophobic paranoia!"

Yes, Shtliff was definitely wearing some sort of breathing unit, Retief decided. Why? Groaci breathed standard oxy-nitrogen mix, the same as humans. All Retief could see of the alien, however, were his five eyes writhing in an agitated manner at the ends of their stalks.

"Well, I'm sure you know that paranoia can lead to some pretty unpleasant misunderstandings. For example, I'm beginning to think you might be hiding something from me."

"And why ever would a Groaci First Assistant Minister of Sneaky Affairs wish to hide anything from a mere soft one?" Retief heard the muffled clack of mandibles signifying wry amusement emanating from the depths of the cloak. "To release me instanter, and I shall magnanimously overlook this unseemly breach of diplomatic protocol."

"To be wondering what the Groaci have to do with an antiwar march on B'rukley. And to be wondering why said Groaci wish to stay out of the limelight."

"To stuff lint up your nostrils, soft one."

"To spill the beans, Shtliff. To tell all in a spirit of eternal interplanetary chumship."

"To go jump in the proverbial pool of dihydrogen oxide."

"To give, Shtliff, before you see how paranoid I can be."

"To look behind you, soft one."

Retief glanced up at the display window behind the disguised Groaci, then turned to face the gathering crowd of students. Thirty or forty had begun clustering in the street at Retief's back.

"Like, Grothel-dude," one said. "Is this here suit, like, hasslin' you, man?"

"A PIG!" the Groaci cried out in Standard, his voice a soft shrill. "Halp! A Purveyor of Ignominious Glibness seeks to lay violent hands on your guru!"

"Hey, man." A student who towered a full head above Retief's six-three, and who weighed at least three hundred pounds, lumbered forward. "It ain't cool t'lay hands on our guru, see?"

"Get him, Tiny!" someone yelled.

"Yeah, Tiny! Show the PIG we mean business!"

Letting go of Shtliff, Retief reached across Tiny's out-thrust right hand, grasped it, and flipped it down and back. The big man bellowed and dropped to his knees. "Ow! Hey! No fair! Lemme go!"

Still holding Tiny's hand sharply folded at the wrist, he pretended to examine the student's fingers. "My, my, Tiny," he said. "Such dirty fingernails. Do your teachers let you come to class this way?"

Tiny reached for Retief with his free hand; Retief increased the pressure and the giant folded. "Owww! Stop, mister! Yer killin' me!"

"What school do you represent, Tiny?"

"Jockstrap-U! On Thudelphia!"

"J-U? That's one of the big top-ten conference schools for crunchball, isn't it?"

"Yeah! Ow! Yeah!"

"You took the championship last year at the Galactic Popcorn Bowl, I believe."

"Uh! Uh! Yeah! Please, mister . . . !"

"What position do you play?"

"Throwback!"

"I'm impressed, Tiny," Retief said, relaxing the pressure on the wrist just a bit. "But I'm a little surprised at a student from such a fine school turning up here at a spontaneous peace march. Who sponsored you?"

"I dunno. Some . . . whatchacallum . . ."

"A political action group," a bearded student in the crowd offered. "It's called SMERCH. Now let the poor guy up, huh?"

"Ah, yes," Retief said, nodding. "I saw some of your literature just now in the plaza. 'Students Marching to End Rapacious and Colonialist Hegemony,' is that it?"

"That's right, mister! Us students got rights! We demand to be heard!"

"How about it, Tiny?" Retief asked his captive. "Are you marching to end rapacious and colonialist hegemony?"

"Uh . . ."

"Do you know what the words 'rapacious and colonialist hegemony' mean?"

"Uh . . . 'money.' I know what that is. It's, like, what people pays you so's you can buy food and beer and stuff. Is 'hegemony' like, I dunno, money fer buyin' hegems?"

"Be careful, Tiny," Retief warned. "You don't want to go and sprain your cerebrum just before a big game."

"Gosh, no! Thanks, mister! Geeze, I didn't even know I had one of them!"

"You can't be too careful. And now, as much as I hate to end our little chat, it's time for us to go our separate ways."

"Not so fast, mister," the bearded student said. "You still gotta answer for roughin' up our guru!"

Again, Retief caught the sweet-sage scent in the air. Several in the crowd were smoking what looked like hand-rolled dopesticks.

"I couldn't have roughed him up too badly," Retief pointed out. "Not to judge by his speed at scuttling out of here. He's your guru, huh?"

"Yeah, man," another student said. "Our, like, spiritual leader in the pursuit of Cosmic Peace and Chumship, man. It's like totally cosmic, dude."

"Totally!" another agreed.

"Aw, fer cryin' out loud," still another student growled. "Drop the cosmic yivshish and let's just take this bum apart, right?"

"Right!"

The crowd surged forward.

"Excuse me, Tiny," Retief told the crunchball player, twisting the student's arm to bring him off his knees and onto his toes. "I'd like to see an example of your blocking skill."

"Huh? Oh, yeah! Sure!"

