Chapter Eight

 

            "Mister Segundo!" Sol barked. "I tole you and I tole you to stay clear o' here. What 'two' you talking about?"

 

            "Old Nudine and her new boyfriend, some clown they call 'Small'," Dirty Eddie supplied. "Got what's coming to 'em, nosing around and all. Caught 'em at the temple."

 

            "Why, they're our friends!" Magnan wailed. "Our former associates, that is," he amended. "Perhaps it's not too late," he whimpered, as Retief brushed past him and wrenched the closet door open. Small stepped through, carrying Nudine in his arms.

 

            "Thanks, Retief," the big fellow muttered. "Pore gal got knocked down by that overgrowed 'pillar, yonder." He put her gently on the narrow cot at one side of the tidy room.

 

            "Had us quite a time since you fellers disappeared," Small remarked.

 

            "We disappeared?" Magnan yelped. "It was you who were suddenly among the absent. Where did you go? What happened? We were together in the cave—"

 

            "Right," Small agreed. "Then old Smeer and his boys come along."

 

            "Those lowlifes are still bugging people?" Sol yelped. "I thought f d dealt with that crowd once and for all when I fenced 'em in!"

 

            "Not quite, Sol," Retief told the old fellow. "The situation here on Sardon isn't quite as simple as it appeared at first. Each time you've meddled with the Basic Postulate, you thereby altered the very phenomenon you were attempting to employ. Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle at work on the mega-scale."

 

            "Who's this Heisenberg?" Sol demanded. "Sounds like a wise guy to me!"

 

            "Not a wise guy, Captain," Magnan corrected. "A wise man."

 

            "Sounds like a cop-out to me," Sol returned. "I guess I can say what goes on my own—I mean, finder's keepers and all—without this Heisenberg butting in. He should butt out already!"

 

            "Professor Doktor Heisenberg has never left Terra, Captain," Retief soothed the ruffled skipper. "In fact, he's buried there. His principle of uncertainty was a purely theoretical concept, at the macroscopic level."

 

            "Retief!" Magnan spoke up sharply, pointing out the window. "Those yellow clouds: they look like something painted by N. C. Wyeth! And in that connection, it's clear what the city reminded me of: an Impressionist painting, as if one had constructed buildings to match Pissaro's sketchy technique. Even the cottage here—it's straight out of Monet!" He paused to blink at the landscape. "That bistro—the Cloud Cuckoo Club: the bar at the Folies Bergere circa 1880 to the life! Even Nudine, or Jacinthe, Manet's Dinner on the Grass. Someone has evoked in substance the fantasies of the great artists!"

 

            "There's the guy," Sol accused, pointing at Prince William. "I trieda keep it homey, ya know, but as soon as he come along, things started to go to pot. That town o' his! Looks like it was stuck together outa slabs o' wet cardboard!"

 

            The prince nodded affably. "When I discovered that my fancies took on form here," he told them casually, "I naturally did my best to make that form as pleasing to the eye as possible. A pity the captain here had such abominable taste; I was forced to re-do practically everything he'd blotted on the landscape."

 

            "Where'd them knights with the iron suits come from?" Sol challenged. "They don't add nothing to the scenery."

 

            "Sir Farbelow was no invention of mine, sir," the prince replied. "He seems to have arisen from some suppressed romantic streak in the blackguard Overbore, perhaps aided by Prince Sobhain's boyish fantasies."

 

            "Sir!" Magnan burst out. "I must protest! Mr. Overbore is a fully accredited Terran diplomat and Counselor to the Terran Mission and my personal chief! One can hardly stand by and hear him slandered repeatedly in this fashion!"

 

            "Calmly, Ben," Retief counseled. "I'm afraid His Highness is right."

 

            "But—" Magnan objected. "How would a mere Second Secretary know of such matters, even if they had in fact transpired?"

 

            "The boys had a rather unguarded conversation in my presence," Retief told him. "They didn't know I was there."

 

            "He's right, Mister Magnan," Small put in. "Me and Nudine here caught some o' that—reason we went to hide out in the back o' the cave. That didn't work out good, like you know. Anyways, we come back and everybody was gone. Never left no note, neither."

 

            "That," Magnan pointed out, "is a quadruple negative."

 

            "Chaucer used 'em all the time," Sol commented. "I had plenty time to scan my tape liberry that I fetched outa the wreckage," he explained. " 'Who never yet no villayne ne said unto maner wight.' Four: count 'em."

 

            "That is hardly the matter at issue here," Magnan reminded the captain sharply. In an aside to Retief, he whispered, "Apparently the old fellow is paranoiac. He seems to think he's Captain Goldblatt."

 

            "You're calling me nuts already?" the old boy yelled. "Mr, I'd be nuts if I didn't get a little uptight, I guess, with you folks comin around here trespassing, and giving me a hard time, and all the rest of what's happened! On top o' that now I got that tractor making close passes just to scare me. Works, too."

 

            "Just who is operating that machine in that careless fashion?" Magnan demanded. "Very nearly crushed me!"

 

            "That was old Eddie here, doin that," Sol told him. "Come by here and trieda stiff me for protection money. Hah! I shuld pay that loser! Looks like he run into Worm with that Mark XX o' his. Too bad he survived! But maybe I could fix that!"

 

            Eddie, still on the floor, recoiled, scrabbling backward away from his irate host. "I done nothing!" he croaked. "Just tryna clear out a road, is all. Damn dragon come along an turrit my rig over, nearly squashed me!

 

            "And a good thing, too, you lowlife!" Sol yelled. Magnan caught his arm.

 

            "Pray withold your just and dispassionate vengeance, Captain," he pled. "I fear your unfocused retaliatory measures have complicated matters considerably. That baroque incident involving a rhinocerous, for example, I suspect," he added, addressing Retief.

 

            "Sorry, sir," Retief replied. "I don't remember a rhinocerous."

 

            "Whattaya mean 'dispassionate?" Sol demanded. "And don't be too sure about just.' These mugs don't worry about the details; why should I?"

 

            "Because, Sol," Magnan reminded the officer, "you are a duly licensed master of a deep-space vessel, and as such a representative of Terran law and order here in this remote reach of the Arm."

 

            "Big deal," Sol dismissed the idea. "Besides, my ticket prolly lapsed some time ago. I been here a while, you know."

 

            "In addition to which," Magnan continued his appeal, "when the scope of your discoveries and your heroic stand here versus the forces of anarchy become generally known, you will doubtless be recognized as a Hero of Terra. Schoolchildren will seek to emulate you; you must set them a good example."

 

            " 'Emulate'?" Sol echoed. "Ain't that where they cut off a guy's—?"

 

            "Hardly, Captain," Magnan cut him off quickly. "There are ladies present, sir, must I remind you?"

 

            "Skip that," Sol grunted. "I didn't invite 'em. I should throw maybe a tea-party for a bunch a bums? Let's get back to what business you boys have got, trespassing."

 

            "We are attempting, Captain," Magnan stated tartly, "to get to the bottom of the series of unlikely events which have unfolded here, to the detriment of the dignity of the Terran Mission to Zanny-du—or to Goldblatt's Other World, if you prefer."

 

            "Nothin to me," Sol dismissed the matter. "What's important is I had a nice set-up here for my retirement years, and that ship-load o' trouble-makers comes along and nothing's been peaceful since."

 

            "I understood you to say earlier that it was Worm, your former pet, which was at the root of the problem, Sol," Magnan put in promptly.

 

            "You ain't been listening good, Mr. Ah," Sol snapped. "That's only part o' the picture. It was that Boreover that really messed things up—planting that nexus box and all."

 

            "Still on that tack, eh?" Magnan objected. "But it was your Worm, or Wiggly you caged here."

 

            "Yeah, that's right," Sol confirmed promptly. "Trieda oust me and take over. But I fooled him." He paused to chuckle. "I picked up a couple of tricks from the sucker, and then I traced him. That's how I got to lock him up, in the Recess there."

 

            "For a while," Magnan told the old man, "we thought you were Worm—"

 

            "What, me?" Sol interrupted. "You're on a bum lay, feller. I ain't no worm!"

 

            "Mr. Magnan said, Tor a while'," Retief pointed out. "But then something you said told us the truth."

 

            "Sure, I told you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth!"

 

            "Well, Jim," Magnan prompted, "what is the truth?"

 

2

 

            don't forget, Junior's long-silent voice spoke up suddenly. I did try to help you—gave you valuable hints and all; though it seems only mr. retief here was sharp enough to pick up on them.

 

            "Good lord," Magnan gasped. "I was quite persuaded Junior was Worm's rebellious offspring."

 

            "In a sense, he was," Retief commented. "Worm learned from the captain and then it became the teacher: combining its natural endowments with the Terra worldview, it took over the relationship and shaped the captain's energies to its own needs."

 

            "I see!" Magnan exclaimed. "It reprogrammed the captain to a degree, but was not, luckily, able to subvert him completely. Thus the captain retained sufficient control to enable him to rap and pen up the ravening monster! Well done, Captain!" Magnan reached for Sol's hand and shook it enthusiastically. Sol disengaged himself from Magnan's grip and backed away, wiping his hand on his pantsleg.

 

            "Never ravened none, far's I know," he objected. "Old Wiggly is all right, boys. Just got a little carried away for a while is all. Thing's quiet down, I figger to have a nice talk with him, get him straightened out."

