It was almost dawn. Ambassador Longspoon, freshly shaved and arrayed in a crisp breakfast hour informal dickey in puce and ocher stripes, stared glumly across the width of his platinum desk at Retief, now back in mufti. Beside him, Colonel Underknuckle rattled a sheet of paper, cleared his throat, beetled his eyebrows.
"The report indicates that after the accused was seen with the bomb—just before being reported absent without leave—a cursory inspection of his quarters revealed, among other curiosities, the following: a dozen pairs of hand-tooled polyon undergarments with the monogram 'L,' absent for some weeks from the wardrobe of Your Excellency; three cases of aged Pepsi from the ambassadorial private stock; a voluminous secret correspondence with unnamed subversive elements; a number of reels of high-denomination credit reported missing from the Budget and Fiscal Office; and a collection of racy photos of unfertilized ova."
"Gracious," Magnan murmured. "Did you find all those things yourself, Fred?"
"Of course not," the military attaché snapped. "The Planetary Police turned them up."
"What's this?" Longspoon frowned. "Considering subsequent events, I hardly think we can enter their findings as evidence. Let's confine ourselves to the matter of the bomb, and the irregularities at the port—and of course, the AWOL."
"Hmmmph! Seems a pity to waste perfectly good evidence . . ."
"Mr. Ambassador," Magnan piped. "I'm sure it's all just an unfortunate misunderstanding. Perhaps Retief wasn't at the port at all . . ."
"Well?" Longspoon waited, eyes boring into Retief.
"I was there," Retief said mildly.
"But—but, maybe it wasn't really a bomb he had," Magnan offered.
"It was a bomb, all right," Retief conceded.
"Well, in that case," Longspoon began—
"Ah—gentlemen, if I may put in a word . . . ?" General Hish, minus his Voion trappings and dapper in a dun-colored hip-cloak and jeweled eye-shields, hitched his chair forward. "The bomb . . . ah . . . it was, er, that is to say, I, ah . . ."
"Yes, yes, get on with it, General," Longspoon snapped. "I've a number of other questions to ask you as soon as this distasteful business is cleared up."
"It was my bomb," Hish whispered.
"Your bomb?" Underknuckle and Longspoon said in chorus.
"I, ah, had been led astray by evil companions," Hish said, arranging his mandibles at angles indicative of deprecation. "That is, I had supplied the infernal machine to a group whom I understood intended to employ it to er, ah, carry out patriotic measures directed against reactionary elements. Little did I suspect that it was the Terran Embassy which was thus so ungenerously characterized. At the last moment, learning of the full intent of these insidious schemers, I, um, advised Mr. Retief of its whereabouts—"
"Heavens, nobly done!" Magnan gushed. "Gracious, and I always thought your Groaci had sort of a teentsy little prejudice against us Terrans."
"Ignoring for the moment the matter of Groaci interference in Quopp's internal affairs," Underknuckle barked, "there's still the matter of the stolen publications! What about that, eh? Can't wiggle out of this one, can you, by golly!"
"Oh, I wanted to mention," Magnan said. "Those bound volumes of the Pest Control Journal—"
"You didn't say Pest Control Journal, did you, Magnan?" Longspoon demanded.
"Yes, indeed I did way Pest Contr—"
"What idiot shipped that particular periodical in here?" Longspoon bellowed. "The entire journal's devoted to methods of annihilating arthropods with chitinous exoskeletons and ventral ladder-type nervous systems! If that sort of thing were ever released among the Quoppina—why, we'd be hailed as the greatest murderers since Attila the Hung!"
"Hun," Magnan corrected.
"Well, I trust he was hung eventually! And the same goes for the nincompoop who ordered the PCJ!"
"Gee, Fred." Magnan looked at Underknuckle. "Wasn't it you who—"
"Well, so that's taken care of," Underknuckle said briskly.
"That seems to leave nothing outstanding but the unauthorized absence," Longspoon commented. "We can deal with this charge at the local level, I think, Fred."
"Pity, in a way." The attaché blinked at Retief. "I'd intended to ship him out under guard for examination by a Board of Interrogators, after which he'd be stripped of rank in a most colorful ceremony—"
The desk screen buzzed. "The Revolutionary Council is here to see you, Mr. Ambassador," a vinegary voice announced.
