Introduction

 

            Second Secretary Jame Retief of the Terran Embassy to Sardon was just finishing his after-dinner brandy in the transport's Junior Officers' Mess when his chief, First Secretary Ben Magnan, hurried up and took a seat opposite him.

 

            "Retief," he began excitedly, "there's something they're not telling us!" He glanced around as if to ferret out spies, then resumed: "It's widely known that Goldblatt's Other World, more formally known as Sardon, and listed in the handbook as U-784-a, called Spookworld by the vulgar, has not been visited by Terrans since its discovery, two centuries ago. Yet on the occasion of the Bicentennial of discovery a full diplomatic mission is dispatched here to normalize relations. Who, may one inquire, has laid the groundwork for our establishment of an Embassy of Terra? How is it we've been alerted to keep an eye open for distressed Terran spacemen said to be marooned here? And who, who is the author of the rumors which have given rise to the place's unsavory reputation? What are we to do? Simply to leap into troubled waters unprepared is hardly a strategy worthy of the Corps Diplomatique! And, we'll be there—or here—very soon now, I believe." He consulted a well-worn schedule, and frowned. "You'd best finish your drink—or better, dump it in the potted jelly-flowers just there."

 

            Retief nodded, and took another sip.

 

            "Still," Magnan went on in a more confident tone, "rumors do arise spontaneously. And as for these rumors in particular—dragons, plagues of stinging nits, magic spells, trolls, enchantments—only a small child—or a Spaceman—could take such nonsense seriously." He nodded, as if satisfied with his argument.

 

            "Rumors usually have some slight basis in fact," Retief pointed out. "Sardon is probably a little strange—but so are most places."

 

            Magnan gave him a stricken look. "That's hardly comforting, Jim," he carped.

 

            have no fear, ben, a silent Voice spoke suddenly inside each man's skull. I assure you things here on zanny-du are quite peaceful for the moment, though I confess there are troublemakers about. it was I who agreed to receive a mission from terra. just relax, and leave great affairs to the great.

 

            Magnan, confused by the Voice, stared, open-mouthed, at Retief. "Jim!" he gasped, "it's all very well to jape with me; I understand your curiously warped sense of the facetious—but for Heaven's sake don't let Ambassador Shortfall overhear any such vainglorious remarks! But—" he paused uncertainly. "I was looking right at you and your lips didn't so much as twitch. How—?" He seemed to collect himself with an effort. "Atmosphere in ten minutes," he announced briskly after a glance at his thumb-chron.

 

            "Make that maybe twenty seconds," Gus, the table-attendant corrected tonelessly. "I been feeling the vibes for a couple seconds now. We're already into maybe point six microbars gas. Feel that?" he queried as the aging vessel jolted abruptly, rattling the tableware. "Old Cap never could hit a ETA," he added. "See? What'd I tell ya?" he went on complacently as the first near-supersonic whisper of atmospheric friction started up. "I wouldn't bet two demi-guck this tub'll hang together for another class one pilot error, neither," he commented with apparent indifference, watching Magnan closely for his reaction. "Flunked her mid-cruise, you know," he went on. "If they didn't owe me six months back wages, I'd of jumped her at Furthuron."

 

            "That will do, my man," Magnan said testily. "Surely you have duties elsewhere."

 

            "I can take a hint," Gus acknowledged. "I been reading up on this here Spookworld, too," he ploughed on relentlessly. He absentmindedly pulled out a chair and nearly sat in it, but Magnan's sudden attack of black-lung caused him to shift in mid-squat and mime correcting the placement of the chair. "Course," he remarked, "if you don't wanna hear about how they got a lot of dead guys down there, zombies-like, maybe, and some kinda monsters,—bugs is bad, too, I hear. I guess I better get back to work ..."

 

            "By all means," Magnan said coldly. "And I remind you, sir, that the planet about which we are about to enter landing orbit is listed in the Handbook as U-784-a, and correctly referred to as Sardon, or less formally, Goldblatt's Other World, after its intrepid discoverer."

 

            "Which he ain't been heard from since," Gus commented gloomily. "Maybe we'd be better off if she did break up; get it over with fast, you know." He grabbed for support as the old ship bucked again and began a slow rotation.

 

            "Do you mean to suggest," Magnan demanded, "that this vessel is unspaceworthy?"

 

            "Naw, it ain't that," Gus corrected. "She's OK in space, it's getting her down that's tricky. How's about a shot of the good stuff fer you, Mr. Magnan? You don't look so good."

 

            "I'm very well, thank you, Gus," Magnan replied faintly. "Heavens, Retief," he addressed the younger man. "Do you suppose ... that is—"

 

            "Never suppose," Retief suggested. "I doubt very much that we'll encounter any zombies down below."

 

            "Well!" Magnan came back tartly. "Of course not! What do you take me for? I was concerned about the condition of this infernal vessel to which we've entrusted our lives! It's disgraceful! 'Flunked his semiannual', I've been informed by a Usually Reliable Source."

 

            "Yes, I heard him," Retief concurred. "It was something about the logs being in arrears, I understand."

 

            "Well, what a relief!" Magnan exclaimed. He shot Gus a pained look. "Very bad form," he stated, "starting rumors about unspaceworthiness, to say nothing of zombies inhabiting the wilderness below us."

 

            "Never started no rumors," Gus objected. "Figgered you gents wouldn't blab none." With that reproof he abruptly resumed his duties in response to a "Hsst! garcon!" from the next table. Magnan leaned toward Retief and said earnestly:

 

            "One hardly knows what to think. The Post Report said nothing of Caribbean superstition on GOW. Pardon my use of the acronym, Jim; I'm upset, is all."

 

            "No sweat, sir," Retief reassured his chief. "After all, our Confidential Terran Source didn't mention Papa Dumballa."

 

            "Oh, you mean George, the janitor back at Sector HQ. Well, George is all very well, but he's hardly as prestigious as, say, 'a Highly-Placed Official,' for example, meaning the janitor in the local Foreign Office."

 

            "Still," Retief reminded the nervous Magnan. "The Press flacks, for all their prestige, get their dope the same way we do, in the Press kits the Information Agency cooks up."

 

            "Based on reliable rumors," Magnan nodded. "I still feel there are some aspects of the situation which will remain obscure even to TIA until the Mission has actually arrived and presented credentials."

 

            "And perhaps taken a walk around the block," Retief added. "If there really is a monster called Worm down there, maybe seeing it will confirm its existence."