 

            "Perish forbid!" Magnan blurted. "Pray leave well enough alone!"

 

            "So who's in a hurry, already?" the captain protested.

 

            "Got plenty time, now you fellers come in and give yerselves up and all."

 

            "Came in?" Magnan yelped. "Gave ourselves up? Are you quite mad?"

 

            "Naw, I'm cool," Sol soothed. "But if I don't havta be on my guard against three sets o' buttinskies, I can maybe relax a while and reason with him. I know him, remember. Raised him from that big." Once again he indicated two inches with a blunt thumb and forefinger.

 

            " 'Reason'?" Magnan echoed. "One doesn't reason with an ambulatory appetite!"

 

            "I like it," Sol commented. "I guess you got guts after all, Mr. Magnan, making up a alliterative nickname for a critter which it could gulp you down in a gulp, if you know what I mean—only he wouldn't—he's a pussycat, when you know him. Anyway, he's locked up safe."

 

            "Are you right sure about that, Cap?" Small asked earnestly. "Nudie and me come cross-country from the cave maybe a couple day's walk, and come up on that door from behind. What's to keep old Worm from going the other way?"

 

            "It's beyond your comprehension, I fear, my good fellow," Sol replied. "No offense—it's beyond my comprehension, too. Has to do with the polarity of the paradigm, or something of the sort."

 

            "That why you stick to yer cabin so close?" Small suggested. "Feared he'll be waiting right outside yer clearing?"

 

            "One may as well play it safe," Sol pointed out. "He's accepted as an aspect of his paradigm that the door constitutes an impassable barrier; I'm content to leave it at that."

 

            "Looks to me," Small commented judiciously, "like he's got you penned up as much as you got him—and in a smaller space, too—course," he added mildly, "I guess it's all in how you look at it."

 

            "And I assure you, Space'n Small," Sol stated firmly, "that I am very careful indeed about how I look at it."

 

            "So were all trapped here together?" Magnan mourned. "And that horrid great beast may well be lurking just outside?"

 

            "Stand aside," Prince William spoke up suddenly. He drew his jeweled-hilted ceremonial sword from its black leather-and-gold filigree sheath, and took a step toward the closet door. "I for one will not be prisoned here, impotent, while my liege lord is in peril." Without further warning, he wrenched the door wide open, to reveal a view of a strip of velvety green lawn with a tiled path and a white-painted wrought-iron bench, all sun-dappled against a backdrop of black-green primeval forest. The only imperfection was a swarm of gnats around the bench.

 

            "Retief!" Magnan burst out. "That's—I know that spot! It's— "

 

            "You're right, Ben," Retief confirmed. "Over there—" he pointed off to the right— "You can barely see the Domes."

 

            "Well, there ain't no worm hanging around here," Nudine stated. "This here's my own turf. I met you boys just yonder, by my pond," she pointed. "This is swell. Come on." She thrust past the prince and went to the bench beside the walk and sat down.

 

            "Easy, Your Highness," Retief suggested as the bypassed William glowered at the girl. "I think young Sobby is quite all right."

 

            "How can you know, sir?" William demanded. "What indeed do you know of my noble charge?"

 

            "I know he's the heir presumptive to the throne of Fragonard," Retief told the prince. "He was kidnapped and you followed and managed to secure passage on the vessel on which he was being smuggled off-world. The ship crashed here on Goldblatt's Other World, in a lake, with no casualties. In the confusion, you found and released the lad, and together made your way clear of the wreck in a ship's skiff, and almost at once discovered indications that the world was not, after all, unpopulated. There was a rather disreputable-appearing structure visible across the lake, from which boisterous sounds emanated even though it was mid-morning. You made a cautious approach, unnoticed, and moored your skiff beneath the bistro, cautioned the boy to remain where he was, and found a side entrance. Inside you were astonished to find a scene that was familiar to you from your knowledge of ancient painting: the bar at the Folies Bergere, circa 1880, AD. You took a seat and soon found yourself in conversation with none other than Will Shakespeare, the Bard of Avon. Am I correct, so far?" Retief paused to inquire.

 

            "I knew at once that I had lost my mind," Prince William confirmed. "On the bandstand, a youthful Arturo Tosconini conducted a pick-up combo in a preliminary version of a Giacomo Puccini piece from Tosca. The wine was an 1870 Chateau Rothschilde. I fled, of course. What man desires to confront his madness face-to-face?"

 

            "That's what we've all been doing, like it or not!" Magnan declared. "Only it appears it's not really 'madness' in the sense of the loss of contact with reality. Rather, reality has lost contact with us—or me, at least."

 

            "Aw, Benny," Gaby said soothingly, "don't go getting upset and all. This is all routine. I hear from the boys other places ain't like Zanny-du, but what I heard, they sound purty dull, nothing much ever changes."

 

            "I'd hardly say nothing ever changes on a normal world, my child," Magnan corrected without heat. "But the changes are gradual and rational: evolutionary rather than revolutionary. Organisms come into existance, mature, age, and pass away—"

 

            "That don't sound so good," Gaby put in. "I don't wanta age, so I don't. And I already passed over, like I told you. You, too, or you wouldn't be here." She hugged his arm in the possessive manner that had become habitual. Magnan disengaged himself hurriedly.

 

            " 'I also,' you say? Do you suggest, my dear, that I am a dead man?"

 

            "Well, I guess it's a matter of terminology," the girl hedged. "In a lot of ways we're more alive after we pass over than we was before, don't you think, Benny?"

 

            "I'm sure I have no idea," Magnan huffed. "As for myself, I'm very much alive, thank you very much, and I have every intention of remaining so."

 

            "Dern," Gaby commented contritely. "I done riled you again. I don't know if we can ever figger on getting along for the long haul."

 

            "Again, your meaning escapes me, child," Magnan carped. "What is this 'long haul' to which you refer?"

 

            "You know," Gaby urged, gazing soulfully into Magnan's eyes, a maneuver which had the effect of reducing the senior diplomat to babbling incoherency.

 

            "I—ah, you say 'I know'," he managed. "Let me assure you, miss, if I knew, I should hardly waste your time and my own by, ah, what did you say?"

 

            "Getting married and all is a serious matter, Benny," she wheedled. "Don't go making jokes about it, puh-lee-us." She paused to dab at a moist eye.

 

            "M-marriage!" Magnan yelled, then at once became solicitous as Gaby's sniffles gave way to a full-scale wail of despair. He patted the slender back which went with the shapely front which had somehow become plastered against him. "D-don't, for Heaven's sake, cry, child," he mumbled. "I didn't mean, I mean, I only meant— did you make reference to the holy state of matrimony?"

 

            Her tear-stained face looked appealingly up at him. "Sure, Benny; I figgered—I mean, if a gent like you makes advances to a lady I got to figger yer intentions are honorable, right?"

 

            "Of course, my dear," Magnan mumbled, deep in hypnosis. "Just as you say, child, so long as one doesn't become too serious."

 

            "Take my advice, Mr. Ah," Sol put in, as if confidentially, "sheer off now, before it's too late. That gal's got you space-packed and coded Expedite."

 

            Gaby's right cross was surprisingly effective. It caught the old fellow on the side of the jaw and sent him reeling back to—and through—the open closet door. Magnan stared after them in horror. "The dragon!" he yelped. "It will eat him for sure!"

 

            "I doubt it, Ben," Retief said soothingly. "Worm has some big ideas, but he doesn't quite know what to do with them." As he spoke, Sol, who had tripped and fallen heavily, got to his feet, rubbing his jaw; then he spun and sprinted for the cover of the crape myrtles. Magnan yelled after him, "Wait, Sol! We need—"

 

            Retief went to the shimmering veil before the woodland scene, paused only momentarily, and stepped through. Magnan uttered a strangled cry and would have followed, had Gaby not caught his arm and restrained him. Then the portal darkened as something huge and scaled moved in front of it.

 

            "The dragon!" Magnan yipped.

 

            "Durn Worm," Small muttered.

 

            "Step aside," ordered Prince William. He advanced to the portal, drew his ceremonial sabre, and poked the monstrous obstruction. It responded by disappearing abruptly. Without delay, the gray-haired nobleman stepped through. Magnan's yelp of alarm was cut off abruptly as the prince spun, raised his jeweled sabre and hacked at a target out of sight beyond the door jamb. Again the view was blocked by an expanse of scaly hide; this time it seemed inert, Magnan thought, or at least not actively aggressive.

 

            "He killed it!" Magnan yelped. "Good lord, he's slain the deity of these simple people!" Then the massive bulk blocking the doorway quivered, heaved, and slid aside. The prince was not to be seen, though Sol slipped back through the door.

 

            "God!" Magnan wailed. "It's killed a prince of the blood!"

 

            "Take it easy, already," Sol suggested quietly. "Remember, the opera ain't over till the fat lady sings."

 

            " 'Sings?' " Magnan echoed in a tone of Stunned Incredulity at Gross Impropriety (1278-b).

 

            "Easy, honey," Gaby urged.

 

            "Never seen nothing," Small offered. "Maybe his Lordship's OK." He brushed past Magnan to pass through the narrow clear space opened when the monstrous form had shifted. Magnan yelped yet again, but shied away from following. He turned to the others.

 

            "We have to do something!" he moaned. "Isn't there another way round?"