"Show them in at once, Fester." Longspoon arranged his features, faced the door expectantly. "I'll just quickly establish my ascendancy over these fellows," he explained. "May as well get matters off on the correct footing . . ."
Magnan leaned toward Retief. "I love watching him work," he murmured. "It only took him an instant to decide on Hearty Congratulation plus Alert Awareness of Irregularities, and just the teeniest bit of Latent Severity, all tied together with a touch of Gracious Condescension."
"A great technician," Retief agreed. "Too bad you can't tell the result from Stunned Incredulity."
"Umm. Still, the Quoppina won't know the difference."
The door opened; Fester appeared, ushering in the newly buffed figure of Jik-jik, his scarlet-cuticula gleaming under multiple coats of wax, a new Jarweel feather bobbing behind his left rear antennae. Behind him was the tall figure of Tupper, similarly glorified; Ozzl followed, with half a dozen other representatives of the victorious Federation.
"Ah, Mr. Tief-tief, I presume?" Longspoon rose, extended a hand. Jik-jik waved it off.
"No thanks, not hungry. Besides, us is got a new rule: Greens for Grubs and Grown-ups. Allies is better than Entrées."
"What's he saying?" Longspoon muttered.
"He's just explaining the Federation's new dietary arrangements," Retief explained.
"A food faddist, eh?" Longspoon nodded wisely.
Jik-jik glanced about the room; his oculars settled on Retief. "Hey," he said. "Ain't you—"
"Still working under cover," Retief said quickly. "Pretend you don't know me."
"Tell Mr. Tief-tief that I'm much disturbed by the recent disorders," Longspoon instructed. "Still, I'll listen to an explanation."
"Did you get the Terry females into the city safely?" Retief asked the Ween.
"Sure did, Tief-tief; they at the port, waiting for that Terry Peace Enforcer coming in this morning."
"What did he say?" Longspoon demanded.
"He'll examine your credentials presently, Mr. Ambassador. Meanwhile, keep your manipulative members out of Quopp's affairs."
"He said that?" Longspoon's face darkened.
"I'm giving a free translation," Retief explained. "Meanwhile, what about CDT recognition of the new regime?"
"Recognition? Hmmm. There was the matter of a certain understanding with the Voion . . ."
"Shall I remind him of that?"
"By no means! Tell him, ah, that I shall look forward to regularization of relations between our two peoples as soon as one or two points are ironed out. Now, we'll want an understanding on commercial matters; I think a thousand-man Trade Mission would be about right . . ."
"Did you find the remains of the yacht the girls were in?" Retief inquired of Jik-jik.
"Uh-huh. Just like you say, Tief-tief: It blasted by some kind of big fire gun. Big hole busted in the side."
Retief glanced at Hish, who aimed his five eyes at different corners of the room, began humming the opening bars of You tell Me Your Dream, I'll Tell You Mine.
"Well?" Longspoon barked.
"He says there's to be no Terry interference in Quopp's tradition of free enterprise," Retief advised the ambassador. "And no more harassment of the traders at Rum Jungle and the other market towns."
"Eh? But what about the land reform program . . . ?"
"There'll be a big party tonight aboard the Terry ship," Retief said to the delegates. "The ambassador hopes you can make it."
"Nothing like a little socializing to take the boys' mind off the fun they missing not getting to loot the town," Jik-jik said. "Us'll be there."
"The Federated Tribes will tolerate no political intervention of any kind," Retief relayed to Longspoon. "They specifically reject anything with the word 'reform' in it."
"Gad! This fellow's a reactionary of the worst stripe! Surely he won't object to my Jungle Slum clearance plan, my Pretties for the Underprivileged Program, and my Spiraling Price Support formula—"
"I hope you followed my advice and disarmed the Voion instead of annihilating them," Retief said to Jik-jik.
"Head-chopping hard work," the Ween agreed. "Us worked out a nice arrangement where one Voion assigned to each village to keep the sanitary drains open. It working out good."
"They like the jungle the way it is," Retief informed Longspoon. "No one gets any privileges unless he can manage them for himself; and prices will be controlled by supply and demand."
"I see I've underrated this fellow," Longspoon muttered to his aides. "He's obviously an exponent of some rather far-out economic theories." He adjusted a smile expressing the unspoken rapport existing between Men of the World. "Tell him that I've been considering the size of the development loan I'll be prepared to recommend, and I've decided that the sum of, ah . . ." He glanced at Magnan. "Ten million . . . ?"
