Retief-Ambassador to Space (8 page)

"We don't want to antagonize anyone with premature
sabre-rattling, Colonel," Biteworse frowned a rebuke.

"Hmmm." Magnan pulled at his lower lip. "A
masterful approach as you've outlined it, Your Excellency. But I wonder if we
mightn't add just the teeniest hint of Agonizing Reappraisal?"

Biteworse nodded approvingly. "Yes—an element of the
traditional might be quite in order."

A moment later the screen cleared to reveal a figure
lolling in an easy chair, splendidly clad in an iridescent Bromo Seltzer blue
tunic, open over an exposed framework of leathery-looking ribs from which gaily
be-jeweled medals dangled in rows. From the braided collar, around which a
leather strap was slung supporting a pair of heavy Japanese-made binoculars, a
stout neck extended, adorned along its length with varicolored patches
representing auditory, olfactory, and radar organs, as well as a number of
other senses the nature of which was still unclear to Terran physiologists. At
the tip of the stem, a trio of heavy-lidded eyes stared piercingly at the
diplomats.

"General Barf!" Biteworse exclaimed. "But I
was calling the Premier! How—what—"

"Evening, Hector," the general said briskly.
"I made it a point to seize the Secretariat first, this trip." He
brought his vocalizing organ up on the end of its tentacle to place it near the
audio pick-up. "I've been meaning to give you a ring, but I'll be damned
if I could remember how to operate this thing."

"General," Biteworse cut in sharply, "I've
grown accustomed to a certain amount of glass breakage during these, ah, readjustment
periods, but—"

"I warned you against flimsy construction," the
general countered. "And I assure you, I'm always careful to keep that sort
of thing at a minimum. After all, there's no telling who'll be using the
facilities next, eh?"

"... but this is an entirely new category of
outrage!" Biteworse bored on. "I've just been bombed and strafed by
one of your aircraft! The scoundrel practically flew into the room! It's a
miracle I survived!"

"Now, Hector, you know there are no such things as
miracles," the Blortian officer chuckled easily. "There's a perfectly
natural explanation of your survival, even if it does seem a bit unreasonable
at first glance."

"This is no time to haggle over metaphysics!"
Biteworse shook a finger at the screen. "I demand an immediate apology,
plus assurances that nothing of the sort will occur again until after my
transfer!"

"Sorry, Hector," the general said calmly.
"I'm afraid I can't guarantee that a few wild rounds won't be coming your
way during the course of the night. This isn't a mere commando operation this
time; now that I've secured my beachhead, I'm ready to launch my full-scale
Spring Offensive for the recovery of our glorious homeland. Jump-off will be in
approximately eight hours from now; so if you'd care to synchronize
chronometers—"

"An all-out offensive? Aimed at this area?"

"You have a fantastic grasp of tactics," Barf
said admiringly. "I intend to occupy the North Continent first, after
which I'll roll up the Gloian Divisions like carpets in all directions!"

"But—my Chancery is situated squarely in the center
of the capital! You'll be carrying your assault directly across the Embassy
grounds!"

"Well, Hector, I seem to recall it was you who
selected the site for your quarters—"

"I asked for neutral ground!" Biteworse
shrilled. "I was assigned the most fought-over patch on the planet!"

"What could be more neutral than no-man's-land?"
General Barf inquired in a reasonable tone.

"Gracious," Magnan whispered to Retief.
"Barf sounds as though he may be harboring some devious motivation behind
that open countenance."

"Maybe he has a few techniques of his own,"
Retief suggested. "This might be his version of the Number Twenty-three
Leashed Power gambit, with a side order of Imminent Spontaneous Rioting."

"Heavens, do you suppose ...? But he hasn't had time
to learn the finer nuances; he's only been in the business for a matter of
months."

"Perhaps it's just a natural aptitude for
diplomacy."

"That's possible; I've observed the intuitive fashion
in which he distinguishes the bonded whiskey at cocktail parties."