 

            " 'Monster', pah!" Magnan scoffed. "Really, Retief, if you're nervous, perhaps we could arrange to get the nod as ship's complement, and remain aboard for the nonce."

 

            "I'll pass, Ben," Retief dismissed the suggestion. "If there really are zombies down there, I'd hate to miss meeting them."

 

            Magnan stared from Retief to the cloud-streaked disc of Goldblatt's Other World slowly swelling on the wall-screen beside him.

 

            "It looks pleasant enough," he remarked hopefully, "but do you really think there might be something to this zombie talk?"

 

            "If so," Retief told him, "Captain Goldblatt didn't mention it in his Report of Discovery. He reported 'no intelligent life' but plenty of gnats."

 

            "Then," Magnan demanded earnestly, his eyes on Retief's, "to whom is this Mission accredited? Surely Sector hasn't established diplomatic relations with an uninhabited jungleworld?" He dropped his eyes and began fiddling with his teaspoon. "I had it in confidence from Bob Trenchfoot, who was in the Advance Party, that the climate is salubrious in the extreme. They were able to procure adequate quarters for both the chancery and the Residence in the city Zanny-du. So, you see, there must be autochthonous inhabitants!"

 

            "Flawless reasoning, sir," Retief agreed. "That could explain the disappearances, too."

 

            "What disappearances?" Magnan yelped.

 

            "Just reliable rumors, Ben," Retief soothed. "From time to time, it seems, the Monitor Service has detected a tramp freighter making an unauthorized call at Zanny-du; such vessels have apparently never reappeared to be chastised."

 

            "No matter," Magnan dismissed the subject, "an accredited Terran Diplomatic Mission is hardly to be compared to some illicit merchantman."

 

            "I almost forgot!" Gus interrupted, arriving at a trot, "they say they got like mind-readers and all down there—a guy's got no secrets! I'm staying aboard, personal! Good luck, fellows, if yer still going down there." He fixed his gaze on Magnan. "You got guts, Ben, for a bureaucrat," he said. "I'll say that fer ya."

 

            "By the way," Magnan said to Retief, ignoring the cheeky fellow, "I was about to mention that I'm Duty Officer today, and my duties require that I remain at my station, monitoring the B & F read-out. Just in case of last-minute budget changes, you know," he added comfortably.

 

            "You're going to stay on this tub, alone?" Gus queried, miming a degree of amazement that would explain, nay, excuse his gaffe, as he sat in the extra chair. " 'Cept for me, I mean, and I'll be holed up in the cold storage vault, with a hand-blaster and a supply of refills."

 

            "Alone?" Magnan echoed. "Hardly, Gus. I'm sure Mr. Retief will wish to be at my side. A blaster?" he went on. "Whatever for?"

 

            "For them damn caterpillars down there," Gus stated firmly. "I heard about how they got ways to drive a feller off his jets and then eat him after. Not Mrs. Gunderson's boy Gus; no sirree!" He rose. "So long, gents," he muttered. "What beats me," he added over his shoulder, "is how they know all this stuff about Spookworld which nobody ain't been there in two hunnert years. Well, good luck and all, but ..." Gus' voice trailed off as he departed.

 

            "Remember, Retief," Magnan said in a voice with a distinct tendency to tremor, "stay close, and ignore Gus's silly rumors."

 

            "As you wish, sir," Retief said. "Of course, that will involve your coming down to the surface, since I'm the only licensed atmosphere pilot aboard, and I have to accompany the landing dinghy."

 

            "That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of!" Magnan declared. He then added, "Not counting iceberg census on Icebox Nine, of course, or the Goodies for Undesirables Program in general. In fact," he pressed on, warming to his topic, "galactic diplomacy itself—"

 

            Retief's hand covered his chief's mouth at that point. Magnan sputtered and mimed resistance until released. Retief wiped the spit off his palm on a worn table napkin.

 

            "Thank you, Jim," Magnan managed at last. "I don't know what got into me."

 

            pray be reassured, ben, a silent voice said faintly, like a shout heard at a distance. Magnan stared at Retief in amazement.

 

            "Did you hear that?" he whimpered. "Now I'm hearing voices!"

 

            just the one, the Voice corrected.

 

            "One is infernally-well enough!" Magnan yipped, clapping his hands over his ears.

 

            "Easy, sir," Retief urged. "Just play it cool. I'm sure there's an explanation."

 

            "Then you heard, too!" Magnan almost sobbed in relief. "What about you, Gus?" He turned a sharp look on the waiter, who had hurried back.

 

            "Not me, Mr. Magnan!" Gus objected. "I don't even know no big words like that 'reassured'; me, I got my ammo to see to. Ta, gents, and watch yer step down there."

 

2

 

            After the usual last-minute delays while various staff members went off to ascertain that something vital to the Mission had not been overlooked, then the ritual of rank-determined seat-selection in the cramped shuttle, the bumpy ride down through a turbulent, layered atmosphere, debarkation on the wind-swept ramp, and a grit-in-the-eyes ride to the terminal where tiny gnatlike insects swarmed, the diplomats alighted from the converted golf cart and found themselves herded to a primitive baggage-claim carousel, all the while closely surrounded by a surprisingly large number of larva-like locals, none of whom seemed to be aware of the courtesies due the Terran Mission. The tiny insectoids swarmed everywhere. With an effort, Magnan refrained from batting at them.

 

            "Pity regs don't permit one to swat the pesky things," he muttered, fanning fruitlessly at the nuisance. "But at least they don't seem to bite."

 

            "They couldn't handle our alien protoplasm," Retief pointed out.

 

            "Let's be duly grateful for small mercies," Magnan mumbled, waving the midges away from his face.

 

3

 

            "It's amazing," Magnan stated, sounding Amazed (21-b). "This structure is, except for its shabbiness, a near-perfect duplicate of the Old Terminal at Marsport, the one they restored, you'll recall. Except, of course, that there's no one in sight except these rather reprehensible-looking locals. Still, at least I don't see any zombies," Magnan added in a whisper to Retief, as they dumped their hand-baggage on the conveyer belt in the huge and curiously fragile-looking terminal building. "Heavens!" he went on, "for a time, when the shuttle was bouncing about, I feared we'd never again put foot on Terra Firma, so to speak. Still, we're here now—and to think we were concerned about the place being unpopulated." He fanned listlessly at the swarming nits, and cast a disapproving glance on the caterpillar-like creature, clad only in a complicated harness of crudely decorated straps, which was grappling with his three-suiter. Other, similar beings swarmed the area, some, their official straps adorned with bangles and quill-paint waited behind the counters marked, in Standard: 'customs', 'immigration', and 'health'. These latter shuffled papers busily, but without apparent purpose.