"Twenty," Magnan murmured. "Per year," he added.
"Plus the military aid program," Underknuckle put in. "I'd estimate a hundred-man Advisory Group—"
"Twenty-five million per annum," Longspoon said decisively. "With a cost-of-dying increase built in—plus a sliding scale to compensate for seasonal fluctuations."
"Fluctuations in what?" Magnan asked alertly.
"Anything that fluctuates, dammit!" the ambassador snapped.
Retief nodded solemnly. "Did you collect the guns?" he asked Jik-jik. "All of them?"
Jik-jik wiggled his oculars uncomfortably. "Uh, well, Tief-tief, it like this—"
"Bury 'em, Jik-jik," Retief said sternly. "Along with all the captured guns. We agreed that firearms take all the fun out of fighting."
Jik-jik gave the soft squeal that was the Ween equivalent of a sigh. "OK; I guess you right, Tief-tief. Me and Tupper here already done a little scrapping over what tribe get 'em. I guess I rather bury 'em all than wind up looking down the barrel next time they a little intertribal rumble."
"What does he say?" Longspoon demanded.
"No loan," Retief translated.
"Oh, he's holding out for an outright grant," Longspoon rubbed his hands together. "Well, I think that could be arranged. Naturally, that will call for closer control: Say an additional staff of fifty—"
"No grants, either," Retief interjected.
"See here," Longspoon clamped his mouth. "If the fellow's going to be unreasonable . . ."
"All he wants is a Monitor Service station in a quarter-million mile orbit to ensure that no cargoes move between Groac and Quopp—in either direction."
General Hish made a choking sound. Colonel Underknuckle brightened. "That's reasonable," he stated. "Now let me see; the station would fall under my command, naturally; for a medium-sized unit, say thirty men—"
"There's one other thing," Retief said. "Terran honey will have to be added to Narcotics Control's list of excluded items as far as Quopp is concerned."
"Hmmph." Longspoon eyed Jik-jik sourly. "I must say this chap is a shrewder negotiator than I'd anticipated. I can see we're all going to have to tighten our belts and settle down to a long campaign before we can bring Quopp to readiness for membership in the Free Liaison of Organized Planets."
Magnan sniffed. "From what I've seen of these confounded rebels—that is, the freedom-loving standard-bearers of the aroused populace—they may never be ready for FLOP."
"Nonsense, Magnan; just give us a few more sessions at the conference table; they'll come around. I may even take time to absorb the language—not that I don't already have a good working knowledge of it," he added. "You handled the interpretation fairly well, Retief, but you missed a few of the finer nuances."
"I thought the nuances were the best part," Retief commented.
"Maybe you'd better invite these fellows along to the military ball tonight," Underknuckle announced. "After all, as the rebel leaders, we can consider them as honorary military men, even though they lack formal training."
"By all mean," Longspoon said. "An excellent opportunity to make a few points; or rather, to implement our sincere and heartfelt sense of solidarity with the forces of popular aspiration."
"Oh, well put, Mr. Ambassador," Magnan gasped.
"It will be a gala affair," Underknuckle said. "A fitting conclusion to the excitement of the week, as well as a tribute to General Tief-tief and his gallant warriors of the Federated Tribes." He looked at Retief severely. "Tell 'em that; that'll soften 'em up."
"Remember now," Retief said to the callers. "No fighting at tonight's big social event. Colonel Underknuckle abhors violence."
"OK, Tief-tief," Jik-jik said. "By the way, we is heard they going to be some extra good stuff on board . . ." He worked his oculars in a Quoppian wink. "I hopes that ain't no mere rumor."
"I'll personally spike the punch bowl," Retief assured him. He turned to Underknuckle. "He wants to know if he should wear his medals."
"By all means!" Underknuckle boomed. "Full dress, medals and orders! A real military occasion." He gave Retief a cold eye. "As for yourself, sir—inasmuch as you're under charges for AWOL, I suggest you consider yourself confined to quarters until further notice."
Retief and Jik-jik stood together at the arched entrance to the mirror-floored grand ballroom aboard the CDT Armed Monitor Vessel Expedient, watching the brilliantly gowned and uniformed diplomats of a dozen worlds gathered under the chandeliers to celebrate the new independence of Quopp.