 

            "Look!" Gaby said sharply and pointed. Magnan turned to see two immense yellow eyes, set in a complex pattern of tiny, vari-colored scales, staring, it seemed, directly at him.

 

            "I know you, Ben Magnan," a rumbling voice said audibly, but without movement of the monstrous face. "I'm holding you and Retief responsible for this outrage."

 

            "Me?" Magnan yipped. "Why, what ever did I do?"

 

            "It's what you failed to do," the rumble replied stonily. "You omitted to restrain your subordinate when he set out to savage me."

 

            "He, savage you?" Magnan gasped. "That's ridiculous! You're a thousand times his size, and you've those horrid bitey things, and claws, and—and ..." Words failed the frail bureaucrat. "It isn't fair!" he lamented.

 

            " 'Fair'," the heavy voice repeated. "You an admitted diplomat, matter of fairness? Have you no respect for hallowed tradition? Remember Career Ambassador Pouncetrifle's wise dictum: 'Expediency; may she always be right, but right or wrong, expediency'."

 

            "Would you, Sir Worm," Magnan demanded with a show of spirit, stung by the harsh and, he was sure, undeserved rebuke, "—imply that I am remiss in my adherence to regulation, protocol, and tradition, as well as local policy? Outrageous! You can't prove it! I defy you to level such charges formally!"

 

            "You forget Ambassador Grossblunder's adage, Ben," the deep voice came back sharply. " 'The implication is mightier than the affadavit' "

 

            "All right, break clean in the cinches, boys," Gaby admonished, thrusting between the verbal antagonists.

 

            "Benny," she continued, "what about your sidekick, which he's in there with Worm, and nobody but old Small and the feller with the hat-pin to side him."

 

            "Certainly, my dear," Magnan goggled, "I was on the way, was I not, when you restrained me. If the captain would kindly step aside ..."

 

            Sol responded by executing a sardonic bow, and stepping aside—and through the mirror. For a moment his grin lingered, cheshire-cat like; then his rugged features rearranged themselves into an expression of horror, as he stared at something off-screen to the right. He held up his hands in instinctive defense and backed out of sight.

 

            "Why, Benny," Gaby reproved. "You ain't going to let a little old gal keep you from your duty, are ya? Now you got the captain to rescue, too. Better hurry up."

 

            "Precipitate action is not the diplomatic way," Magnan chided. "All in good time, my child." As he spoke, Magnan edged closer to the shimmering surface, poked it experimentally with a finger, leaned close and squinted sideways at it, and called through the reflected surface:

 

            "Sol, perhaps you'd be so good as to explain to me the precise nature of this curious phenomenon you've so cleverly erected here in what seems otherwise to be an ordinary closet—"

 

            Gaby interrupted the well-rounded period with a sharp rebuke. "—get going, Ben Magnan! If I wouldn't of seen you unhorse Sir Farbelow I'd be starting to wonder if you had all the cojones a feller oughta have to be sparking a gal half his age!"

 

            "Your language!" Magnan gasped.

 

            "I bet I'm the only one here talks Spash," Gaby cut him off. "And never you mind my furb-weed pickin language! Move yer butt, Ben Magnan! Yer friends are needing help! Now!"

 

            Magnan experienced a momentary sense of deep relief that he had the option of a horrible death rather than endure further attack from such a quarter. He dived through ...

 

            The immense Worm, scaled, bristly, and mind-blowingly huge, lay like the Great Wall of Wubbadock, encircling the patch of smooth-cropped lawn. Dark trees loomed behind. The creature's head, raised high on its thick neck, was no larger, Magnan reflected wildly, than the Ambassador's formal limousine, a replica 1932 Dusenberg J; but against it hung Prince William, still gripping the hilt of the sword he had plunged full-length into the monster's pale-scaled throat. Apparently little discomoded by the wound, it shook its head and threw the man off.

 

            Retief stood near the behemoth, looking up at the underside of its jaw, ten feet overhead. Magnan lay where he had fallen, to his left he saw the circular mirror-bright surface of the Link. He made a convulsive lunge toward it, but Retief spoke quickly:

 

            "Stand fast, Ben. I don't think things are as bad as they look."

 

            "They couldn't be!" Magnan gasped. "What are you doing, do you mean to dare the monster to devour you?"

 

            "Something like that," Retief agreed casually. "At the same time, I'm getting a good look at the bruise where I kicked Smeer one day."

 

            "Whatever has kicking Chief Smeer," Magnan demanded, "a most undiplomatic ploy, by the way—to do with offering yourself as a sacrifice to this horrid great creature?"

 

            "The chief was a pretty undiplomatic fellow himself," Retief reminded Magnan. "But I wasn't really sure what he was up to until I saw my boot-print on his adam's-apple just now."

 

            "Have you taken leave of your senses, Jim?" Magnan wailed.

 

            "Sure," Retief replied cheerfully. "We all have."

 

            "Kicking Smeer was bad enough," Magnan went on doggedly, "but as for attacking this malevolent mountain of meat—pardon, no alliteration intended—if you had, in feet done so, isn't this a poor time to remind it of the incident?"

 

            "By no means, sir," Retief replied. "He knows now his game's blown, and that it won't work anymore, now that we're on to him."

 

            "On to him?" Magnan moaned. "Withdraw to my side at once!" he barked. Retief ignored him, and strolled around to a position directly beneath the gaping, ten-foot jaws.

 

            "Mister Retief." Magnan yelled. "I distinctly directed you to come here at once!"

 

            Retief turned his head to look at him with a glance Magnan had seen only once before, on the occasion when a Groaci corporal had elbowed aside a senior Terran field marshall; the marshall, who had appeared on the point of apologizing, catching Retief s look had at once spilled the impudent non-com from the chair he had preempted and reclaimed the place himself.

 

            "Good lord, Retief," Magnan objected. "I didn't mean, I only meant, I mean—"

 

            "I understand, Ben," Retief replied. "You were concerned about my safety. But you needn't be. Smeer is going to be very nice from now on. Isn't that correct, Chief?" He addressed the final query to the fanged dragline bucket.

 

            you'd retter be! the long-silent Voice said sharply. or I'll be forced to—

 

            "you wouldn't! Junior's comparatively weak voice responded.

 

            "Sure, he would," Retief supplied. "He has a few points to make up with His Terran Excellency."

 

            As Magnan stared in utter Amazement (331-a), Prince William, unhurt, came up beside Retief, and by standing on tip-toe, grasped the hilt of the sword still standing in the monsters neck. With a sharp jerk, he withdrew it; an immediate hiss\ of escaping air was accompanied by the abrupt appearance of wrinkles in the scaly hide, which quickly became folds as the upreared torso collapsed in upon itself while the fearsome face, sagging grotesquely, assumed a look of drooling idiocy before collapsing in a heap of rubbery vinyl on the grass.

 

            "R-Retief!" Magnan yelped. "It was only a—a sort of inflated dummy!"

 

            "Very observant of you, sir," Retief commented. Then to the prince, "Nice timing, Your Highness."

 

            "I'm sorry to say this whole farce is a result of the lad's rather impish idea of a joke," the prince said glumly. "I fear I've been lenient, but once I have him firmly in hand again, I'll do what I can to correct his thinking."

 

            "Good idea," Retief commented. "You can start now." Even as he spoke, the crape myrtles parted and the boy's grubby face poked through.

 

            "Aw, Willy," he said reproachfully. "You spoiled it! I was going to have some fun with that bunch of brigands when they got here—" he broke off abruptly as half a dozen unwashed louts garbed in soiled and ragged remnants of once-gaudy livery came crashing through the hedge, beyond the bench, their crude, home-made cutlasses drawn.

 

            "Well, looky here," the apparent leader of the piratical crew remarked in a stagy tone. "A little snot-nosed brat and a couple old grandpas. Let's have some fun, boys."

 

            "Do you want this one, Sir Retief?" William inquired gravely. "Or may I have him?"

 

            "After you, milord," Retief responded. As the seven-foot thug gaped, Prince William walked over to him and without a word, reversed his sabre, and using the finger-guard as brass knuckles, felled him with a blow. He then carefully wiped the hilt on a linen handkerchief. The next lout in line moved forward with an oath just in time to be tripped by Retief s foot. As he came to all fours, Retief looked down at him with an expression of Solicitous Concern for the Unfortunate (729-d) and asked:

 

            "Did it faw down go boom?

 

                "Jest wait—" the fellow started.

 

            "Wait, heck!" Sobby supplied; the grubby boy pushed forward, and laid the lout out with a well-directed kick to the jaw.

 

            "You—you kicked him while he was down!" Magnan yelped from the sideline. "Good work!" he added, "Your Highness."

 

            Meantime, Sobhain advanced to the next ruffian, who was now flexing his formidable shoulders and adjusting what he hoped was a fierce look on his blunt features. At the boy's hail, "Hey! You!" the big fellow turned to hear what this audacious runt had to say and at once received a kick in the calf of his burly leg with all the force the child could impart to his worn boot, causing the bulging muscle to spasm into a hard knot. The victim leaned over with a yell to massage the agonizing cramp and the boy kicked his other leg from under him.

 

            "Truss this rascal, Willy," the boy commanded his princely tutor.

 

            "Very well, Sobby," the elder nobleman replied promptly. "Your sweep was a trifle slow; two hours of exercise first thing in the morning."