"Thank you." Deftly, Retief spun the crunchball player around, hooking his leg around Tiny's size 14 feet and giving him a hard shove. The hulking student toppled into the advancing mob and sent them all sprawling onto the street. Dodging several out-thrust arms, Retief slipped past the mob and broke into a trot. Joe's was just ahead.

Behind him, the mob struggled to get clear of Tiny.

"Ow! Get this big lummox off'n me!"

"Where'd that guy go?"

"Hey! Watch it!"

Retief had walked perhaps ten feet at a brisk pace when he stopped. Blocking his way was the woman he'd seen in Joe's earlier, with the trench coat and spyglasses. She wore neither now as she held up a hand and, in an imperious voice, commanded, "Hold it right there, buster!"

A late-model hovercam floated on silent jets a few feet away. The woman turned to face the snout of its lens, patted her meticulously arranged hair, held up three fingers, and said, "On me in three . . . two . . ."

She lowered her fingers with the countdown, dropping the last silently as she shifted into full professional on-camera mode. "This is Desiree Goodeleigh, Galactic News Network, live on the streets of High Gnashberry, B'rukley, where moments ago a member of the Terran diplomatic staff to this world created a riot by assaulting several Terry students and a tourist from the Grothelwaith system. This attack, apparently launched without provocation, gives lie to CDT claims of seeking peace in this sector, already deeply torn by the so-called police action on nearby Odiousita V. You, sir!" She whirled to face Retief, the hovercam pivoting in midair to focus on his face. "Why did you start that riot just now?"

"For the same reason that I've stopped beating my wife."

"You are wearing sequined powder-blue-with-magenta trim hemi-demi-informal coveralls, mid-to-late afternoon, for use during, with a gold CDT patch on your chest. Obviously you are a member of the Terran diplomatic staff at the embassy here."

"Actually," Retief said modestly, "I'm just the gopher. They sent me out for doughnuts."

"In the course of which you callously started a major riot on the Avenue of Much Walking. Would you care to explain why you were seen using physical violence against both a human student and an innocent Grothelwaith tourist?"

"No, actually."

The mob by this time had untangled itself from Tiny. "There he is!" someone shouted. "After him!"

"Would you care to comment on the CDT's obvious foot-dragging and duplicity in the Krll affair on Odiousita V?"

"I suggest you ask them," Retief said, indicating the advancing throng, now swollen to several hundred members. As Desiree and the hovercam pivoted to face them, Retief slipped past her and down the steps into Joe's Bar and Bookstore.

"Hey, Mr. Retief!" Joe called. "Ain't seen you in, lessee . . . forty-five minutes!"

"It's been a busy night, Joe." He looked around the bar, which was this time filled to capacity—some native B'ruks, but most of the patrons human students. "I see business picked up for you, too.

"Cycle me through, Joe."

A thunder of crowd noise sounded outside the bar. Hundreds of voices had picked up a now-familiar chant. "Terries go home! Terries go home! Terries go home!" 

"And you might want to forget you've seen me."

"You got it, Mr. Retief."

"But . . . before I go, how about a couple of dozen doughnuts to go? I have a feeling Ambassador Crapwell is going to need something to chew on while he watches the evening news."

 

3

"Great heavens, Retief!" Magnan cried. "Where have you been this time?"

"Don't tell me His Excellency is beside himself again."

"I won't. Not if it means more of your ill-considered attempts at humor, space-time-displacementwise. This time, I fear you've really gone too far!"

"Let's not be overdramatic, Mr. Magnan. I just went around the corner to pick up some doughnuts. See? Sourball and persimmon. His Ex's favorite."

"An admirable attempt, apple-polishingwise, but it shan't be enough to save you this time. You told me you would be back before the end of His Excellency's FGM. You were gone . . ." Magnan checked his fingerwatch, a genuine Japanese imitation Minnie Mouse, and scowled, " . . . no less than forty-two minutes! When His Excellency returned to the matter at hand, he realized at once that you were gone. I was at a complete loss to explain your absence!"

"Actually, Mr. Magnan, I was talking to the demonstrators in front of the gate. I was able to convince them to take their business elsewhere."

"Hmm," Magnan hmmed. "Hmm . . . I see. Between you and me, I would have to say well done. However, I wouldn't count on your success to save you from His Ex's wrath. The fact that you left a high-level staff meeting in order to actually do something about the selfsame topic of that meeting could be misconstrued in some quarters."

"You mean the fact that I did something about it, instead of talking it to death?"

Magnan gave Retief a pained expression—a 70-G, he thought. "Retief, I know that you are seasoned enough in diplomatic work to be well aware of just how vital discussion is in the resolution of problems, diplomacy-wise. Indeed, talking a problem to death is widely viewed as the most direct—if somewhat sanguinary—means of making a problem go away. But your cavalier attitude could be misinterpreted as sarcasm if you were overheard. Please have a care!"

"I understand, Mr. Magnan. Far be it from me to suggest that the Corps would ever be so déclassé as to actually do something when something needed to be done."

"Very good, Retief. I knew you understood the true subtlety of the diplomatic spirit. Still, as I said, your success may not be enough to shield me . . . that is, to shield you. You are in grave trouble just now, and I, as your supervisor, may be forced to take some measure of the r-word as a result!"