 

            "They've adopted civilized ways to the extent of taking care to discommode visitors to the fullest, with technicalities," Magnan muttered, "but it appears the actual nature of the routine is lost on them. They think it's a religious ritual, I do believe. Look at that fellow, arranging my toilet articles in some arcane pattern! Adulterating the pure faith with heathen superstition! Unspeakable!"

 

            "Hey, pal," the porter interrupted Magnan's indignant remark, in a voice like air escaping from a leaky bladder, "there's another Terry custom us boys picked up." He was holding out four callussed, olive-green palms, making his meaning clear.

 

            "No fair," Magnan muttered, reluctantly placing a base-metal demi-cred chip in each. "Back home, they only have two, and usually only stick out one! Uncouth, I call it!"

 

            "Still, they're quick studies," Retief pointed out, greasing four palms of his own.

 

            "Hey!" Magnan's recipient growled. "What are you, some kinda cheapie? Six bits, after I maybe sprained a moobie-bone?" He threw the coins aside contemptuously. "Oh, I musta dropped that, pal," he exclaimed, as if in ignorance of his opening remarks, ducking to retrieve the cash. "That's OK," he continued, "you can gimme a guck, and I'll forgit how you threw the coppers at me."

 

            "I saw that!" Magnan gasped. More baggage-smashers were gathering.

 

            "Better stay clear, Mr. Magnan," Retief suggested.

 

            "Here, you!" Magnan barked at his assigned porter, who had completed his devotions and was sampling his client's facial creams with a blunt forefinger.

 

            "Needs salt," the impudent fellow commented, as he tossed the near-empty jar in atop Magnan's newly-tailored extra-super-top-formal dickey-suit.

 

            "Look what he did!" Magnan moaned, leaping to rescue the pristine cellulon garment from the oozing yellowish medicament. "You ought to be horse-whipped!" Magnan declared, facing the upraised visage of the unabashed local.

 

            "Why?" the lout demanded. "I ain't no editor."

 

            " 'Editor'?" Magnan echoed. "Whatever connection does redaction have to the brutalization of my effects?"

 

            "Don't ast, Ben," suggested Hy Felix, the dour Press Attache. "You oughta see what some o' them boys done to some o' my most artistic prose."

 

            "That's not the same!" Magnan insisted. "Personal effects and lit'ry effects are quite different entities! But in any case, the cheeky fellow surely deserves chastisement of the most explicit sort! Perhaps you should sock him on the nasal orifice, Retief," he concluded, and offered his place to his junior.

 

            "Oh, going to do mayhem to the person of an official of a friendly power in the performance o' his duties and all, hey?" the 'pillar' challenged loudly, attracting more locals to press in against the periphery of the crowd now surrounding the personnel of the beleaguered Terran Mission.

 

            "Well," Magnan said, eyeing Retief expectantly, as the latter made no move. "What are you—I mean for what are you ..." His tone changed from snappish to apprehensive as his voice trailed off.

 

            "Mister Retief!" he spoke up with renewed vigor, speaking now to be overheard. "Must I warn you again to respect local customs? Why, if this pious gentlebeing wishes to sample my expensive and hard-to-find-on-a-frontier-world skin-food, can we deny him that portion of his ritual?"

 

            "That's more like it, chum," the pushy fellow commented, tossing aside an empty container labeled Spanish Mane.

 

            "He'll find it difficult to devour his next stolen fruit," Magnan confided to Retief, "with hair growing luxuriantly from his esophagus. Serve the rascal right, too."

 

            The local quickly recovered the pilatory container, sniffed it suspiciously, swallowed nervously, then squinted at the fine print on the inconspicuous label on the back of the jar.

 

            " 'Goose-poop oil'!" he yelled and thrust the offending pot at a gape-jawed fellow union member. "This here two-laiged foreigner done pizent me!" He paused to run a finger down his throat, apparently to determine whether his esophogeal tissues had yet sprouted a pelt, but gagged instead.

 

            "That's it, Meyer, bring it up!" his side-kick encouraged, while the ring of profit- or revenge-seeking locals closed ever tighter about the Terrans. Ten feet from Magnan and Retief, His Excellency the Terran Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary, Clyde Shortfall, was clutching at the arm of his Military Attache, Colonel Fred Underknuckle. "Do something, Fred!" he whimpered. "These savages are on the point of rending me—us, that is, limb from limb! Now, what about that unsavory chap over there behind whatshisname, large chap, Retief, I believe he's called? One can't help wondering what the fellow—the local, that is, not whatsis—is about to do with that length of metal bar-stock he's hefting."

 

            "Prolly just locking the gate, sir," Fred reassured his superior sagely. "That's what it is, you know, a locking-bar."

 

            "But, for Heaven's sake, man!" the AE and MP objected, "that would mean we're penned in here in Immigration for the night, which I understand is seventeen hours long, without so much as a folding chair for me to rest on—with no adequate provision for the basic necessities for my staff, that is! As you know, Fred, I never rest until I've seen my people cared for," he added for any celestial scorekeepers who might be listening in. "Demmed outrage," he muttered. "Why don't you stop him, Fred?"

 

            "Well, Mr. A.," Underknuckle responded hesitantly, "if Yer Ex is sure you wanta start something—"

 

            "Who in the world said anything about 'starting' anything, Colonel?" Shortfall yelped. "Just don't stand there like a spineless oaf and allow us to be held in durance overnight, when a word—"

 

            "Doubt if words'll help now, Chief," Fred countered ruefully as he watched the local tentatively prod Retief with the bar, then jab energetically when the six-foot-three Terran failed to budge. Instead, Retief turned casually, plucked the four-foot length of one-inch steel from the 'pillar's' grasp, bent it double, and carefully arranged it as an ornament on the extended neck of the former owner.

 

            "Here, you!" the porter barked in his coarsely accented Standard, "this here's gubment property, and you went and mint it!" He tried to pull it off his neck, but Retief grasped both ends of the bar in one hand and squeezed them together, locking it in place.

 

            "Why, Retief, whatever—?" Magnan began as he turned in time to see the disgruntled fellow point and begin yelling:

 

            "Looky, fellers, what this here Terry done gone and went and did! Stop 'em, before they make a break fer it!"