 

            "Sorry, sir," the princeling said repentantly. "I didn't mean to be cheeky, really," he amplified. "I was just excited."

 

            "Accepted, Your Royal Highness," William reassured his young master. "You still need the exercise."

 

            "Don't I know it," the boy agreed. "Locked up in that storeroom I sort of let myself get out of shape."

 

            "You didn't do badly, Sobhain," William commented, glancing at the two groaning thugs laid out on the grass. "But from now on I think you'd better let Lord Retief and myself handle the heavy work."

 

            The boy prince turned to look interestedly at Retief. "Are you really Retief?" he demanded, not without a note of awe in his imperious voice. "I thought he was just a legend."

 

            "I am indeed, he, Sobhain," Retief replied. "And I always believed you to be a legend."

 

            "It appears," Prince William spoke up, "that each of my lords has spontaneously evoked the cosmos of his own profoundest yearnings. Both Northroyal's alternate destinies are realized here on this curiously malleable world. And I am somehow privileged to participate in both."

 

            "Both, hell!" Sol interjected indignantly from beyond the gate. "I was here first, and it's my yearnings that count."

 

            "So they do, Captain," William agreed soberly, "and you yourself can see the parlous state of affairs you've evoked."

 

            "So now, I'm responsible already!" Sol yelled. "This bunch of bums comes along and messes up my set-up, which I just about had it running right—even had Wiggly botded up and all; then you nosy diplomatic types got an oar in, and fffft\ what's left is a good sample chaos! And now you blame me\ I guess you boys better go now, before I blow my cool and let slip a few expressions like maybe 'incompetent crooks' and 'half-baked meddlers!' Good day, ladies and gents. Get outta my house at once, OK?"

 

            "You're partially justified in your resentment, Captain," Magnan responded smoothly. "However, duty requires that J remain at my post, at least until certain matters are resolved to the satisfaction of Terran interests."

 

            Sol advanced on them as if menacingly, then veered aside and pushed back through the glittering portal. Then he turned and slammed the door in Magnan's startled face. For a moment Magnan could see the back of the hand-made panel; then it faded. He reached out, felt nothing palpable.

 

            "Heavens!" the frail bureaucrat cried. "He's marooned us!

 

            "It's all right, Ben," Retief spoke up soothingly. "That silly Worm business is disposed of, and we know the way from here to the cabin."

 

            "What?" Magnan yelped. "After days of wandering in this wilderness—how long have we been lost, Retief? I for one have no idea—and poor Gaby is on the other side of this confounded door!"

 

            "We made a circle," Retief told him. "The cabin's just beyond the trees there. Notice the Domes are still in sight."

 

            "Impossible!" Magnan gasped. "Come, let's be on our way before more of those ruffians come along. And though you've punctured this silly inflatable toy, but we know from experience that Worm is real, not a mere bladder! Those horrid shedding teeth!" he shuddered.

 

            "An inflated neoprene bladder, plus your imagination, sir," Prince William interjected, "are quite sufficient to produce all the phenomena you've experienced. But you're quite right: the bladder was a mere imitation of the real Worm."

 

            "Those teeth!" Magnan reminisced. "That was no balloon! But who could be responsible for the imitation?"

 

            Prince William cleared his throat tactfully, but before he spoke, the boy Sobhain volunteered:

 

            "I did it," he declared with pride. "Pretty good, eh? Scared the pants off old Boss and his hirelings, too. Wind blew it away, right after it helped me escape from that crummy room; I had it come poking around the windows and all. Willy shouldn't have popped him."

 

            "Your Highness behaved irresponsibly," the gray-haired prince told his young charge.

 

            "So we had not one, but two 'Worms' roaming the area," Magnan explained to himself. "No wonder things got confused."

 

            i must ask your pardon, sol, the Voice spoke up. I had assumed you were responsible for the prank, and it was for that reason I have, I confess, persecuted you; when I discovered that the renegade terry, one overbore was on the make, I could not resist the opportunity.

 

            Sol slapped his forehead. "Oy!" he yelped. "Get that kid outa here, before I—" Prince William's outthrust foot tripped the enraged merchant mariner as he took his first step toward the boy prince, who stood his ground.

 

            "I didn't mean the old coot any harm," he said sullenly. "Didn't even know him—except he looks a little like Boss."

 

            "Not meaning harm, milord Prince," William told the lad, "is not sufficient for one who will one day administer an empire."

 

            "Fat chance, Willy," Sobhain dismissed the rebuke. "We're all stuck here; back home they've probably forgotten all about me."

 

            "By no means, milord," Retief told him. "In fact, you've come to be a legendary hero. The old story is told of how you were kidnapped from the hunting lodge at Steepcliff, and although the search went on for a hundred years, you were never found, nor was Prince William of Tallwood, your faithful tutor."

 

            "I've only been gone for a few months," Sobhain objected. "What's this 'hundred years' stuff?"

 

            "Time, it appears," Retief told the princeling, "is a matter of perception. On this strange world, all our perceptions are distorted."

 

            "You mean—back in Fragonard everyone's a hundred years older?" The lad looked stricken. "Then my royal father and mother are long dead. I have to get back before my Empire falls into disarray! Why do we loiter here, William?" he turned to the older to demand. Then he whirled on Retief.

 

            "Why should I believe you?" he almost shouted. "The great legendary worrier Earl, Retief, you claim to be. You have a knightly look, I grant, but—"

 

            "I claim nothing, milord Prince," Retief corrected quietly. "I am Jame, Earl Retief. I know nothing of such a legend."

 

            "It is told how, as a mere lad, you went alone to the heights of Bifrost Pass and yourself took alive the bandit Mai de Di; and later, how you—or Earl Retief—visited the Games at Northroyal incognito, and defeated the Champion; there were many who saw in him—or you— the returned emperor, and you did indeed unseat the false usurper Rolan." The boy paused to spit. "You turned him out, then disappeared as mysteriously as you had come—and my branch of the imperial House assumed the Lily throne. So, if you really are the fabled, and long-lost Earl, my cousin, I owe my throne to you." The boy turned to Prince William. "How say you, my lord Prince? Is this an imposter, or my benefactor?"

 

            "He is none other than the true Retief," William said. "On that you may depend, Sobhain. But what now, sir?" He addressed the final words to Retief. "Will you resume the honors due you, or ...?" He glanced at Sobhain, who returned his look keenly.

 

            "Retief!" Magnan spoke up. "Does this mean that you actually, ah, are, or were in the line of succession to a throne, albeit a petty one?"

 

            "No," Retief replied. "It's not so petty, sir," he added. "I recall that you yourself once called Fragonard the key to peace in the Eastern Arm."

 

            "I—I only mean, I meant; I didn't mean," Magnan gobbled. "No offense, Your Imperial Highness," he went on, executing a clumsy curtsy before Sobhain, who watched in amazement.

 

            "That's quite all right, Mr. Magnan," the boy said, almost concealing a snicker.

 

            "Hey," Sol interjected. "If you guys are gonna start kissing each other's hands, I'm leaving." He set off in a determined fashion, but halted after two steps.

 

            "I should leave already?" he inquired of the circumambient air. "It's my place; I'm staying. Now, clear outa here," he started and again paused. "Well," he am-mended, "seein we're the other side o' the Portal, I guess there's no telling where we are. O' course, that don't matter, because the whole planet belongs to me, anyway."

 

            really, the Voice spoke up, I had the idea it belonged to its autochthonous population.

 

            "You think a bunch of Terries is gonna turn over a Class A world to a bunch of worms?" Sol inquired derisively.

 

            "A moment, Captain," Magnan spoke up. "We are now entering the proper domain of the trained diplomat. Pray permit me a word."

 

            "You already took maybe a couple dozen," Sol pointed out. "So go ahead, already. Who's counting?"

 

            "It appears," Magnan stated soberly, "that this planet lacked a mentational species prior to the arrival of Captain S. Goldblatt, TMSS; accordingly, as is made clear in FSR One, 12-3, Chapter IX, sub-section 3-w, the Terran claim to the world cannot legitimately be challenged. Therefore, the question is merely that of the role to be assigned the local population which has attained trans-threshold status subsequent to, and due to the didactic efforts of Terran nationals."

 

            " 'Nationals,' smashionals," Sol sneered. "One Terry, that's all, educated these schmendricks. Me." He gave Magnan a glance full of pride and defiance. "So what's yer fancy regulations got say about that?"

 

            "Most conscientious of you to mention the point, Captain," Magnan replied smoothly. "Actually, Subsection Four, which deals with unauthorized technological transfer, is clear on the point: 'Any individual, Terran, or enjoying Civil status under Section Ten, who shall knowingly educate unsophisticated peoples, as defined under Section Nine, in such fashion as to enhance such population's capacity to wage hostilities against legitimate Terran interests shall be liable under Chapter One, Section One, to such penalties, not to exceed confinement for his lifetime plus ten years, as shall be prescribed by a duly constituted multi-species tribunal, as defined in FSR I, One, A-l'."

 

            Sol frowned at the frail diplomat as if incredulous. "You're coming in here, on my own turf and talking 'penalties'?" He tugged the loose collar of his well-worn tunic as if to relieve internal pressure. "This is my world, Mister Ah. What I say goes! I got no need for no space lawyers tryna get tough!" He advanced a step and was confronted by Retief, who said quietly, "Easy, Captain; if you're in charge as you say, then I presume you're responsible for the activities of Worm; the real Worm, not this silly bag of air."