"Really? Resourcefulness? That's good, isn't it?"

"Not that r-word, Retief!" Magnan glanced to left and right, as though fearful of being overheard. He leaned forward, motioned Retief closer, and whispered it. "Responsibility!"

"You're saying I got you into trouble."

"It may not be too late to salvage my career. To do so, however, I may have to jettison yours. I trust you were already wearying of the give-and-take of diplomatic exchanges. Over the past few years as we've worked together, I've noticed in you a certain lack of enthusiasm at times, as though you were less than pleased with the vision, scope, and efficiency of the Corps Diplomatique."

"I'm not ready to write my note of resignation just yet, Mr. Magnan. What is it that I've allegedly done?"

"Done? Why—"

"Magnan!" bellowed from the intercom on Magnan's desk. "Is that criminal Retief back here, yet?"

"Um . . . that is, yes, sir. He's in my office now, sir, as we speak!"

"Well, stop speaking to him and have him get up here to the Intelligence Center here this picosecond!"

"Right away, Your Excellency!"

"You, too, Magnan! I fear you have some share of the r-word in this matter!"

"Yes, sir!" Magnan squeaked. He looked up at Retief with an expression of Doomed Hopelessness (86-Q). "It may be worse than I feared! From the sound of it, His Ex is readying the firing squad now!"

"Magnan!" Crapwell's voice thundered. "I told you to stop speaking to the scoundrel and get in here! Literally trillions of picoseconds have already trickled by, and you still have not obeyed my direct command!"

"Eep!" Magnan jerked his finger off the intercom talk switch as though he'd been burned.

"And don't count on anything so magnanimous or pleasant as a firing squad! Either of you!"

Magnan's 86-Q crinkled into an 86-Y. "Come along, Retief. His Excellency awaits."

4

The Embassy Intelligence Center was located on the third floor, a closely guarded shrine with access restricted to key personnel with Galactic Universal Top Secret clearance only.

Clearance which Magnan did not have.

"What do you mean you can't let me in!" Magnan yelled at the indifferent Marine sergeant posted in front of the vaultlike door. The words Senior Staff TV Room above the door had been crossed out, and the words Intelligence Center: G-2, GUTS Clearance required, Keep Out, No Admittance, This Means You written in underneath. "Ambassador Crapwell just ordered me to meet him here!"

"Sorry, sir," the Marine said. "Like they say, no GUTS, no glory . . . with 'glory' bein', in this case, you bein' allowed to go in there."

"But His Excellency told me—"

"That don't cut no mustard with me, Mac. How do I know you ain't a sneaky sticky-fingers Groaci tryin' to sneak in there? Take a hike."

"The effrontery!" Magnan exclaimed. "Do I even remotely look like a Groaci?"

"Nope. Do you think a Groaci spy would just waltz in lookin' like his own self, without some sort of disguise? Don't make me laugh!"

"Look . . . why don't you just go in and ask His Excellency? I'm sure he'll tell you to admit us."

The guard laughed, then glowered. "I tole ya not to make me laugh, din't I? No, way, Mac. I ain't supposed to leave my post, see? Besides . . . you think a Marine sergeant rates GUTS clearance?"

"Excuse me, Sergeant," Retief said. "I think I can clear this up."

Stepping forward, he leaned close to the lens of the retina scanner mounted on the wall next to the door. There was a deep thump of heavy tumblers falling, and the vault door swung open.

"Geeze, Mac," the Marine said. "Go on in!"

"Thanks." He jerked a thumb at Magnan. "He's with me."

"Oh, sure! Have a nice day, sir!"

Magnan followed Retief into the intelligence sanctum sanctorum. "Good heavens, Retief! When did you ever receive GUTS clearance?"

"Oh, I've had it for quite a while, Mr. Magnan. It comes in handy sometimes."

"I should think so! Admission to the Intelligence Center alone is a lofty privilege! Too bad you may be about to lose that privilege, as well as so many others!"

The Intelligence Center looked like an ordinary TV lounge, with sofas and overstuffed chairs positioned about a wall-sized tri-V television screen.

In fact, and as suggested by the sign outside, the Intelligence Center had started off as the senior staff television room. It had become the embassy's primary G-2 resource with a very important discovery some years before: whatever was going down in the outside world, GNN always knew about it long before the various government intelligence services did. Indeed, by now, not only ambassadors, but government heads of state and the intelligence services themselves all used GNN as a primary intelligence source.

Ambassador Crapwell was sitting in one of the sofas, watching the eight-foot-tall face of Desiree Goodeleigh as she earnestly reported the news.

"And you," the giant face was saying. "What happened to you?"

The camera view switched to one of the students Retief had encountered in the street. Fake blood had been liberally smeared on his face, and his clothing was torn. "Oh, yeah, like, it was awful, like, you now, really awful! Th' guy just went berserk! Threw poor Tiny right into us!"

"And you . . . you're Tiny? What happened?"

The camera switched to a close-up of Tiny's dull features. "Duhh . . . he wanted t'see my blockin' style. . . ."