 

            "Fred!" Shortfall's short, fat voice snapped. "I call upon you to take appropriate action!"

 

            "I don't guess you wanta tell me what the appropriate action is," Fred predicted gloomily. Then, "sure not, chief, that's my job and am I glad the monkey's on my back! Lessee," he went on with less enthusiasm, as reality caught up with point-making: "This local crum-bum assaults one of our boys, which the local lodges a beef and yells for mob action. I guess our best move is to get off a fast Note apologizing for the whole thing."

 

            He looked expectantly to His Ex. "So the ball's in your court, Mr. Ambassador, sir," he concluded. His gaze went to the gaggle of admin staff huddled in the lee of the Great Man. "Where's Miss Furkle?" he demanded. "Get Furkie," he ordered a chinless code-clerk. "Tell her to bring her field-kit, on the double."

 

            "Whatever, Fred, do you imagine Euphronia Furkle can do in this exigency?" the Ambassadorial voice rumbled, in a tone only a hesitating suicide would find encouraging.

 

            "Well, sir, to take down the Note and all," the colonel prompted his chief. "You know, I said about getting off a fast apology and all."

 

            "Your fatuous proposal was duly noted, Fred," Shortfall assured his military advisor. "But may I enquire as to precisely what it is for which you propose I offer expressions of regret and pleas for forgiveness?"

 

            "Sure, go ahead," Fred acceded cheerfully.

 

            "Oh, sir," Magnan cut in diffidently. "I wonder, as the locals are about to attack us in force, hadn't we better do something, instead of standing around jawing?"

 

            " 'Jawing,' Magnan?" Shortfall yelped. "As it happens, I am taking counsel of my military expert as to precisely the appropriate steps to be taken to rectify the unfortunate situation into which your isolationism has plunged us! As for yourself, I assign you personal responsibility for ensuring that Mr. Whatsis—Retief—is guilty of no further provocative acts!"

 

            "Gee, sir," Magnan whined, "all he did was not get skulled with a locking-bar. That would have been an Interplanetary Incident; and besides, it would probably have set off this mob, which is at the point of exploding in a frenzy of xenophobia!"

 

            " 'Xenophobia,' Ben?" Shortfall echoed sadly. " 'Mob'? Really, you must do something to curb or at least conceal your Isolationism, before I'm forced to take official notice." He turned and spoke quietly to Euphronia Furkle, who had belatedly taken her position to his left and slightly to the rear. She nodded emphatically, shot Magnan a scathing glance, and muttered a note into her recorder.

 

            "Sir," Magnan spoke up desperately, "am I to understand that avoiding being brained is Isolationism'? Excuse the expression."

 

            "No, Ben," the AE and MP replied in a melancholy tone. "It's calling—and thinking of—this carefree throng as a 'mob'. "

 

            "But, sir," Magnan struggled on like a fly with five legs mired in flypaper, "this throng is gathered awfully close around us, and they're shaking cargo-hooks and things at us, and shooting us dirty looks and yelling unflattering epithets—so one can't help feeling somewhat threatened."

 

            " 'Epithets', Ben?" His Ex demanded. "I wasn't aware you'd audited the language, or even that the language of this mystery world was known."

 

            "They're speaking a rather old-fashioned dialect of Standard, sir," Magnan gasped out, shying as a well-aimed dungtray whizzed past his head. "Didn't you notice, sir, when you were meeting with the delegation who accepted your credentials?"

 

            "Never listen to the admin chaps," Shortfall admitted. "Sign-language works better, and there's less chance of committing myself to some unwise position by inadvertance, like the time on Raunch 41 when Stan Hairshirt unwittingly obligated the Corps to lift in two hundred shiploads of custom-made plastic joss-houses under the impression he was accepting an invitation to tea."

 

            "A tragic end to a great career," Magnan murmured.

 

            "And I'm not interested in ending my career," Shortfall barked, "here in this damned terminal, surrounded by a yelling, ah, throng, before I've even had a chance to have my Exequatur framed!"

 

            "Sure not, sir," Magnan chirped. "Still, one has to do something, before it's too late!"

 

            "Too late for what, Magnan?" His Ex challenged, turning his back on the spectacle of his plump Commercial attache, Herb Lunchwell, being pitched headfirst over the Health counter. "Ben," he said sharply, "tell Herb he's not maintaining the dignity expected of a senior staff officer of this Mission (horsing about with the locals in that fashion)," he added as if explaining to himself and thus to the Galactic press just why he had ignored his colleague's plight.

 

            "None of us are, sir," Magnan pled desperately. "We're all being herded like cattle toward the baggage delivery chutes."

 

            "Then do something, Ben! That's an order!"

 

            "What am I to do, Mr. Ambassador?"

 

            "Your demand for instruction in detail in lieu of prompt response will be reflected in the Initiative column of your next ER, Ben, I trust you realize," Shortfall pointed out mournfully. "Very well, if you irresponsibly insist on specific instruction before carrying out the simple task with which I have charged you ..."

 

            "Yes, sir?" Magnan prompted eagerly.

 

            "Magnan," Shortfall said sternly, his eye holding Magnan's, "take the necessary action. At once!"

 

            "You call that specific, sir?" Magnan whimpered. "I was hoping maybe you'd give me a secret call-sign for summoning a squadron of Peace Enforcers or something."

 

            "Am I to understand, Ben," the AE and MP purred, "that you decline to carry out your precisely stated instructions, and instead propose openly provocative overreaction?"

 

            "Good lord, no, Mr. Ambluster," Magnan gobbled. "I mean 'Mr. Ambassador'," he amended lamely. "I better get on with it, sir, now that I have your official OK."

 

            "Just what you imply by the barbaric expression 'OK,' I am unsure, Mr. Magnan," the Great Man intoned as cordially as Rameses II agreeing to be relocated above the dam.

 

            Magnan was craning his neck, searching the surrounding crowd of scared-looking Terries and loot-smelling locals for Retief, whom he found standing beside him.

 

            "You heard His Excellency's guidance!" Magnan blurted. "We're to, uh, how did he put it ...? 'Take the necessary action'?"

 

            "I hope Miss Furkle caught that on her recorder," Hy Felix, the sour-faced Press Attache muttered. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be surprised if old Shorty tried to disclaim responsibility."

 

            So saying, he caught a close-pressing porter by his badge-strap and jerked him away from the Felix luggage, lying open on the Customs Inspection counter.