 

            "Well," Sol temporized, "don't get me wrong. I got maybe a few problem areas to clean up here. But I'm doing OK until you boys come along, so why don't you boys, and that crook Overbore and the rest of you just do a fast fade and leave me work it out. OK?"

 

            "You speak, Captain," Magnan piped up, "as if a ravening monster were not at large, terrorizing the countryside! You've a great deal to answer for, sir! I suggest that if you would adopt a less truculent attitude, we may begin to evolve a solution to this contretemps!"

 

            "There you go," Sol carped. "Talking them big words. 'Contretemps,' eh? Well, I got you on that one: I had plenty time I should view the Webber in my spare time, which I had nothing else but, for some time now. 'Contretemps,' that's a bum situation, which it should happen to somebody else!"

 

            "Nonetheless," Magnan offered severely, "it has happened, indeed is happening to us. And all due to your irresponsibility, Captain."

 

            Sol slapped his forehead again with enough force to rock his bullet-like head on its thick neck. "Enemies!" he yelled. "Woe! I maybe ain't got enough troubles I should have this schnook giving me a hard time?"

 

            "Captain," Magnan said patiently, "in spite of your resort to obscure dialects, I happen to know that the appellation 'schnook' which you have applied to me is far from complimentary. I demand an immediate apology. You said 'schlimeil,' too," he added.

 

            "Not me!" the captain blurted. " 'Schmendrick,' maybe. And let's see you make me apologize, Mr. Ah. I got rights, plenty of 'em! Now get outa here! I got no more time fer yuz!"

 

            "Here?" Magnan echoed in a tone of Astonishment at a Logical Lapse By One's Verbal Opponent (281-Q). He waved a hand at the surrounding forest wall. "You're demanding I vacate the entire planet? I, a duly authorized First Secretary of Embassy of Terra, in the performance of his duties?"

 

            "Secretary?" Sol hooted. "I don't see no typewriter, not even no dictation machine. What kind Secretary is that?"

 

            "The title, sir," Magnan responded loftily, "is one of considerable dignity, as in 'Secretary of State,' and has nothing whatever to do with stenography."

 

            "So now you're a big-shot politician, hey? So what're you doing out here in the boondocks of the boondocks, you should give a hard time to the sole owner this dizzy planet?"

 

            "I emphatically did not lay claim to Cabinet rank," Magnan declared coldly. "I merely cited the ancient title of the foreign minister of an early historic state known, as I recall, as NICE DAY. That, in order to define the nonclerical nature of the title 'Secretary.' I am, as it happens, a close advisor to His Terran Excellency, Elmer Shortfall, Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to this benighted world. Are you satisfied, sir?"

 

            Sol shrugged elaborately. "If you re satisfied you should be some kind bureaucrat, why should I complain about it? Just get lost, is all."

 

            Retief came forward again to face the bull-necked spaceman squarely. "Mr. Magnan is merely trying to establish his bona fides, Captain," he explained. "He has a right to be here. Naturally, he's rather confused, as are we all, by the chaotic situation."

 

            "I ain't confused!" Sol barked. "I built this here closet, and I guess I can say who's got business in it!"

 

            Magnan peered over Retief s shoulder to interject. "We're no longer in your confounded closet, sir!" He came around his bigger colleague to expand on his thesis: "Clearly, we're out here in the woods, uncon-fined. Your house is perhaps some miles from here!"

 

            "Then where are we at, huh?" Sol jeered. "We went inna closet, right? And we ain't come out, so you figger it, pal!"

 

            "When you so rudely slammed the door in my face, sir," Magnan yelped, "the closet and presumably the room behind it disappeared! I saw them! I mean, I didn't see them! You know what I mean!"

 

            "Don't tell me what I know, young feller," Sol grumbled.

 

            "Well," Magnan faltered, "I was just ..."

 

            "Sure you was, honey," Gaby agreed. "I guess we orter go now, since this gentleman don't want us."

 

            "I heard the way you said, 'gentleman'," Sol accused. "So get lost already! Scram! Dangle! Twenty-three skidoo!"

 

            it is time to resolve this matter, the Voice spoke up, startling Magnan as usual.

 

            "Don't do that!" he ordered. "Just when I was getting my thoughts in order, you pop up in that disconcerting fashion! Of course, the matter must be resolved, the question is; precisely what matter?"

 

            "Trespassers on my claim," Sol supplied promptly.

 

            "Getting back on the job at the Cuckoo," Small suggested. "Place is prolly looted and burned by now."

 

            "Sending all these dreadful people away," Gaby offered, giving Magnan the Look. "So we can get back to us, Benny."

 

            clearing all these aliens off zanny-do, the Voice thundered, overwhelming lesser utterances.

 

            "The matter requiring immediate effective action," Magnan stated loudly, "is the regularization of affairs here on U-748-A, to include the formalization of the de facto domination of the world by the indigenes known as the Zanny-doers, and recognition of the role of the Terran Mission in bringing this planet into the greater Galactic community. In addition," he went on, after a pause for breath, "to establish a rule of law and order here, to bring enlightenment to the native population, and to suppress the activities of the lawless element, as represented by Mr. Ed ... (ward?) Magoon here."

 

            As he paused again, dirty Eddie came up to him and said, almost quietly, "It ain't 'Egbert,' if that's what yer thinking about. 'Eddie' will do, good." Then he added, louder, "And whataya talking, 'lawless'? You said yerself we got no laws here, so what's to break?"

 

            "It is to precisely that parlous situation that I refer, Mr. Magoon," Magnan quickly reassured the indignant hoodlum. "Now, what we have to do first, is decide just whose paradigm shall be paramount, and take steps to suppress all others. Actually," he added, to Retief, "I'm sure we've quite enough now to place before His Excellency the Terran AE and MP." Magnan looked triumphantly at the others. "So let's be off, Jim."

 

            "Not quite yet, Ben, I suggest," Retief countered.

 

            "Why ever not?" Magnan yelped. "Retief, it's not like you to drag your figurative feet at a moment like this! We must waste no time in placing this entire matter before the Ambassador!"

 

            "I think, sir," Retief demurred, "we need one more item."

 

            "And what, pray, might that be?" Magnan demanded. "Surely, the need to rectify this situation takes primacy over all other considerations!"

 

            "My first, and indeed only priority, sir," Prince William spoke up, "is to restore my liege lord, Prince Sobhain cuchelaine ap Cool, to his people with all dispatch." He patted the boy reassuringly on the shoulder.

 

            "It's my planet!" Sol reiterated hotly. "And you wanta turn it over to Worm to louse up for everybody. Damn animal!"

 

            ignoring the prejudicial nature of the sentiments just expressed, the Voice cut in with a hint of indignation, I merely cite paragraph three, section a-l, of the preamble to the grotian accord, as homologated on wendy, ale third, twenty-six-fifteen.

 

            "Groints!" Small exclaimed. "He's got us, right, Retief?"

 

            "Not quite, Big," Retief replied quietly. "Actually the citation refers to natural life-forms only, genetically engineered forms being specifically excluded from the exercise of sovereign powers."

 

            "Heavens!" Magnan gasped. "Do you mean that Worm is some sort of unnatural monster, and not just a sort of overgrown pillar?"

 

            "Or not a pillar at all?" Eddie suggested. "Guess that leaves I and my boys in charge."

 

            "Hardly, Mr. Voice," Magnan huffed. "Under no circumstances can one assent to the cession, by default, of a .999 Terroid world to a mere disembodied voice!"

 

            nor yet to a band of terran freebooters, the Voice pointed out.

 

            "Right!" Eddie agreed enthusiastically. "That Embassy crowd has got to go!"

 

            "It was hardly the Terran Mission to which the Voice alluded," Magnan rebuked the saucy fellow.

 

            "He's tryna pull yer laig, Mr. Magnan," Small told Magnan. "What I say is, we got to respect the Captain's prior claim and all, and allow fer Prince Willy's ideas, as modified by us regler fellers: the concensus, you might say—"

 

            the invalid precept of mob rule is hardly germaine, the Voice put in. I perceive that I must now invoke eminent domain, with all which that implies. I shall inform you of my decision presently.

 

            "Absurd!" Magnan gulped. "Why this matter would tax the sagacity of a dozen Underground Deepthink Teams! Surely you'd not propose we attempt to adjudicate it quite on your own! And in the presence of totally unauthorized personnel, too." His glance went disdainfully from Small to Eddie before coming tenderly to rest on Gaby, dabbing at her eyes again—or still? Magnan wondered.

 

            if I may be permitted a further word, the Voice cut across the babble, I submit that jurisdiction rests not with the venal petty officials of the cdt, nor the lawless trash who've made my peaceful world a hell these several years now, but indeed with myself—

 

            "Yeah?" Small and Eddie challenged in unison. "So what you got in mind?" Small demanded, while Eddie blurted, "I hope you ain't figuring to ace I and my boys, which I guess we got a few rights!"

 

            very few, Voice agreed, all was orderly here until you came. or almost so. one must concede that the advent of young vice-consul overbore was coincident with the inception of a series of bizarre events from the repercussions of which poor, suffering goldblatts other world, or should I say sardon, is still reeling, figuratively. an expression having no reference to the planet's axial rotation, nor its annual circuit of the star.