"Clearly, some of the students here have suffered brain damage," Desiree said as the camera swung back to her. "The fact that the assailant appeared to be a member of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne makes this monstrous assault all the more puzzling. Here is a replay of the beginning of the riot. Note the sheer brutal ferocity of the man in the blue CDT coveralls. . . ."

The scene shifted to a recognizable shot of Retief in the midst of a crowd of angry students. There was a blur of motion too quick to follow, and then Retief had grabbed and hurled Tiny into the crowd, scattering them like twenty or thirty tenpins.

"And here," Desiree's voice-over continued, "is our exclusive interview, moments ago, with the miscreant. . . ."

Retief's face appeared on-screen.

"You, sir!" Desiree's voice said off-camera. "Why did you start that riot just now?"

"For the same reason that I've stopped beating my wife."

"You are wearing sequined powder-blue-with-magenta trim hemi-demi-informal coveralls, mid-to-late afternoon, for use during, with a gold CDT patch on your chest. Obviously you are a member of the Terran diplomatic staff at the embassy here."

"Actually, I'm just the gopher. They sent me out for doughnuts."

"In the course of which you callously started a major riot on the Avenue of Much Walking. Would you care to explain why you were seen using physical violence against both a human student and an innocent Grothelwaith tourist?"

"No, actually."

"There you have it," Desiree's voice said as the close-up of Retief's face went freeze-frame, his face frozen in what might have been Ruthlessness, Masked by a Civilized Veneer, 668-A or possibly a B. "Is this the face of a CDT criminal hiding behind the shelter of diplomatic immunity? Are scores of innocent children engaged in lawful demonstration here on B'rukley against the Concordiat's unjust war of aggression on Odiousita at risk from psychopathic elements within the Terran diplomatic bureaucracy running loose on the streets of High Gnashberry? We'll get back to that story, after this . . . !"

The GNN news show broke for a commercial. Crapwell turned in the sofa, looking at Retief and Magnan with a complex four-digit expression . . . blending a masterful 1231 (Astonishment at a Gaffe of Unprecedented Proportions) with a less certain but still well-grounded 1190 (You're Gonna Burn Over A Slow Fire for This One, Charlie, and I'm Gonna Eat Popcorn While I Watch)—both of them at the mid-range of the expression spectrum . . . an L or an M.

"In all my long years as a civil servant and as a representative of sovereign Terra, I have never, never witnessed such pusillanimous, such misdirected, such . . . such undiplomatic behavior! You, sir, are a menace to the good name of Terra, and to the golden respect accorded as their right to diplomats of every world and race! What can you possibly have to say in your own defense?"

Retief shrugged his broad shoulders. "I was misquoted."

"I just heard you, man, admit to being a wife beater!"

"The idea!" Magnan added. "And here I didn't even know you were married!"

"I'm not."

"Then that makes it worse," Crapwell shrilled. "You are a liar, claiming to be married when you are not!"

"And here I thought lying was one of the Seven Virtues of Diplomacy."

"Well . . . it is, of course," Crapwell said, his tirade halted for the moment. "Still, the idea is to lie without the other fellow knowing you're doing it! That . . . that display I just witnessed on the GNN Early-to-Late-Mid-Evening News presented the Corps in a most unfavorable light . . . a most unfavorable light!"

"It's true she didn't get my good side," Retief admitted. "And you're right. The lighting wasn't very flattering. She had a bit too much purple invective in the mix, her impartiality wasn't, and the balance and fairness were both way off."

"Don't you go getting technical with me, young man! Or trying to make excuses for your behavior! I want you to—"

Crapwells's personal phone warbled. Breaking off in mid-tirade, he picked it up and flipped it open. "Yes." He listened for a strained moment. "Ambassador Nish, how nice of you to call. . . . Yes, I've been watching. . . . What? No! Of course not! Eh? . . . No, Nish, we have not begun slaughtering helpless Terran students and alien nationals in the streets. . . . No, Ambassador Nish. . . . Yes, I know GNN is a Very Reliable Source. . . . Yes, we use it for our intelligence gathering, too. . . . Nish, you really shouldn't read too much into this one news item. . . . No, Ambassador Nish. . . . Yes, of course, I am aware of the treaty provisions of the Yalcan Accords. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . No. Look, Nish, I really can't talk about this now. Let me call you back. Yes. . . very well. And how is the lovely Mrs. Nish and all the grubs? Charming, charming . . . yes. Oh, and are we still on for our golf date next Wednesday? Good. Yes, I'm looking forward to it. Good-bye, Ambassador Nish."

Angrily, he snapped the handphone shut and glared at Magnan and Retief. "That, gentlemen—and I use the term very advisedly—was absolutely the last straw! For that slimy excuse for a Groaci ambassador to call me up and lecture me, me, on the behavior of my staff! . . . It is not to be borne!"

"It's a pity you didn't ask him what his First Assistant Minister of Sneaky Affairs was doing in that peace demonstration disguised as a Grothelwaith."

"Eh? You said what? That doesn't make sense."

"The Groaci disdain for what they consider to be inferior species is well known, Retief," Magnan said. "I can't imagine a Groaci being caught dead disguised as a member of another species."