 

            "No looting, you," he barked. "The idea is, you're suppose to be checking to see if I'm smuggling any snarf-weed or boo-boo caps into this hellhole. Keep the fingers off my comix, which they're valuable classics for personal use. Look at that, Ben," he addressed his colleague, " 'Famous Funnies, Volume one, Number One,' in mint condition, lucky it's in a glassine bag and all, otherwise it'd prolly be finger-marked and on the way to being a Category B item."

 

            "Easy, Hy," Ben counselled. "He's probably just a lover of literature."

 

            "That caterpillar?" Hy scoffed. "All he knows is it looks like somebody might pay a guck or two fert."

 

            "Hy," Magnan remonstrated. "That came close to being a prejudicial remark."

 

            "Whattaya talking, 'pre-judgement'? I waited and judged the bum after he done it."

 

            "And I doubt," Magnan persisted, "the epithet 'pillar' would be found acceptable to the adjudication board of the Interplanetary Tribunal for the Correction of History."

 

            "You threatening to report me to ITCH?" Hy scoffed. "You're a wimp, Ben, but you were never nasty about it before."

 

            Magnan's retort was obscured as he was knocked flat by a bigger-than-average local whose abrupt arrival also threw Hy Felix back against the Immunization desk. The feisty Press man helped Magnan to his feet, then stepped up onto the adjacent counter and uttered a yell.

 

            "Mr. Ambassador?" he bawled. "I protest! This here autochthone or whatever you wanna call it assaulted me and Ben. That's OK with the Department, maybe, but the Agency don't have to put up with the rough stuff. So what I say is, let's take the necessary action pronto!"

 

            "And precisely what action, pray," His Ex demanded loudly, "would the Agency consider necessary in this situation?"

 

            "First," Hy responded gamely, "I got to get this mug's name, rank, and cereal number."

 

            "That's 'serial' number, Hy," Magnan corrected.

 

            "Never knew my diction was sharp enough you could tell the difference," Hy shrugged off the comment.

 

            "It's the difference between 'serry' and 'seery'," Magnan pointed out. "As representatives of Terran culture, we must always be on our toes, class-wise, Hy."

 

            "You tryna impress those doo-dahs with yer class?" Hy scoffed. "Which they got none at all. Look at that fellow tryna feel up Furkie."

 

            "Just the old personal search, bud," the offending security pillar corrected, releasing the indignant secretary.

 

            "Anyways," he went on, "any interesting topography that dame ever had is buried under six inches of adipose. She wintered well, I'll say that for her, even if I had the glands for it," he added out-of-context.

 

            "Well," Miss Furkle snarled, aiming a dagger-like glare at Magnan. "Are you going to let that outrage pass, without appropriate response?"

 

            "But," Magnan temporized, "what ...?"

 

            "I'll show you, Ben Magnan, you spineless worm!" Without hesitation Miss Furkle hoisted her considerable bulk onto the health counter, grabbed up someone's metal-framed briefcase, spurned with her foot the excited official which approached her as if to interfere, then, with a full one-hundred and eighty-degree wind-up, slammed the heavy case against the pushy fellow's blunt cranium, bouncing him backward, giving two of his associates room to advance on the irate lady Terry. She accorded each a hearty blow on the top of his head, and they too fell back.

 

            "Next!" Miss Furkle yelled. "Come on, Ben," she added, "get up here and give a girl a hand." She yelped as an Immigration clerical type eased in from behind and grabbed her ankle. She executed a less-than-nimble soft-shoe and fell backward, squarely on top of the cheeky fellow. An avalanche of locals closed over the struggling antagonist, through which Miss Furkle rose, still swinging. Retief caught one by his straps and tossed him into the path of the most aggressive looking of those still crowding forward, then stepped up on the counter and cleared away those who obscured his view of Miss Furkle, now back on her feet and laying about her effectively with her improvised bludgeon. Dodging the murderous swipes, Retief offered a hand and helped her up beside him. The nearest locals, all of whom had felt the weight of Miss Furkle's wrath, were moving back out of range now. The uproar subsided gradually, though purposeful activity was now seen at the fringes of the mob, as the group of the new arrivals began noisily shaping up the throng.

 

            Magnan tugged at Retief's coat tail. "Heavens!" he yelped, eyeing Furkie disapprovingly. "And we were talking about class!"

 

            "Not much class, maybe," Retief conceded, "but not without a certain style."

 

4

 

            The choleric voice of His Excellency, the Terran AE and MP, became audible above the muttering of the frustrated Zanny-duers.

 

            "Retief! I saw that! You laid violent hands on a number of local citizens! Have you taken leave of your senses?"

 

            Retief stepped down beside the Chief of Mission.

 

            "Skip all that, Mr. Ambassador," he suggested. "Get everyone over to the side of the counter, fast. Charlie," he addressed a code-clerk, "give me a hand with the customs counter. We'll have to swing it around to the side."

 

            "What for?" Charlie inquired, but he pitched in, and a moment later the two counters formed a twenty-foot L. Retief dispatched his helper to urge the Terrans to climb over the barrier, while he moved over to shift the Health unit into place to convert the L into a U. He enlisted Magnan and Hy Felix to assist in herding the Terrans around and over the counters, then shoved the Baggage section into place, completing the square, with the Terrans inside, and the clamoring locals outside. Those of the latter which attempted to climb the modest barrier were quickly dumped back outside by Retief, over the objections of Ambassador Shortfall, who had reluctantly joined those inside, after having been tripped and frisked by a briskly efficient fellow in Security straps and badges.

 

            "What in the world do you think you're doing, Mr. Retief?" the Chief of Mission demanded, attempting in vain to distract the latter from the chore of repelling would-be borders. "You're interfering with the official function of host officials!" he complained. "What are you doing? I demand to know!"

 

            "I'm forting-up, sir," Retief told him. "Before they get coordinated and suffocate the lot of us."

 

            "But this is a peaceful world! A friendly world. The world, in fact, to which I am accredited as Terra's representative! Am I to report to Sector that you've converted it into an armed camp?"

 

            "Unarmed," Retief corrected.

 

            "As well it should be!" Shortfall snarled. "We're just among our friends we haven't met yet, just like it says in the Manual! The locals are a bit boisterous in their enthusiasm of their welcome, perhaps, but there's not a weapon in sight!"