 

            "You're simply complicating the issue!" Magnan carped.

 

            that, Voice informed him, is a contradiction in terms. since I am able to communicate with your simple mind only at a conceptual level, I submit that it is yourself, benmagnan, who obfuscates.

 

            "Rhetoric aside," Magnan whispered, "let's stick to facts: one, Captain Goldblatt was here first; the first Terran, that is; he met a local, who, or which, used him in a most unprincipled manner. And what do you mean 'young Vice-Consul Overbore?' Mr. Overbore is a senior Career Minister, and Number Two man in the Terran Embassy to Sardon!"

 

            even sidneyoverbore was young once, Voice reminded Magnan. All heads present nodded in agreement.

 

            "You mean this Elmer feller was here before, when he was just a green hand," Small offered.

 

            "He sure was!" Sol supplied. "Do I remember the young squirt! Come in the Place one night, full of ideas, he was. Started right in bossing; that's why we called him 'Boss.' Planted some kinda high-tech gadgets, too. Set up what he called de facto gubment. Had this Enforcer, and this here Emergency Crew—bunch o' young squirts. We never paid the sucker much mind, but them gadgets o' his bollixed up the paradigm—said he was just tryna measure the Vug flux and all. Full o' fancy talk, too, about the purity o' science and the sacred mission and stuff, but turned out he was on the make worser'n old Eddie here."

 

            "Wait a minuter Eddie protested, at the same moment that a man clad in a bramble-torn late mid-afternoon top informal dickey-suit stumbled into view along the path.

 

            "I protest!" he barked, holding up a formerly manicured hand imperiously.

 

            "Good Lord!" Magnan gasped. "Why, Mr. Overbore, sir! Pray take a seat; you look quite all in!"

 

            "No seats here, Magnan!" the Counselor barked, looking around curiously. His gaze lingered on the collapsed bladder that had been one avator of the fearsome Worm.

 

            "Damn scoundrel!" the Counselor muttered. "I suspected something of the sort all along, of course! That Sol imposter and his fairy-tales of over-educated caterpillars! Now, you fellows," he focused his remarks on Magnan and Retief, "time to get busy here. Retief!" he seemed belatedly to recognize his former colleague. "What are you doing here? Thought you'd been kidnapped and done away with some time ago. In fact, I heard a reward had been offered for your safe return, my boy; you see how tenderly solicitous the Corps is of even the humblest of its own!"

 

            "I flunked humility at the Institute," Retief pointed out.

 

            "I saw several of those posters, sir," Magnan yelped. "They said 'dead or alive'."

 

            "Poor Art," Overbore mourned. "He did have a tendency to get carried away. But enough of this yivshish, we've work to do!"

 

            "You tryna weasel outa that nice pile o' guck you promised me if I laid the bandit Retief by the heels?" Smeer demanded via the Captain, who recoiled, stepped to the rear, and held a vociferous conversation with himself.

 

            "Lucky we know about old Cap's set-up with that lousy cop," Small remarked. "Otherwise a feller'd think he'd went off his gourd and all."

 

            "Ben," Counselor Overbore's voice cut through the small-talk like a machete, "candidly, I'm surprised to find a diplomat of your seniority in the company of such riff-raff—" Before he could complete the rebuke, Small's arm, carelessly outflung, accidentally struck the senior bureaucrat across the mouth. Small turned looking solicitous.

 

            "Geese, yer Worship," he exclaimed, miming Dismay at an Untoward Turn of Events, (945-d) overlain with a classic 17-b (Astonishment at the Totally Unexpected). Overbore spluttered, spat a tooth fragment and made gobbling sounds, among which the word 'assassin' was audible. Magnan leaped forward to soothe the ruffled dignity of his Chief.

 

            "Gosh, sir," he improvised unimaginatively. "I'm sure Mr. Small didn't meant—"

 

            "What the oaf meant, Magnan," Overbore grated, "dwindles to insignificance in the light of what he did\" The Counselor paused to take dental census with the tip of his tongue.

 

            "That implant set me back plenty, Ben," he announced, the while glaring balefully at Small.

 

            "Now don't you go worrying, Mister Big Shot," Small advised. "The way I figure it, you got plenty in that coded account on Qumballoon to buy you a whole new jaw-bone."

 

            "What's that?" Overbore barked. "Do you imply that I've feathered my nest in defiance of Corps regulation, local law, basic morality and common decency?"

 

            "Naw, I just said you stole a bundle," Big corrected patiently.

 

            "And you, Sol?" Overbore challenged. "Just what have you set aside for yourself, which allows you to join so readily in this defamation of a senior diplomat and Counselor of this embassy?"

 

            "Ben," Overbore next addressed his junior. "Do you propose to stand idly by while this local dacoit slangs me in that fashion?"

 

            "Actually, sir," Magnan replied in a rather lackluster 91-v (Prolonged Patience With One Who is Slow to Get it), "Chief Smeer's—or the Captain's charges are quite beside the point, however well-founded. As an officer of the CDT, it is my obligation to heed the evidence of my senses."

 

            "Heed, is it?" Overbore snarled. "As for your alleged senses, Ben Magnan, they are, I submit a negligible factor in the present contretemps! I suggest, nay, I order you to disregard these fanciful allegations!"

 

            "No, sir," Magnan replied doggedly.

 

            " 'No, sir,' you say, Ben?" Overbore barked in a harsh 172-b (Stunned Incredulity at Attack from an Unexpected Quarter). "Am I to understand that you are refusing a direct order given to you by your very own Deputy Chief of Mission?"

 

            "That's right, I'm afraid, sir," Magnan confirmed as if incredulous of what he was hearing himself say. "After all, sir," he added, "that was you I unhorsed in single combat. What were you doing, riding with that bunch called, as I recall, the Rath?"

 

            "Nonsense!" Overbore snapped. "I've never been astride a big black gelding in my life!"

 

            "Tell him, honey," Gaby urged, pressing herself close to Magnan's side as she caressed his arm, which he gently disengaged in order to slip it about her slender waist.

 

            "Can you deny, sir," Magnan challenged, "that it was this charming young lady whom you were terrorizing when we met on the field of Honor?"

 

            " 'Field of Honor' indeed!" Overbore snorted. "Have you lost your mind, Ben?" he appealed with a feeble 310A (Inability to Credit Perfidy of Such Magnitude). Then he rallied. "Ben, I'm giving you one last chance to redeem yourself and to salvage your career; indeed, to emerge from this fiasco with a glowing recommendation for an accumulated bump in rank. What do you say to that, eh?" Overbore looked complacently at Retief. "As for you, a stretch in a Sardonic dungeon will be good for that stiff neck of yours. We'll see how long your arrogance lasts in durance vile."

 

            "I doubt that, sir," Retief replied quietly. "I'm afraid you've distorted your paradigm a trifle too far for it to be retrieved now."

 

            Overbore stepped back, and with a dramatic gesture barked: "Let this be deleted!"

 

            i'm afraid not, sid, the small voice came back.

 

            "You—you'd dare to attempt to defy me?" Overbore yelled. "Why, I invoked you and I can consign you to the Category of unrealized potentialities as easily as not!"

 

            don't try it, the Big Voice boomed out with sufficient vigor to knock Overbore to his knees, in which position he clasped his hands in a grotesque parody of a prayerful attitude, his eyes fixed on Magnan. "I beseech you, Ben," he wailed. "As one with whom you have fingered the ceremonial kiki-stones—stop, before you soil your conscience beyond repair! Remember the respect due a Counselor of Embassy of Terra! Forget all this nonsense!"

 

            "Sorry, sir," Magnan replied gloomily, "I confess it hurts me, but not even a moral leper of the worst stripe could stand by and see the rightful owners of this world dispossessed, disenfranchised and displaced for the mere personal gain of a greedy individual."

 

            "Oh, you want graft," Overbore replied, on firmer footing now. "Well, Ben, I'm sure something could be arranged, such as an apartment duplicating those in the New Waldorf Towers on Nouveau Nine, with your doxy here, and a top-crust, solid platinum unlimited credit card." His voice had segued to a confidential purr. Magnan turned his back coldly.

 

            "That does it," he announced to his biographers., "Such venality is beyond belief."

 

            At that point Sol spoke up: "What about me?" he yelled. "When you two get through slicing up my world, whataya got in mind I should get? Retire maybe on a small pension in the Old Space'n's Home? Forget it! Wiggly and me are gonna fight the lot o' youse to the last!"

 

            Magnan turned to Sol, registering Patience Overstressed (17-w). "You mentioned, sir, that returning to Zanny-du, the city, that is, would be a simple matter. Kindly demonstrate its simplicity."

 

            "Sure, Mr. Ah," Sol agreed. "All you got to do, you got to come with me, over by the Spot." Without awaiting assent, he went to the door and stepped outside; through the opening, the golden Domes were visible in the distance.

 

            "Retief!" Magnan yelped and grabbed his subordinate's arm. "Should we—?"

 

            "Why not?" Retief replied and followed Sol, who led the small party, including the surly Eddie, along a woodland path to the clearing with the ruined fountain where Retief had found the nexus box. Sol went directly to the hinged tile and lifted it.

 

            "I found this here gadget right after that louse, Sid, had it installed."