"It has been known to happen from time to time," Retief pointed out. "There was that affair on Quopp, you'll recall, when General Hish of the Groaci Legation disguised himself as a Voion. . . ."

"But what was all that about a Grothelwaith?" Crapwell demanded.

"I noticed I was being tailed by one," Retief said. "Not very well. They kind of stand out in the crowd."

"Creepy beings," Magnan said with a slight shudder.

"I'll have no speciesist remarks within the hallowed halls of this embassy, Magnan. The fact that they look like a caricature of Death in those cloaks and hoods is no concern of ours."

"Of course, sir. I only meant to say—"

"Put a lid on it, Magnan. We're discussing Retief's future career—or, rather, the lack of it, not the sartorial preferences of creepy alien critters!"

"However," Retief went on, as though he'd not been interrupted, "it turned out not to be a Grothelwaith at all . . . but our friend Broodmaster Shtliff wearing a rather elaborate getup to make him look like one."

"Why?" Magnan wanted to know.

"He declined to say. However, I detect Groac's sticky fingers in the B'ruklian pot. We have a very large number of students, most of them human, arriving on B'rukley from all over this part of the Galactic Arm, apparently organized by ACHE and by an organization I've not heard of before, SMERCH." He dropped the flyer he'd picked up next to Crapwell, who picked up and glanced through it.

"Students Marching to End Rapacious and Colonialist Hegemony," the Ambassador read. "Sounds harmless enough. Another means for children to feel as though they are participating in the democratic process, nothing more."

"I believe it's more, sir. Someone—either SMERCH, or someone behind SMERCH—is paying a great deal of money to ship these students in. You'll notice that they don't have Terran visas or passports, which means they're here under the sponsorship of some other government. I'd bet Groac."

"Nonsense, man," Crapwell said. "The Groaci are notorious tightwads unless a clear material gain for them is in the offing. Why would they bring in human students? Interstellar shipping rates alone make such a proposition economically unattractive."

"Point two. The students aren't very politically savvy, most of them. They have only a vague idea of what it is they're protesting."

Magnan chuckled. "There's nothing sinister about that," he said. "Such a slender grasp of world affairs within the younger generation is, I believe, traditional."

"As is a certain amount of apathy," Retief agreed. "Why did they come here at all?"

"An exchange-student program?" Magnan suggested.

"I very much doubt it. The Groaci are offering them something . . . and they're trying to keep their own participation in this affair undercover. I heard Shtliff referred to as a 'guru' by some of the students, which suggests he's put himself in the position of spiritual leader for at least some of them."

Crapwell shook his head. "That does not tally well with what I understand of Groaci religious practice. I believe they adhere to the idea that each of them can, through conniving, become a god him- or herself."

"Maybe being a guru is a first step to godhood?" Magnan suggested.

"It seems more likely it's a first step to gaining considerable influence over impressionable young minds," Retief replied. "The question is . . . why? What's in it for Groac? Publicly, they've pretty much refused to take sides in the Krll War."

"Ah! Ah!" Crapwell raised an admonitory finger. "Not war, sir. Police action!"

"Excuse me. The Krll police action. Other than taking the odd potshot at Terry warmongering, they've stayed clear of it. What do they have to gain by subsidizing peace marches and Terry college students?"

"I can't imagine."

"Neither can I, sir. But I submit that we'd better find out. This has 'big' written all over it in Groaci italic curlicues, and we'd better find out what they're up to."

Crapwell lapsed into what passed for deep thought, tugging absently at his lower lip. Suddenly, he sat up and glared at Retief. "Bah! Young man! You've sought to derail me in the course of my disciplining you! It won't do, you know. It won't do! You have disgraced the Corps on a Galaxywide news broadcast. Now . . . I am an understanding and compassionate man. I know that these news reporters can get you so tangled up with their questions that you could end up coming across as evil incarnate . . . or at least as idiot incarnate. I remember one time, on Hooligan, when I was a young undersecretary not yet marked for Greatness . . . harrumph!" He scowled and shook his head. "Never mind! Forget it."

"Already forgotten, sir."

"I don't like to say this, Retief . . . or Magnan . . . but the Corps has lost serious face in that news broadcast just now. Perhaps you had reason to manhandle that student, Retief, and perhaps you did not. The fact that you uncovered a Groaci worm in the B'ruklian apple will not serve to repair a shattered Enlightened Galactic Opinion vis-à-vis Terra or the diplomatic service!"

"We should examine the possibility that the Groaci are also behind the bad press."

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"I mean that the Groaci worm may have rendered that apple rotten to the Corps, and that they did it with malice aforethought. But there may be a way to use that to our advantage."

"Tell me," Crapwell said. "And believe me, you'd better make it good!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5

"Retief," Magnan said, shaking his head with something akin to wonder as they entered the older man's office once more, "you have the most amazing aptitude for falling into sewage pits and coming out redolent of jasmine and eau de sainteté. How did you manage that bit of legerdemain in there?"

"I'm not sure I know what you mean, sir," Retief said. "It sounded to me like I'm out on my ear."