 

            "Have you noted the shredding-hooks on their ventral surfaces?" Retief inquired. "They don't need skinning-knives."

 

            "Skinning-knives?" Shortfall whimpered. "You've gone mad, Retief! Report yourself under arrest in quarters, at once."

 

            "I've always wondered how you did that," Retief remarked, fending off a thicker-than-usual pillar which had gotten its forward half up onto the counter directly behind the Ambassador, who turned in time to catch a glimpse of the underside of the creature's torso as it slithered back.

 

            "Great Scott!" he yelled. "Do you mean those rows of great, curved, ivory-like claws tucked under there are for—?"

 

            "Exactly, sir," Retief confirmed. "Now, if you'll be so kind, sir, as to give the order to get everybody inside, we can buy a little time."

 

            "To be sure," Shortfall agreed. "And by then no doubt the authorities will have arrived to quell the enthusiasm of the, ah, throng." He broke off to bark a command at Colonel Underknuckle, who began hastily shooing the laggards within the improvised barricade.

 

            "Retief," Fred called over his shoulder as he prodded Herb Lunchwell, the last straggler, back over the counter. "I say," he went on, "I do believe your tactical scheme is in error. I was thinking of Major Dade and his command, who were wiped out by someone called Seminoles in ancient times; it's generally felt some of the soldiers might have survived had they scattered in the woods; instead they built a triangular breastwork of pine-logs, so concentrating themselves as to give the savages an easy target."

 

            "You may be right, Fred," Retief conceded. "But we don't seem to have any woods available, and with our people scattered and being cut out and surrounded one by one, we didn't stand a chance. Now they'll have to come to us, and perhaps we can discourage them if we concentrate all able-bodied men, plus Miss Furkle, at whatever point they start over the counter."

 

            "Possibly, Jim," the military attache conceded dubiously. "At least, it gives one a breather. There were three of the beggars attempting to steal my insignae of rank, simultaneously. Outrageous!" He waved aside the persistent gnats and returned to his traffic-copping.

 

            Retief muttered 'excuse me', and stepped around the indignant bird-colonel to seize by its straps a 'pillar' which was struggling to retain a grip on Nat Sitzfleisch, the Econ officer, as it withdrew across the barrier. When Retief hauled its forequarters back atop the counter, it dropped Herb and devoted all its energies to resisting Retief's efforts and to yelling "Help! I'm being savaged by this foreigner!"

 

            Retief lifted the creature's front half and threw it back across the barricade, and at once was confronted by another eager intruder. Behind him, Magnan wailed.

 

            "Gracious, where are the police?"

 

            "Right here, chum," a raspy pillar voice responded. Magnan whirled to see a local, differing from the rest of the throng only in the large brass badge on a brass chain draped around its upper torso.

 

            "You got some kinda beef, outlander?" the cop inquired in a tone of Mild Curiosity, a feeble 31-c, Magnan judged.

 

            "I should think, sir," he yelped over the din, "that would be obvious."

 

            "Well, it ain't," the cop replied. "I see this here throng of folks eager to get through the routines and get going on their holiday junkets, which they're stalled by you foreigners tryna play fort with official property here, which I got to write you a citation. Which one is the wise guy?"

 

            "That one," Magnan supplied quickly, pointing at Retief, just as the latter threw back yet another enthusiastic invader. "I told him—that is I would have told him if I'd had the chance—not to do it."

 

            "Oh, you were in on it, too," the cop muttered, before mumbling into his note-taking device, which at once said urch! and disgorged a ticket in triplicate, the yellow copy of which the cop handed over without apparent rancor.

 

            Hy Felix pushed through, scenting a story.

 

            "What we got to do, Ben ..." he pontificated. "We got to like suck up to the friendlies, which we're outnumbered ten to one."

 

            "B-but how can you tell which are which?" Magnan wailed. "They never seem to change the scowl on their faces," he went on, "so one can hardly know if they're being affable or insufferable!"

 

            "They'll catch on to the system in a few months," Hy guessed. "Look at the Grobies out on Smurch Nineteen: they got faces like a slab o' rock, but they worked out the system with the cheek-tendrils, so they could do a Phony Sincere Smile to Allay Apprehensions of Inferior Species (679-A through W) with the best of 'em. Too bad they developed a 41 (Fearsome Grimace Designed to Avert Attack) that you couldn't tell from their 679, and used it on the next boatload o' Bogan tourists come along, which the Grobies went extinct all of a sudden. Take this fellow, now," he indicated the cop. "I'll show you how to sweeten him up." He scuttled around to what he judged was the policeman's front side.

 

            "Hi, there, officer," he began heartily. Then in an aside to Magnan, "They like it when you call 'em 'officer,' on account of they're enlisted personnel and nacherly it makes 'em feel good when the civilians think they're officers and gentlemen and all—"

 

            "That's enough out of you, fellow!" the cop told Hy, and handed over a citation. "I know you fast-talking types; think you can pull the blaff-shag over a fellow's oculars with a little sweet-talk. Well, yer dealing with Chief Smeer of the Zanny-du National Secret Police— that's 'ZNSP', for anybody wants to try to pronounce it—which I'm taking the lot of youse in."

 

            "Chief!" Shortfall cut in sharply. "I must remind you that my staff and I enjoy diplomatic immunity!"

 

            "Whatta I care what yer personal tastes is?" Chief Smeer inquired indifferently, with a yawn which exposed rows of curved yellow fangs. "Me, I like a good girlie show."

 

            "Most unusual dentition for a harmless herbivore," young Marvin Lacklustre commented. "Like it said in the Post Report they were," he added.

 

            "To perdition with the Post Report, Marvin!" His Ex yelled. "That's not all it left out! I shall personally lay the matter before the Deputy Undersecretary upon my return!"

 

            "You ain't hardly here, yet, pal," the chief reminded him. "So yakking about yer 'return' is a little previous, which you might not make it."

 

            "Do you imply, Chief," Shortfall yelled, "that some doubt exists as to our return home, in due course?"

 

            "I can't say about that, Cap'n," Smeer told him. "Depends on what kinda impression you make on our Diety and Chief of State, the great Worm."

 

            "Did you say 'worm'?" Hy jeered. "You take orders from a worm?"

 

            "You got something against beings which they're lucky to be kinda long and narrow and ambulate close to the ground-like?" the chief demanded in a tone like a trimming-knife paring away fat.