"Well, Tief-tief," the Ween said. "Look like all the excitement over for a while. I going to miss it. Cutting greens not near as good exercise as snipping Voion down to size." He sighed. "Us going to miss you, too, when you goes back to Stiltsville."
"You'll find that fighting in defense of peace will absorb all your spare energy, now that you're civilized," Retief reassured him.
"I is a great believer in peaceful settlements," Jik-jik assured him. "Ain't nobody as peaceful as a dead trouble-maker."
"Just keep it within reason, or you'll have the Terries on your neck. They tend to be spoilsports when it comes to good old-fashioned massacres."
"Sound like a good tip; I'll keep it in mind." Jik-jik leaned close to Retief. "Beat me how that disguise of yours fool these Terries, even right up close. It ain't that good."
"Let me know if it starts to slip."
Big Leon appeared, uncomfortable in a brand-new black dress coverall and white tie.
"Looks like old Longspoon learned something while that rope was around his neck," he said. "Seems like maybe us traders are going to get a square deal now."
"Most people are willing to give up their misconceptions," Retief said. "Once they have them tattooed on their hide with a blunt instrument."
"Yeah. Uh . . ." Leon looked at Jik-jik. "I guess I had a bunch of wrong ideas about you boys, too. You looked pretty good charging in out of the jungle yesterday."
"You Terries done heap up a big stack of arguments yourselves. Maybe us ought to work out some kind of mutual insistence agreement."
"Yeah—and while we're at it, why don't you boys come around the store sometime; I go a line of luminous neckties coming in that'll tie knots in your oculars . . ."
General Hish caught Retief's eye; he strolled over to join the small Groaci, now resplendent in formal kit including a gold fringe that dragged the floor and three honorary head-bladders, one with fig-leaf cluster.
"Really, Retief, I think you went a bit far when you banned Groaci shipping from an entire volume of space," Hish whispered. "I fear I shall have to insist on a relaxation of that stricture, as well as certain other concessions in the field of, ah, minerals exploration."
A waiter offered drinks; Hish accepted a clay pot of thick black brandy. Retief lifted a slender-stemmed glass of pale pink liqueur. "Don't confuse your terminology, Hish," Retief said. "I didn't ban your arms-runners and smugglers; it was the wish of Tief-tief, remember?"
"Come, come," Hish hissed. "Out of regard for a colleague, I refrained from advising your ambassador of the rather baroque role you played in the upsetting of his plans—but—"
"Tsk, tsk, Hish. I thought we'd settled this earlier."
"That was before you overplayed your hand in presuming to dictate the terms of the Terran-Quoppina accord," Hish said crisply. "I think now that, all things considered—"
"Ah, but have all things been considered?" Retief sampled his drink, eyed the Groaci.
"Your departure from the role of diplomat to lead the rebel forces was a trifling breech of protocol compared with deluding your chief of Mission in his own sanctum sanctorum," Hish pointed out. "Still, if you arrange matters to permit a few teams of Groaci prospectors to pan a little gravel in the interior, perhaps I'll forget to mention the matter."
"I think you'd better suppress any impulses you may have in the direction of overly candid disclosures," Retief advised. "At least until after the Board of Inquiry into the matter of the downed yacht. The investigation is being pressed rather vigorously by His Imperial Majesty, Ronare the Ninth of Lily; it was his yacht, you know—"
"A great pity—but I fail to see what—"
"It was just luck that the missile that hit the vessel failed to detonate and was found, nearly intact, wedged in among what was left of the stern tubes—"
"Retief! Have you . . . ?"
"The shell is in the hands of the Federated Tribes. They can't read Groaci, so they have no way of knowing who supplied it. Still, now that the evidence has been deposited in a safe place—"
"Blackmail?" Hish whispered urgently. "And after I risked my existence to get you into Ikk's office—"
"The famous Groaci instinct for backing a winner was operating that day," Retief said. "Now, I believe we agreed that nothing was to be gained by mentioning the unfortunate error that caused Groaci guns to be substituted for Terran propaganda—"
"If you expose me, I'll inform the Galaxy of your dastardly role in the affair," the Groaci hissed.
"I confess I might find that personally embarrassing," Retief said. "But my report will place all Groac in a very dim light—"
"Not so loud!" Hish warned, looking around.