"Yes, yes, that's the official story, of course, for Goodeleigh and her bunch. But you were not hung, shot, nor drawn and quartered, for a start, and His Ex sounded most pleased with your devious little plan when you explained it to him."

"True, though I suspect that he likes the idea most because it offers him plausible deniability. If this idea of mine doesn't work, he can just shrug and explain that I was given the boot and am no longer affiliated with the CDT. For real."

"There is that," Magnan agreed. "You are taking a terrible risk, careerwise."

"Mr. Magnan, I'm sure this will come as a terrific shock . . . but it's not always about career."

Magnan looked startled. "It's not?"

"Nope. And if this doesn't work out, I could always sell my story to GNN."

"Retief! You wouldn't! I mean . . . that's consorting with the enemy! . . ."

"Don't worry, Mr. Magnan. I'll see to it that they spell your name right."

"Will you? I mean, no! That's not the point! Desiree Goodeleigh appears to have it in for both the CDT and for Terran intentions in the Shamballa Cluster. Her reporting is not what you would call impartial, balanced, or evenhanded!"

"True. Don't you find that interesting?"

"I find that alarming. Conducting diplomacy under circumstances in which lying or other, shall we say, irregularities violating the assumed social contract between governed and governing might at any time be ferreted out and exposed to the light of day by an ambitious newshound is bad enough. To have such charges laid at one's door without cause smacks of the worst excesses of the Spanish Inquisition!"

"Ah, but no one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind."

A knock sounded at the door. "Yes?" Magnan demanded.

Hy Felix stuck his head into the office. "Okay, guys. I called the press conference like you said. Nine-seventy-five am tomorrow, out back on the parade ground."

"Tell me something, Hy."

"Yeah, Retief?"

"Did you know your hot date was Desiree Goodeleigh?"

"Nope. Or, rather, I knew that was her name, yeah. But I sure didn't know she was with GNN. I guess I have to thank you for stepping in and taking the fall for me."

"How's that?"

"Well, c'mon." Hy's long and mournful face grew, if anything, longer and more mournful. "Look at me! A gorgeous, classy dame like that, wanting an intimatetête-à-têtewith an old shoe like me? I figure now she was just trying to get a line on inside information out of the embassy, maybe even trying to find someone to take a fall. She sure wasn't chatting me up because she wanted me to show her a good time." He shook his head sadly. "She really had me fooled, but when I saw her taking you apart on that news broadcast, Retief, I knew what she was up to . . . I mean, I knew to what she was up."

"Now is not the time to be concerned about one's grammar, Hy," Magnan chided.

"And what was she up to?" Retief asked. "Or to what, if you like."

"Why, giving her own career a boost by finding something exciting and controversial to get all bent out of shape about! Nothing like a nice little scandal uncovered by an alert newsie to help said newsie scramble up another step or three on the old career pyramid, know what I mean? No offense, but I'm just glad it was you and not me, know what I mean?"

"None taken, Hy."

"I guess there's no fool like an old fool, huh?"

"I wouldn't worry, Hy," Retief told him. "Not every woman is after you because you can help her career. If it's romance you're looking for, I'm sure you'll find it."

"Romance, nothing. I just want to get laid once in a while. But that's neither there nor here. You sure you want to go through with this, Retief?"

"It doesn't appear that I have much choice, Hy."

"Aw, sure you got choice. You could sneak out the back and disappear! I mean, there's lots of nice little planets in this part of the Arm where a disgraced ex-diplomat could just kind of disappear, only except you're not really disgraced and you aren't going to disappear, if you know what I mean. . . ." Hy stopped and blinked confusion. "Uh, that is, I mean . . ."

"Actually, I'm about to be a disgraced ex-diplomat and I'm just about to disappear."

"Yeah, sure, but you don't have to go through with all the publicity and limelight, know what I mean? You could just, you know, disappear."

"Which would leave Mr. Magnan holding the bag," Retief replied, "and Ambassador Crapwell still in serious need of a sacrificial offering. If someone's going to be offered up, Hy, it's going to have to be me."

"For which I am eternally in your debt, Retief," Magnan said with feeling, "seeing as how His Excellency seems willing to agree that the responsibility for your unfortunate encounter with GNN lies squarely on your shoulders and not on mine."

"Don't feel too indebted, Mr. Magnan," Retief told him. "You still have to go through with your part of this, or it all will be for nothing."

"True. But I don't have to like it."

6

"That concludes my introductory remarks," Hy Felix was saying from his perch behind the speaker's podium set up at the edge of the parade ground. At his back, the embassy's Marine Guard was drawn up in full dress. Before him, on the grass at the edge of the parade ground, on thirty folding chairs, were thirty invited members of various news media, all watching with expressions ranging from sharklike anticipation to apathetic boredom, all sporting recorders of various makes and models, ranging from spyglasses to emotion recorders to hovering hovercams to pen and notebook. And to the right, inside a shaded observer's booth, were a few dozen members of the embassy's staff present as solemn witnesses—Birdbush, Smallbody, Hanglow, Moriarity, and others. Conspicuous by their absence were the higher-ranking CDT officers—Dinewiner, Marwonger, or Ambassador Crapwell himself.