 

            "Gracious, no!" Clyde Shortfall arrived in time to reject the suggestion. "Why, when I was out on Furthuron, I grew to love both Hither and Nether Furthuronians, affectionately known as Creepies and Crawlies, respectively."

 

            "It was the other way around, Mr. Ambassador," Hy Felix corrected, a provocation which his chief ignored for the present, though in response to his lifted eyebrow, Miss Furkle, in a lull in her onslaught, confirmed the remark had been duly recorded in the record, signalling this intelligence by forming an O with her thumb and forefinger, and making a flicking motion toward her chief.

 

            "Looky there!" the porter with the improvised neck-torc rasped. "They're giving the signal for the massacres," a pronouncement which netted a renewed surge of fist-shaking and "Terry-go-home's" from the throng.

 

            "Holy Moses, Ben," Hy Felix blurted. "Didja hear that? Now they're talking mass murder. Oh, boy," he muttered as he groped among the slung camera-bags he considered essential to the image of a newshawk. "Where's my mini-swift?" he inquired in a tone of One Aggrieved by Treachery in the Ranks (1241-m). "Ben, do you suppose one of these light-tentacled baggage-smashers has purloined my sender, which it's Agency property?"

 

            "There it is, right next to your first-aid kit, Hy," Magnan told him. Hy grabbed the prodigal unit and began transmitting in his best classic Ed Murrow style:

 

            "This is Zanny-du! Disaster is about to overtake the Terran Mission, dispatched here to cement relations with the putative inhabitants of this mystery world, never officially explored since reported two centuries ago by the redoubtable Captain Goldblatt, which we're surrounded by a blood-thirsty throng." Hy paused to glance at his Chief for approval of his tactful choice of collective nouns, then hurried on. "Not to say 'merry mob,' which His Ex, Ambassador Shortfall is taking this like a trouper. Faced with the imminent demise of his entire staff, hisself, and Terran policy at this end of the Galaxy, the veteran diplomatic pro would appear to the uninitiated to be as totally unconcerned as if he didn't have a clue to what's going on. Folks, is that some kinda cool, or what?" Hy concluded his dispatch and turned in time to fend off a grab by an acquisitive Customs being intent on lifting his telephoto equipment.

 

            "Leave yer meat-hooks offa my stuff," Hy commanded.

 

            "Hyman," Ambassador Shortfall cautioned. "Do mind your tone, lest these simple people misinterpret your enthusiasm as hostility."

 

            "Enthusiasm?" Hy echoed. "Which this crudbum is tryna swipe my Mark 19, which I've signed fer it, and besides I'll need it to record those close-ups of the inoffensive ladies and gents of the Embassy staff being throttled, or gutted, or otherwise unlawfully kilt in the performance of our duties and all!"

 

            "Surely you exaggerate, Hyman," Shortfall expostulated mildly. "Where's that Retief fellow? I understood he was sometimes rather effective in pacifying throngs of this sort, correcting misunderstandings and all that."

 

            "He's right here, sir," Magnan supplied, indicating his subordinate who had now grabbed two pillars at once; he hauled them close and threw them down across the counter on their backs, and planted a foot on each one. He glanced up and caught Magnan's eye.

 

            "Ben," he said, "if you'll use your umbrella to poke the yellow spot on each of these fellows ..." He indicated with his chin a sallow patch at the center of the ranked shredding hooks.

 

            "What's that?" Magnan yelped. "Poke them with my umbrella, you say?" He clutched his rolled brolly to him as if to protect it from involvement in such goings-on.

 

            "Hurry, sir," Retief urged, "before it dawns on them that I can't hold both of them down with a foot each and have anything left to stand on."

 

            As one hypnotized, Magnan extended his weapon and in gingerly fashion poked one supine pillar, as directed. The creature responded by rolling up into a two-foot sphere, which Retief sent rolling with a well-placed kick. Astonished, Magnan poked the other and looked about for new targets, as Retief sent the second tightly-curled pillar after its partner.

 

            "Capital, Jim!" Magnan cried. "Do arrange some more. Heavens, I'd no idea I was so formidable a warrior, actually!"

 

            "Did you say 'warrior,' or 'worrier,' Ben?" Felix inquired in his cynical fashion.

 

            "I realize, Hy," Magnan replied loftily, "that by your remark you intend to reflect discredit on the latter activity. However, the role of constructive worrying in the successful conduct of interplanetary affairs is not in so cavalier a fashion to be dismissed."

 

            "Well, par me, sir," Felix returned, still playing to a hypothetical grandstand. "If that's how it is, you better get busy worrying our way out of this one; it was bad enough having his Ex's 'throng' warming up to dismember us, but now you got the cops on our back, too. So worry good, Ben. I'm pulling for you."

 

            "Your remarks, Hyman," the Ambassador put in, "are uncalled-for. This is not a matter for constructive or even creative worrying. This is a time for prompt, effective action! Ben already has his instructions, you may inform the Agency, should you survive this affair."

 

            "Yeah, Boss," Hy acknowledged. "I heard the instructions: 'take the necessary action,' you said. What's that supposed to mean?"

 

            "Calmly, Hyman," Shortfall admonished the agitated newsman. "Rest assured that the Department requires no action of Agency personnel at this time."

 

            " 'Terran Information Agency slandered by Ambassador Clyde Shortfall with dying breath'," Felix intoned, as if dictating a fast-breaking headline over the din of the city-room at Sector.

 

            "Take no hasty action, despatch-wise, Hy," Shortfall advised. "Lest I be forced to reflect your negative attitudes on your upcoming ER. And what do you mean, 'dying breath'?"

 

            "Well, Mr. Ambluster," Hy responded apologetically, "it ain't likely yer Ex will be doing a whole lot more breathing after that fella behind you knocks yer brains out. Right, chief?"

 

            "It appears also that certain succinct comments in the Reverence for Superiors column would not be amiss," Shortfall came back smartly, ignoring Hy's remark except to step aside in time to see yet another locking-bar impact on the Customs Counter beside him.

 

            "Still on the old ER gambit, eh, Mr. Ambluster?" Felix challenged, "which I guess I saved yer skull that time."

 

            "Oh, Hy," Magnan interjected sweetly. "Would you just take my brolly and poke that fellow Retief is holding upside down? Right on that saffron-hued spot. My hands are occupied keeping the looters out of our baggage."

 

            Felix complied, and exclaimed happily when the object of his thrust promptly curled up and was sent rolling along the baggage chute by another of Retief s well-placed kicks.