" . . . but we still haven't discussed the moral implications of your scheme to import from Quopp large volumes of parts for your justly famed transistorized Tri-D sets, mechanical egg timers, and electronic pleasure-center stimulators—"
"But Quopp manufactures no such components," Hish said weakly.
"Now, we both know better than that, don't we?" Retief reproved gently. "The Voion were to handle the harvesting, disassemble and sort the victims, and deliver them to the port, and you were to pay them off in armaments. What the Voion didn't know was that the entire scheme was merely a cover-up for something else."
"My dear Retief, you've gotten a touch of the sun," Hish whispered. "You're raving . . ."
"Once comfortably established, it would have been a simple matter to dispense with your Voion helpers and proceed to the real business at hand; turning the whole planet into a breeding ground for a number of rather rare species of Quoppina inhabiting the central regions of the Deep Jungle."
"What a perfectly fantastic allegation," Hish said breathlessly. "Why on Quopp would we Groaci go in for breeding aliens?"
"Every creature on the planet—and every plant, for that matter—assimilates metal into its makeup. Most of the varieties in this region use iron, copper, antimony, arsenic, and so on. It just happens that there are a number of little-known tribes inhabiting the Deep Jungle on the other side of the planet who sequester silver, gold, uranium, platinum, and traces of a few other useful materials."
"Really? Why, who would have thought it . . ."
"You might have," Retief said bluntly. "Inasmuch as I discovered specimens in your luggage."
"You searched my luggage?" Hish's jeweled eye-shields almost fell off.
"Certainly; you carelessly left it aboard the heli you used to pay your call at my camp just before I was forced to blow up the Voion officer's field mess."
"I claim diplomatic immunity!" Hish croaked. "I demand the right to consult a lawyer—"
"Don't panic; I haven't confided these matters in anyone yet; I thought you might want an opportunity to smooth things over in a quieter way."
"But, my dear Retief, of course, any little thing I can do—"
"Here," a loud Terran voice said behind Retief. "I thought I confined you to your quarters, sir!" Retief turned. The portly figure of Colonel Underknuckle confronted him, the broad mud-colored lapels of his full-dress uniform sagging over his hollow chest, his shoulder boards drooping under the weight of gold braid. "You'll leave this vessel at once and . . . and . . ." His jaw sagged back against a cushion of fat, exposing inexpensive GI plates. His eyes goggled at Retief's bronze-black uniform, the dragon rampant insignia of a battle commander worked in gold thread on the collar, the short cape of dark velvet, silver-lined, the rows of medals, orders, jeweled starbursts . . .
"Here," he said weakly. "What's this . . . impersonating an officer . . . ?"
"I believe reservists are required to wear appropriate uniforms at a military ball," Retief said.
"A battle commander? A general officer? Impossible! You're a civilian! An imposter! A fake!"
"Oh no, he's quite genuine," a mellow feminine voice said behind the colonel. He spun. A breathtaking girl in a silvery gown and a jeweled coronet smiled at him.
"And—and how would you know?" he blurted.
"Because he hold his commission in the armed forces of my world."
"Your world?" He blinked at her. "Here, aren't you the person who ignored my orders not to land here?"
"My dear Colonel," General Hish interjected, placing a limp Groaci hand on Underknuckle's arm. "Is it possible you don't know? This young lady is Her Highness Princess Fianna Glorian Deliciosa Hermoine Arianne de Retief et du Lille."
"B—b—but I gave orders—"
"And I countermanded them, Colonel. I knew you'd understand." She smiled radiantly.
"And, now, Colonel, I think you and General Hish would like to have a little chat," Retief put in. "He wants to tell you all about his plans for a Groaci surgical and prosthetics mission to improve the lot of the Quoppina wounded, past and future." He looked at the Groaci. "Right, General?"
"Quite correct, my dear Battle Commander," Hish whispered in a resigned tone. "And the other matters we were discussing . . . ?"
"I've forgotten what they were."
"Ahh . . . to be sure. So have I, now that you mention it." Hish moved off, whispering to Underknuckle. Retief turned to Fifi, inclined his head.
"If I may crave the honor . . . ?"
"You'd better," she said, taking his hand and turning to the dance floor. "After coming all this way just to lead a charge in sheet-metal underwear, I think I deserve a little attention . . ."