"At this time," Hy went on, "I'd like to invite my friend Ben Magnan out here to deliver a few brief remarks regarding this regrettable situation, after which he will conduct the ceremony. Ah . . . we do have time now for a couple of questions. Are there any? Yes . . . Sid . . . in the back."

"Yeah, Hy. Sid Chatterly, of the Galactic Herald-Times-Review-Dispatch. How come this here Magnan fellow is doin' the honors? Why not the Ambassador himself?"

"Well, as to that, of course, Ambassador Crapwell is a very busy man. In any case, this is an intradepartmental disciplinary action and, as such, does not properly fall within the ambassadorial purview. Mr. Magnan is Mr. Retief's supervisor. Yes. In the third row."

"Marsha Neesernockin, of the Newbraskan Agro Chicken Breeder Express. Are you clowns really gonna toss this Retief guy out on his ear for, like, getting in a brawl or something?"

"Just watch us, Ms. Nessernockin. You'll find that we of the CDT take these matters very seriously indeed. Very well. If there are no further questions?" Several other hands were up, but he ignored them. "Ladies and gentlemen of the media," Hy said, stepping back from the speaker's podium and gestured stage left, "without further ado, I give you First Deputy Undersecretary Benjamin O. Magnan, of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne."

Magnan, nattily resplendent in his full-formal mid-morning dress chartreuses, with pink stripes and sash, purple cutaway with silver epaulets, medals and orders, multiple chrome-plated lapels, top hat, gloves, and scabbarded two-foot gold ceremonial pen, strode onto the parade ground behind the chancery and took his place behind the podium beneath a warm morning's firstsun.

"Thank you, Hy, for those heartfelt words," Magnan said. Looking out over the audience, but connecting with none of them, Magnan sighed. "Ladies and gentlemen of the media, it is with a heavy heart that I appear before you this day. A fellow member of the Corps, a young man who might have gone far in a diplomatic circles had he been constitutionally able to restrain his wilder impulses, my subordinate and my good friend, is to be publicly chastised this morning and formally expelled from the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne.

"By now, all of you have seen the news footage broadcast over local GNN affiliates last night, thanks to one of your number—Ms. Desiree Goodeleigh." Here, Magnan flashed the woman a dazzling and ingratiating smile—no less than a 484-R. Desiree, seated in the front row left, made no response.

"Second Assistant Deputy Undersecretary Jame Retief," Magnan went on, "a very junior officer of the CDT, committed the diplomatically unconscionable crime of laying violent hands on several civilians in the streets of High Gnashberry yesterday and doing them bodily harm. I needn't add that the Corps Diplomatique abjures and condemns any such violent act, violating, as it does, the spirit and the heart of civilized diplomatic conduct. . . ."

There was more to the speech, quite a lot more. In fact, it was an hour past firstsunrise and secondsun was already peeking over the city skyline in a harsh blaze of white and violet when Magnan finally concluded his few brief remarks.

"And in conclusion," Magnan said—and the words were accompanied by a distinct collective sigh of relief from the audience—"permit me to extend sincere apologies to any, any, I say, who were offended by the lamentable events of last night, on behalf of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne, on behalf of Ambassador Crapwell, his staff, and the Terran Embassy on B'rukley itself, and for myself, personally—"

"Don't overdo it, Ben," Sid called from the back. "A light class-C grovel is all that's necessary!" A smattering of laughter smattered through the crowd.

Magnan tossed him a suitable withering 346-E.

"Aw, lay off the 346, Ben!" another reporter called. "It makes you look like you got the pip!"

"Ahem. As I was saying, the Terran Embassy deeply, deeply regrets that Retief was caught . . . that is, that one of our number could be caught in such flagrant . . . what I mean to say is . . . that any diplomat worthy of the name could possibly be found conducting himself in such a churlish manner!" He stepped back from the podium. "Jame Retief! Front and center!"

To a canned drumroll, Retief marched out onto the tarmac and came to a halt facing Magnan. He was wearing formal attire identical to Magnan's, save that his epaulettes were smaller, and he only had two chrome-plated lapels, as befitted his position as a mere Second Assistant Deputy Undersecretary. Silence descended on the parade ground. The crowd leaned forward. In the sky to the south, a black, unmarked helicopter of distinctive Groaci design hovered silently just beyond the boundaries of embassy airspace.

"Jame Retief," Magnan intoned, dropping his normally high-pitched voice a full octave to demonstrate the seriousness of the moment. "You have been tried in the courts of public opinion and of the oversight of your superiors and been found guilty of reckless endangerment of the diplomatic goals and aspirations of sovereign Terra on the world of B'rukley; of gross assault on the persons of various human and nonhuman persons in a most undignified and undiplomatic fashion, of placing at least one pedal extremity within your buccal orifice in the presence of witnesses of the fourth estate, again in an egregiously undiplomatic manner; and of conduct prejudicial and detrimental to the honor, the name, and the sacred mission of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne. Retief, you are a disgrace to the CDT!