 

            "Wow!" Hy yelped. "Where'd you learn that one, Ben?" He leaped at another exposed Zotz-patch, then another.

 

            "Retief tipped me off," Magnan explained. "I understand he picked it up from some illicit publication or other, actually quite contrary to the Manual."

 

            "Good thing!" Hy returned. "Prolly the Journal of Isolationism Today, a yellow sheet if there ever was one, but handy sometimes." He lent substance to the latter comment by dispatching two pillars in quick succession.

 

            "—and do like me!" Hy finished sending yet another tightly-curled local off to the baggage carousel.

 

            "Gentlemen!" Shortfall's voice sounded, almost lost against the general outcry. "Let us not escalate this trifling incident into a pitched battle! Nice work, Ben," he added in a lower tone. "Keep 'em back, but don't do anything that could be interpreted as overreaction, or even aggression on our part."

 

            "Who's to interpret?" Felix demanded, poking on with undiminished enthusiasm. " 'Enbattled Terrans Defend Position Against All Odds', " he quoted from his soon-to-be-filed Pulitzer Prize-winning story.

 

            Having, with Hy's help, cleared the route to the ramp doors, Retief caught Magnan's eye. "Time to evacuate all personnel, sir," he suggested. "Get 'em together and lead 'em in a rush and you'll make it." He pivoted one counter aside, to open a lane to the rear.

 

            Magnan looked dubious, but complied, herding his charges through the improvised opening in the enclosing barrier and across the littered floor to the portal normally used by the baggage carts, and out onto the dusty tarmac, where a fitful wind blew grit into their faces.

 

            "It seems to me," Magnan commented, waving away an insistent cloud of gnats, "that these confounded midges are as excited by this outrage as are we ourselves."

 

            After sending off a final determined pillar, Retief joined the rest, followed at once by Chief Smeer, who pointed at him accusingly and yelled.

 

            "This here one's the ringleader! I seen him! Grab him, boys, which after a couple years in a Zanny-du jail waiting to be squashed, he'll show a little restraint before he goes using them tactics he got outa that there bootleg book Ben Magnan was bragging about!"

 

            His troops, hardly distinguishable from the noisy local trash element from which they had been recruited, moved up purposefully, while Shortfall bustled over to confront the chief.

 

            "See here, Chief," His Ex barked. "The principle of diplomatic immunity, once breached, will lose all force, an eventuality with which I do not intend to have my name associated! It's your clear duty to restrain this, ah, throng and to escort me and my people in safety to our quarters!"

 

            "Oh, yeah?" Smeer riposted. "Who's gonna make me?"

 

            i am, a silent voice cut across the ramp. Smeer responded by becoming interested, quite suddenly, in the ceiling structure far above. He gazed up at it apparently lost in awe, while the Terrans stared at each other in astonishment.

 

            "There!" Magnan exclaimed. "It's that Voice again! You heard it, too, didn't you, Hy?" he appealed to the saturnine Agency rep.

 

            "No comment, Ben," Hy replied stonily.

 

            "We all heard it, Mr. Magnan," Marvin Lacklustre confirmed. "It said, T am,' in an archaic dialect of Standard, but it was clear enough!"

 

            "This is no time for wool-gathering, Chief!" Shortfall rebuked the musing cop.

 

            Chief Smeer returned his attention to the crisis at hand, assumed a more conciliatory, or at least less aggressive expression and made 'all right, folks, take it easy' gestures.

 

            "Am I to understand, Chief," Shortfall demanded, "that you are now ready to provide an appropriate escort for my Mission to the quarters I am assured have been reserved for us in the city?"

 

            "Well, yeah, OK, I guess," Smeer muttered, as if wishing to avoid overhearing what he was saying. "Come on, I got a couple paddy wagons'll save youse the walk. It's only a couple miles, but I guess you boys are tired, after starting a riot and all—"

 

            "It was hardly us, or we, who precipitated the disorder!" Shortfall challenged, and the two went off together, disputing technicalities, while the other cops directed the staff toward a row of dilapidated vehicles with faded logos reading 'salvaged by hong kong sanitary department', or ex-bolivian home defense forces', and even 'gift of the groacian autonomy to the people of fust', into which the Terrans were unceremoniously hustled.

 

            Magnan peered anxiously out the smeared window of the rude van into which the Terrans had been thrust by the cops, as it bumped over a cobbled street like the bottom of a narrow ravine. He winced at each jolt, but exclaimed, "Why, it's quite charming! Looks exactly like the Place de l'Opera as painted by Pissaro or somebody! All these messy facades, mere blobs of color, and windows that aren't square and don't line up! The only thing is," he added, "they look the same close up. They really are just sort of slopped together!"

 

            "Doubtless an optical illusion, Ben," Stan Bracegirdle, the Assistant Cultural Attache remarked. "I was Art and Revolution critic for the Activist Press for years, you know," he went on, redundantly, as it happened, since he had individually informed everyone on the staff of his impressive artistic credentials at first meeting.

 

            "Yes, I know, Stan," Magnan muttered. "But I hardly see what that has to do with the fact that this city appears to have been designed to be viewed from a distance, a sort of Impressionist Architecture, if you will. But what are all those cables strung between the buildings?"

 

            "You imply that such an architecture is in some way objectionable?" Stan inquired sternly.

 

            "I said it was charming," Magnan reminded the attache. "It's just that it looks like it might all fall down. Look at that roofline! It sags like wet cardboard!"

 

            "A most sensitive assessment I'm sure, of a remarkable subtlety of line," Stan dismissed the remark.

 

            "And we're supposed to be assigned apartments in one of these collapsing structures!" Magnan blurted. But he made no further protest when the vehicle halted and a surly cop thrust his head and forequarters inside and told him bluntly that he "and the trouble-maker" were to enter a particularly shabby structure, where, on the second floor, he showed them to a suite featuring an uneven floor and walls covered in scabrous lichen-

 

            like encrustations in shades of puce, magenta, and cyrhotic yellow.

 

            "My word, Retief," Magnan muttered indignantly when they were alone. "This is appalling! But after that boisterous reception at the port, I suppose I should have expected that we would be spared nothing."

 

            "Still, the A/C works," Retief pointed out. He sat on the bed. "And the mattress isn't bad."

 

            "Retief." Magnan protested. "Don't go being cheerful about this disaster! And after we were promised the Imperial Suite, too," he carped.

 

            "Maybe the emperor was the one they hanged; drew, and quartered," Retief suggested.