"... immediate cessation of hostilities!" the
Ambassador was declaring. "Now, I have a new formula, based on the battle
lines of the tenth day of the third week of the Moon of Limitless Imbibing, as
modified by the truce team's proposals of the second week of the Moon of
Ceaseless Complaining, up-dated in accordance with Corps Policy Number
746358-b, as amended—"

"That's thoughtful of you, Hector," Barf held up
a tactile member in a restraining gesture. "But as it happens, inasmuch as
this will be the final campaign of the War for Liberation of the Homeland,
peacemaking efforts become nugatory."

"I seem to recall similar predictions at the time of
the Fall Campaign, the pre-Winter Offensive, the Winter Counteroffensive, the
post-Winter Anschluss, and the pre-Spring Push," Biteworse retorted.
"Why don't you reconsider, General, before incurring a new crop of
needless casualties?"

"Hardly needless, Hector. You need a few casualties
to sharpen up discipline. And in any case, this time things will be different.
I'm using a new technique of saturation leaflet bombing followed by intensive
victory parades, guaranteed to crumble all resistance. If you'll just sit
tight—"

"Sit tight, and have the building blown down about my
ears?" Biteworse cut in. "I'm leaving for the provinces at
once—"

"I think that would be unwise, Hector, with
conditions so unsettled. Better stay where you are. In fact, you may consider
that an order, under the provisions of martial Law. If this seems a trifle
harsh, remember, it's all in a good cause. And now I have to be moving along,
Hector. I have a new custom-built VIP-model armored car with air and music that
I'm dying to test drive. Ta-ta." The screen blanked abruptly.

"This is fantastic!" The Ambassador stared
around at his staff for corroboration of his assessment of the situation.
"In the past, the opposing armies have at least made a pretense of
respecting diplomatic privilege; now they're openly proposing to make us the
center of a massive combined land, sea, and air strike!"

"We'll have to contact Lib Glip at once," the
Political Officer said urgently. "Perhaps we can convince him that the
capital should be declared an open city!"

"Sound notion, Oscar," the Ambassador agreed. He
mopped at his forehead with a large monogrammed tissue. "Retief, keep
trying until you reach him."

Half a minute later, the circular visage of the Gloian
Foreign Minister appeared on the screen, against a background of passing
shopfronts seen through a car window. Two bright black eyes peered through a
tangle of thick tendrils not unlike a tangerine-dyed oil mop capped by a
leather Lindy cap with goggles.

"Hi, fellows," he greeted the Terrans airily.
"Sorry to break our lunch date, Biteworse, but you know how foreign affairs
are: Here today and gone to dinner, as the saying goes, I think. But never mind
that. What I really called you about was—"

"It was I who called
you!"
the Ambassador
broke in. "See here, Lib Glip; a highly placed confidential source has
advised me that the capital is about to become the objective of an all-out
Blort assault. Now, I think it only fair that your people should relinquish the
city peaceably, so as to avoid a possible interplanetary incident—"

"Oh, that big-mouth Barf has been at you again, eh?
Well, relax, fellows; everything's going to be OK. I have a surprise in store
for those indigo indigents."

"You've decided to propose a unilateral
cease-fire?" Biteworse blurted. "A munificent gesture—"

"Are you kidding, Biteworse? Show the white feather while
those usurpers are still in full possession of our hallowed mother world?"
The Gloian leaned into the screen. "I'll let you in on a little secret.
The retreat is just a diversionary measure to suck Barf into over-extending his
lines. As soon as he's poured all his available reinforcements into this dry
run—whammo! I hit him with a nifty hidden-ball play around left end and land a
massive expeditionary force on Blort! At one blow, I'll regain the cradle of
the Gloian race and end the war once and for all!"

"I happen to be directly in the path of your proposed
dry run!" Biteworse keened. "I remind you, sir, this compound is
neither Gloian nor Blortian soil, but Ter-ran!" A patch of plaster fell
with a clatter as if to emphasize the point.

"Oh, we won't actually bombard the Chancery itself—at
least not intentionally—unless, that is, Barfs troops try to use it as a
sanctuary. I suggest you go down into the subbasement; some of you may come
through with hardly a scratch."

"Wait! We'll evacuate! I hereby call upon you for
safe-conduct—"

"Sorry; I'll be too busy checking out on the controls
of my new hand-tooled pursuit craft to arrange transport to the South Pole just
now. However, after the offensive—"

"You'll be manning a fighter?"