"For this reason, we, your superiors in the Corps, do hereby and thereunto, according to the powers vested in us by Chapter XV, Section 12, Subsection 28, paragraphs 72 through 95, inclusive of the Handbook of the CDT, and in accordance with all relevant and binding treaties, assignations, laws, regulations, torts, tarts, and strongly worded recommendations and pertinent interoffice memos, do hereby, thereby, and therefore strip you, Jame Retief, of what little authority you may have thought you had within the most solemn ranks of the Corps, relieving you hereby of all rank, title, power, dignity, investiture, standing, association, and relationship, actual, imagined, and presumed, within the sacred and hallowed organization of the CDT."

Pausing for Dramatic Effect (87-B), Magnan leaned forward, his face inches from Retief's.

"Retief, you've been very, very naughty!" He held out his hand, palm up. "Your pen, if you please!"

As the canned drumroll started up again, Retief drew his two-foot ceremonial pen from its scabbard and handed it to Magnan.

"Extend your hands!" When Retief complied, Magnan sharply rapped him on both sets of knuckles with the pen. "Bad Retief! Bad, bad Retief!" Then, raising his leg, and wobbling only a little as he balanced precariously on one foot, Magnan snapped the pen in two over his knee, then tossed the broken halves aside.

Reaching up, Magnan snatched Retief's ceremonial black topper from his head, held it up, then drove one fist through the crown with a loud pop. Next, he grasped Retief's pink sash and ripped it from his chest, wadded it up, and cast it down.

Next came Retief's epaulettes, which had been removed ahead of time and reattached with lightweight thread. The effect was spectacular, however, as the tiny speakers imbedded in each epaulette gave voice to a loud ripping sound as they were torn away.

Next, Magnan reached for Retief's lapels.

"No!" a woman in the second row cried. "Not that!"

Coldly ignoring her plea, Magnan grasped first the left chrome-plated lapel and ripped it off of Retief's dress chartreuses, and then the right. There was a loud clatter as they hit the tarmac.

Next came the medals and insignia of orders—the Legion of Meritorious Good Conduct, with fig-leaf clusters; the Grand Order of File Clerks, Second Class, with three battle stars and an "E" for Excellence; the Staff Meeting Perfect Attendance Award; the Gedunk Cross, First Class, with Peach Pit in lieu of a second award; the Good Dental Hygiene Medal; the Master of Grimacing, First Class Award; the Serene Order of Authority Delegated, Third Class, Junior Grade; the Gold Star of Political Damage Control, First Rank, with twenty-seven star clusters . . . and more. Many more. One by one, Magnan ceremoniously plucked them from Retief's formal diplomatic dickey and dropped them on the ground. Then he pulled Retief's cravat from his throat, jerked his shirttail out, and plucked the pink, silk, CDT-monogrammed hanky from his cutaway breast pocket.

Finally, with solemn gravity, Magnan kneeled at Retief's feet, almost as though he were proposing. One by one, with delicate deliberation, Magnan peeled off each and every one of the violet pinstripes on Retief's chartreuse trousers, wadded them up, and tossed them back over his shoulder.

By the time he was done, several women in the audience were openly weeping, and there were moist eyes among several of the men as well. Desiree Goodeleigh watched avidly and with dry eyes.

As Magnan stood up, the drumroll ceased. He reached into a pocket and extracted a Techno MarkerT, with which he drew a bold, bright-red X on Retief's forehead. "Retief, I give you the scarlet 'X' for 'Expunged.' Never more will you enjoy coffee and croissants at a morning staff conference with your betters! Never more will you be 'in the know' in matters diplomatic and politic. Never more will you gather with embassy staff members at the ceremonial watercooler or trade bon mots with your fellows of the Corps! And never more will you know the joy, the keen thrill of competition, the delight of the chase as you scramble up the career pyramid in pursuit of your next promotion! You are broken! Finished! Out on your can! Be gone hence, and never darken an embassy doorway again, save as a mere civilian in search of embassy assistance while traveling abroad! I cast you forth, and do hereby, thenceforth, and forevermore banish you in the sacred name of the Corps!"

Imperiously, Magnan extended his right arm, pointing to his right. "Go!"

Without a word, Retief executed a left-face and marched to a position in front of the Marines. Captain Martinet barked a command, and four Marines took up positions surrounding Retief, ahead and behind, their blast rifles at their shoulders in the inverted position.

"Forrard . . . harchhh!"

The drumroll paced out a dreary dirge. A canned Groaci nose-flute duet piped out "The Scalawag's March." They marched him toward the embassy's back gate.

"You're getting a damned raw deal, Mr. Retief," one of his guards muttered, just loud enough to be heard. It was one of the two sentries Retief had spoken to the night before. "Just wanted you to know. . . ."

"Thanks, Marine," Retief added in the same low tones. "It's good to know I have friends."

They reached the back gate—the tradesman's entrance. George, the janitor, opened the gate. "I'm sorry t'see ya go, Mr. Retief."

"Thanks, George. I doubt that you're rid of me for good."

Retief walked out into the alley behind the embassy compound. At his back, the media shouted and yelled, bombarding Magnan with questions.

"Good luck, Ben," Retief said quietly, smiling. "You'll need it!"

 

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