 

            "I begin to perceive," Magnan gasped as One Beginning to Perceive (922-1), "the full enormity of your meddling here, sir!" He confronted Overbore, who shied, and abruptly became absorbed in a clump of flowering bum-bum vines twining about the base of the broken sculpture.

 

            "Fascinating, eh, Ben?" he remarked in a tone of Utter Innocence (390-1).

 

            "Not even an FSO-1 and Counselor of Embassy can really bring off a 390, sir," Magnan commented regretfully, "especially when you go for a mid-range. A V or c' I might have bought."

 

            "Intransigent to a degree," Overbore stated, as one dictating to a Court reported. "What's this about catching a cab back to town, out here in the woods? And who's responsible for breaking up this handsome Groaci copy of a Degas Dancer?"

 

            "As to that, sir," Magnan began awkwardly, but was cut off by Sol, who had bustled over importantly to jostle the two diplomats aside.

 

            "Now, like I said," he announced, "what you got to do, you got to like, scrunch down inside yer head and relax. Leave me do the work."

 

            "What's this feller talking about, Benny?" Gaby demanded, almost climbing his arm. "I tell ya, I don't like this, messing around with Transfer point Sixteen and all. Why, I heard—"

 

            "Not now, my dear," Magnan shut her off. He caught Retief s eye. "I say, Jim, do you suppose—"

 

            "Don't do no supposing, Mister," Small suggested, rather abruptly. "Ain't safe here in the stay-away zone. I just now figgered out—"

 

            "All you guys are nuts," Dirty Eddie announced, coming up late. He was at once felled by a sweep of Prince William's arm. Sobhain was craning to see over Gaby's shoulder.

 

            "What's in the box?" he inquired of his tutor, who shook his head. The boy fell silent.

 

            "You got to like pick up the thread," Sol was announcing didactically. "I found out—"

 

            "What is it, Jim?" Magnan inquired anxiously of his colleague. "I thought the nexus box was a Galactic Ultimate Top Secret device on the threshold of real-theoretical interface!"

 

            "So it is, sir," Retief confirmed. "Remember Eisenstein's Dilemma? His rebuttal of Shrodinger's cat, if you recall."

 

            "I guess I read something about that in Unlikely, a few issues back," Magnan acknowledged. "But what have essays in abstruse physics to do with the fact that we're stranded in the midst of a wilderness infested with hostile Bolos and non-inflatable Worms, plus a Spectre, I understand, to say nothing of these ubiquitous gnats, all the while being hunted by the Rath, as well as every idle cutthroat on the planet in expectation of a fabulous reward?"

 

            "Well put, sir," Retief told his supervisor. "I think perhaps Sol knows something, so let's see what it is."

 

            "Ha!" Sol barked. "I know stuff I don't even know I know. Now, get aligned, like I said."

 

            do as sol suggests, the Voice boomed out in the silence, I showed him the technique some time ago.

 

            i dare you to try it! Junior's derisive voice came, as from a remote distance, you can dissolve the whole space/time/vug intersection back into the PRIMORDIAL ylem. take my advice, get clear of the concentration, and take a hike. it will take a little longer, but you'll get somewhere. or would you like some more golfballs to drown in, mr. retief?"

 

            "Go ahead, Sol," Retief prompted. At once he felt a diaphonous touch somewhere behind his eyes, crude by comparison with the delicate nuances of Voice's telepathic promptings, but clear enough. He rotated his attention in line with the prodding. His thoughts went to the shedding facades of the Terran Embassy, the now-deserted street before it, and—

 

            "That's him!" a squeaky voice yelled. "Grab him quick!"

 

            "—back there, you!" Small's voice snarled, at Retief s side. He became aware again of the surrounding forest, now aboil with unshaven louts, among whom he glimpsed Horny, Bimbo, Tiny, Tim, Gimpy, Hump, Chief Smeer, Deputy Chief Smudge, Buzzy and Constable Bob, all converging on him. He picked up the constable and using him as a flail, laid low the first ranks, at which the somewhat less eager recoiled. Small looked at Retief and grinned. Just then, Bill, the Marine guard, resplendent in fresh dress blues, burst into sight. He halted at the sight of the little group surrounded by their groaning attachees.

 

            "On the way to tip you off, General," he told Retief. "Guess I missed the fun."

 

            "There'll be more, Bill," Retief reassured the lad.

 

            "Okay," Sol spoke up. "I didn't expect some kind of riot while I'm tryna get the old bug axes aligned. Let's try it again." He squeezed his eyes shut.

 

            "Sir," Bill said diffidently to Retief. "Maybe you ought to report in now. Old Shorty's busting a gusset—oh, His Terran Excellency is eager to speak to you, sir, I mean."

 

            "Just going, Bill," Retief replied, and after taking three steps along the path, emerged into a dimly lit strip littered with debris and lined with irregular pilings supporting, far above, the familiar peeling facades of Embassy Row.

 

            "Hell," Sol remarked from close behind, "let's try that again, a little tighter, OK?" The oversized glasswalled elevator slid to a stop with a soft whoosh! and the entire party entered. Magnan paused to look back.

 

            "Heavens!" he remarked. "In that fog, it's no wonder we became a trifle confused."

 

3

 

            Five minutes later, on the carpet before the three-meter iridium desk, which was the Fortress Unvan-quishable since far Sacnoth of His Terran Excellency, Magnan was stammering out his account of recent events.

 

            "—actually, sir, it seems Sid Overbore was a member of a Secret Survey Party sent in here to Goldblatt's Other World—uh, excuse me, sir: to Sardon—"

 

            "You mean this damned Spookworld, I assume, Ben," His Ex interjected. "Yes, yes, I know all that—"

 

            "Not quite all, sir, if Your Excellency will forgive me.

 

            "Get on with it, Ben," his leader urged, casting a glance at those waiting their turn. "I've still got to hear Retief s excuse, as well as the rest of this riff-raff you've dragged in here to my most private inner sanctum. Hate to be late to dinner," he added, without noticeable pleasure at the prospects for a peaceful afternoon.

 

            "Well, anyway, sir," Magnan stammered on, "he— Sid, I mean, or, more properly, Counselor Overbore discovered some of the world's unusual properties, and conceived the plan of introducing certain elements into the local paradigm which would redound to his personal benefit—or, rather, one might say, it might not be incorrect to suggest that perhaps there are those who might, in light of the circumstances, tend to misinterpret, or, to put it another way—"

 

            "Please do, Mr. Magnan," Shortfall boomed. "I'm sure I don't know what the devil you're talking about. Get on with it, man! I've already told you. I'm having Chateaubriand avec Sauce Bearnaise and Borovian Chocolate pie tonight, and I for one— "

 

            "Please sir," Magnan begged. "Your blurb-flops can wait. This is a matter of vital concern to the success of this Mission! You see—"

 

            "I do not see, Ben," Shortfall barked; waving away the ever-present cloud of persistent gnats from his face.

 

            "Well, after Mr. Overbore hatched his scheme," Magnan resumed, hardly less excitedly, "he needed a local intermediary, and he discovered that there were rumors among the locals of a super-pillar—"

 

            "Rumors, Ben?" Shortfall exploded. "As for 'super-pillars,' I throw up my hands at such an epithet, mingling as it does racial prejudice of the grossest sort with superstitious dread of the unknown!"

 

            "So," Magnan plunged ahead with a determination which was reminiscent of that of Admiral Farragut at Mobile, "he investigated on the sly, under cover of doing a wildlife survey, and he found this Standard-speaking local—"

 

            "Nonsense, Ben," Shortfall interjected. "They all speak Standard of a sort."

 

            "Not back then, they didn't, Your Excellency, sir," Magnan contradicted, exceeding Farragut's audacity.

 

            "So, he found a pillar which had been taught by some marooned space'n, no doubt, to parrot a few earthly phrases," the AE and MP dismissed the matter.

 

            "Hardly, sir, the creature actually communicated with him telepathically! Together, they worked out an arrangement whereby the peaceful, indeed inconspicuous local population, until then spending their time sleeping and moulting, were organized into disciplined mobs whose assignment it was to stir up the local Terry community, consisting as it did of the crews, and descendants thereof of a number of off-course vessels which had crashed here over the years. The latter found, to their great astonishment, that strange forces were at work here on Sardon— "

 

            "Has no business here in the first place," His Excellency cut in. "Damned nuisance, these distressed spacemen. This TERRI organization is their idea of regularizing their state, I suppose."

 

            "Probably, sir, something like that," Magnan whimpered. "But the point is, as I was saying—"

 

            "Will you kindly come to this alleged point of yours, Ben Magnan!" the Chief of Mission yelled.

 

            "The point, sir," Magnan intoned as impressively as one can intone while being humiliated in the presence of one's Maiden in Distress, who is tugging at one's arm and whispering urgently in one's ear.

 

            "—tell the bag of wind to go blow himself out to sea, Benny!" Magnan shook off the tempting proposal, and resumed more or less where he had left off, "that Sid Overbore, in conclusion with an illegally educated local mobster, has transformed a once-peaceful world into a hotbed of intrigue, terrorism, and anarchy, and one in which the Terran Mission itself is menaced with disaster!"

 

            "Heavy," Shortfall commented. At that moment, the door burst open and Bill, neatly shaved and uniformed, burst in, dragging by one upper arm the resisting bulk of Chief Smeer.