"Yes, indeed! A beaut. Everything on it but a flush
John. I handle the portfolio of Defense Minister in the War Cabinet personally,
you know. And a leader's place is with his troops at the front. Maybe not
actually
at
the front," he amended. "But in the general area,
you know."

"Isn't that a little dangerous?"

"Not if my G-2 reports are on the ball. Besides, I
said this was an all-out effort."

"But that's what you said the last time, when you
were learning how to operate that leather-upholstered tank you had built!"

"True—but this time it will be all-out all-out. And
now I have to scoot or I'll have to flip my own prop.

You won't hear from me again until after the victory,
since I'm imposing total communications silence now for the duration.
Chou." The alien broke the connection.

"Great galloping Galaxies." Biteworse sank into
a plaster-dusted chair. "This is catastrophic! The Embassy will be
devastated, and we'll be buried in the rubble."

There was a discreet tap at the conference room door; it
opened and an apologetic junior officer peered in. "Ah ... Mr. Ambassador;
a person is here, demanding to see you at once. I've explained to him—"

"Step aside, junior," a deep voice growled. A
short, thick-set man in wrinkled blues thrust through the door.

"I've got an Operational Instantaneous Utter Top
Secret despatch for somebody." He stared around at the startled diplomats.
"Who's in charge?"

"I am," Biteworse barked. "These are my
staff, Captain. What's this despatch all about?"

"Beats me. I'm Merchant Service. Some Navy brass
hailed me and asked me to convoy it in. Said it was important." He
extracted a pink emergency message form from a pouch and passed it across to
Biteworse.

"Captain, perhaps you're unaware that I have two
emergencies and a crisis on my hands already!" Biteworse looked at the
envelope indignantly.

The sailor glanced around the room. "From the looks
of this place, I'd say you had a problem, all right, Mister," he agreed.
"I ran into a few fireworks myself, on the way in here. Looks like Chinese
New Year out there."

"What's the nature of the new emergency?" Magnan
craned to read the paper in Biteworse's hand.

"Gentlemen, this is the end," Biteworse said
hollowly, looking up from the message form. "They'll be here first thing
in the morning."

"My, just in time to catch the action," Magnan
said.

"Don't sound so complacent, you imbecile!"
Biteworse yelped. "That will be the final straw! An inspection team, here
to assess the effectiveness of my pacification efforts, will be treated to the
sight of a full-scale battle raging about my very doorstep!"

"Maybe we could tell them it's just the' local Water
Festival—"

"Silence!" Biteworse screeched. "Time is
running out, sir! Unless we rind a solution before dawn our careers will end in
ignominy."

"If you don't mind sharing space with a cargo of
Abalonian Glue-fish eggs, you can come with me," the merchantman offered
over a renewed rumble of artillery. "It will only be for a couple of
months, until I touch down at Adobe. I hear they've got a borax mining camp there
where you can work out your board until the Spring barge convoy shows up."

"Thank you," Biteworse said coldly. "I
shall keep your offer in mind."

"Don't wait too long. I'm leaving as soon as I've
off-loaded."

"All right, gentlemen," the Ambassador said in
an ominous tone as the captain departed in search of coffee. "I'm ordering
the entire staff to the cellars for the duration of the crisis. No one is to
attempt to leave the building, of course. We must observe Barfs curfew. We'll
be burning the midnight fluorescents tonight— and if by sunrise we haven't
evolved a brilliant scheme for ending the war, you may all compose suitable
letters of resignation—-those of you who survive!"

In the corridor, Retief encountered his local
clerk-typist, just donning a floppy beret dyed a sour orange as an expression
of his political alignment.

"Hi, Mr. Retief," he greeted the diplomat
glumly. "I was just leaving. I guess you know the Blorts are back in
town."

"So it appears, Dil Snop. How about a stirrup cup
before you go?"

"Sure; they won't have the streets cordoned off for a
while yet."

In Retief s office, the clerk parked his bulging briefcase
and accepted a three-finger shot of black Bacchus brandy, which he carefully
poured into a pocket like a miniature marsupial's pouch.

He heaved a deep sigh. "Say, Mr. Retief, when that
Blue incompetent shows up, tell him not to mess with the files. I've just
gotten them straightened out from the last time."