 

            "Why," Shortfall cried, jumping to his feet with such haste as to knock over his hip-o-matic swivel, which threshed against the carpet, gribble-hide, hand-loomed, Chief of Mission, for the use of, like a stricken thing.

 

            "Why, it's Foreign minister Blott," Shortfall continued his 7990a (Astonished Delight at an Unexpected Pleasure and Honor).

 

            "Looky who I found tryna do a soft-shoe through the side-door," Bill announced proudly. "Hi, General, and Mister Magnan." He went on, "Big, you and Gabe here, lemme innerdooce His Excellency, the Terry Ambassador, Elmer Shortfall."

 

            Shortfall was still on his feet, staring in amazement at the young Marine.

 

            "Sergeant!" he barked. "What is the meaning of this outrage? Kindly release the Foreign Minister at once. Mr. Blott," he pressed on gamely, "pray accept my abject apologies for this unseemly occurence. I assure Your Excellency that it is not Terran policy to manhandle local dignitaries paying a call on the Terran legate!"

 

            "Skip all that, Elmer," Smeer returned casually, gently massaging the member Bill had released. "What I wanna know, are you sticking with the deal Sid and me negotiated, or what?"

 

            "Why, Mr. Minister," Shortfall responded eagerly, "I'm sure that any accommodation worked out with the planetary government by my Counselor during my brief indisposition following my rather informal reception at the port will be quite acceptable to Sector, and of course to me personally."

 

            "We were gonna leave Sector out of this," Smeer corrected. "Just a quiet, little deal between beings-of-the-Galaxy, OK?"

 

            "As to that, Mr. Minister," Elmer responded, "I can hardly negotiate a treaty establishing the basis of Terran-Sardonic relations for the next few millenia entirely on my own!"

 

            "Say, Mr. Magnan," Bill spoke up in the momentary silence. "Ain't nobody gonna tell His Ex this heel is a renegade cop, and not no Foreign Minister, which there ain't one hereabouts?" Magnan shushed the lad.

 

            "You don't get it, Elmer," Smeer announced. "This here got nothing to do with no treaty. Just the old handshake. Right?" The cheeky local bustled forward and offered His Excellency a callussed member, which the latter took in gingerly fashion and dropped at once, wiping his hand furtively on his issue striped pants.

 

            "By all means, my dear Blott!" he agreed enthusiastically. "Those lintheads back at Sector prolly never heard o' good old Sardon anyway!"

 

            "Is that for the record, sir?" Euphonia Furkle inquired, materializing at His Ex's elbow in a fashion quite unexplicable for a woman of her bulk.

 

            "The record?" Shortfall yelled. "I've told you a thousand times, Miss Furkle, don't creep up on me like that! And forget the record, just for the moment, of course. I'm feeling my man, Furkie," he added in a confidential tone. "Let's keep this all quite informal for the moment," he cried in the tone of one proposing a late party.

 

            "OK by me, Elmer," Smeer spoke up. "I guess maybe we got one or two little points here that kind of strain Terry ethics a little, not to say nothing about the old SAP."

 

            "What old sap?" Shortfall challenged. "I trust you're not referring to me in that unseemly fashion!"

 

            "The Strong Anthropic Principle, you know, Elmer," Smeer cajoled. "We agreed to relax it a little here and there to accommodate the local SSP and all, and that about wraps it up. OK if I put this here Retief unner arrest now?"

 

            "What for?" Shortfall barked, more surprised than indignant. "What's the fellow been up to now?"

 

            "Notta thing, sir," Magnan spoke up. "Like myself, Mr. Retief has been the victim of as baroque a chain of circumstances as have been recorded in Corps history."

 

            "Oh, yes, there's the matter of Corps history," Shortfall acceeded. "One dislikes to contemplate the footnote accorded to early Terry-Sardon relations will record. Riots, mayhem, the kidnapping of the Foreign Minister, to say nothing of rampant racism, isolationism, you should pardon the expression, war-mongering, inciting to riot and so on."

 

            "I never done some o' that stuff, Elmer," Smeer Blott objected. "The war, now: that was old Boss's idea, and then the rest o' them wild Terries which the woods are full of 'em got big ideas, so nacherly I hadda protect my turf! Just hand over this Retief here, and we'll call it square."

 

            "That's more generous of you, I'm sure, Mr. Minister," Shortfall gushed. "Of course, there are one or two trifling technicalities with which to deal."

 

            "Under the rug, eh, Elmer?" Smeer proposed confidentially. "Like the part about the private girlie ranch for you and the double-sized San Souci onna beach at someplace Sid called Beauticia, and the string o' ponies, and the '31 Isotta Sedanca de ville replica, and the stock o' aged Lovenbroy red and black, and the rest o' the stuff Sid put in to keep you happy."

 

            "Keep me happy?" the Ambassador yelled. "Preposterous! A thirty-one, you say, with full quadriphibian gear, concours condition, tump-leather throughout? Thoughtful fellow, Sid. By the way, where is he?"

 

            "Right here," Overbore spoke up from his position flat on the carpet where Small's weight had been keeping him still and silent. "Get this Neanderthal off me, Your Ex, and I'll tell you about the best part."

 

            His Excellency hastened forward to assist his Number Two to his feet, helped brush the leaf-mold and spidoid-webs from his travel-stained garments and helped him to a chair.

 

            " 'The best part,' you say, Siddy," the Number One prompted. "And pray tell, just what concessions did you make in the course of your doubdess brilliant negotiation?"

 

            "Well, I had to agree to overlook a few minor irregularities, of course," Sid informed his solicitous chief. "Naturally, I accepted the status quo, power-struggle-wise, but there's the question of old Worm still to be resolved, but I assured His Ex, the Foreign Minister, that Terra was a sophisticated enough Galactic power to take a reasonable stand on thatX*

 

            "On what, precisely, Sid?" his chief pled. "Do give me the substance of your quid pro quo, Sid, I'm all aquiver to get on the SWIFT gear and inform Sector of my brilliant coup."

 

            "Back to that, eh?" Smeer spoke up with a new note of arrogance in his squeaky voice.

 

            "The point is, of course, negotiable," Elmer hastened to reassure the Sardonic dignitary. "The girlie-ranch," he recalled, musingly. "I get to select—that is, I trust these homeless waifs are being well-cared for in the meantime?" The Great Man sat meditating for a moment then slapped the solid iridium desk with a sharp report.

 

            "If I'm to get all these goodies," he said in a tone of Dawning Realization (2031-e), "what in heck is Sid setting up for himself?"

 

            "Nothing much, sir," Overbore hastened to reassure his Chief; "only a modest residence right here on Sardon, so as to maintain surveillance of compliance with the terms of the treaty, of course."

 

            "No girlie-ranch?" Shortfall insisted, "no '31 Isotta?"

 

            "By the way, Sid," Smeer interjected, "is it OK if the red and green corundum crystals and the carbon ones and the element of atomic number 79 are cut and polished and stored in lock-boxes, or did you want the fun of mining 'em yerself from that patch of ground yer goodies-detector snowed you?"

 

            "Stored in a modest vault will do nicely," Sid dismissed the matter. "No need to quote the trifling details just now."

 

            "You mean about being Emperor and having us build that palace and all," Smeer guessed.

 

            "Enough!" Prince William spoke up suddenly. "If there's to be royalty, let it be the restoration of the true anointed, to wit milord Prince Sobhain, King of Fragonard and the Empire de Lys!"

 

            "To be sure, of course, 'prince,' did you say?" Shortfall gobbled, straightening his tie. "Where precisely, is His Highness, and of course I didn't mean him when I characterized the present company as riff-raff."

 

            "Tis well he wasn't among those present and included in your insolence," William declared. "Else, he'd have rapped your skull before I could restrain him. But to proceed; I'm sure an escort of a squadron of Peace Enforcers to accompany His Highness home would seem adequately to emphasize Corps backing of his claim to the throne."

 

            "Jest a fruffle-picking minute there, fellow," Chief Smeer put in. "I guess before you go setting old Sid here up as Emperor of Sardon, us autochtones got a few words to say!"

 

            "Reasonable enough," Shortfall agreed. "But I was under the impression, Mr. Minister, that it was you yourself who proposed the arrangement, which, though at variance with orthodox Corps policy is not, I suppose, entirely out of the question." Behind him, Miss Furkle rolled her eyes in expression of dazed incredulity, but dutifully recorded the statement. Shortfall turned in time to catch the tail-end of the expression. "Furkie!" he yelped. "It hardly behooves the clerical staff to assay sophisticated diplomatics such as that 987-y (Dazed Incredulity) not unmixed, unless I miss my guess with a touch of 71-a (Don't Look at Me: I Wash My Hands of the Affair)! And turn off that damned recorder."

 

            "Sure, Chief," she agreed. "But are you really going to sit still fer Sid Overbore jumping you three grades of rank. Remember, you'll have to present credentials to him\ But whatever you say, chief. On yer knees, too, if I know Sid."

 

            "I heartily dislike the appellation 'chief,' Furkie, as you doubtless are well aware," the chief grumped. "As for bending the knee to Sid Overbore—" He turned in desperation to Magnan. "What about it, Ben? Is there any technicality I can air to weasel out of this one?"

 

            "Fraid not, Mr. Ambassador," Magnan replied with a smarmy expression, edging closer to Sid, who was still dusting the evidences of his foray into wilderness from his frock coat.

 

            "Well," Shortfall huffed. "Will no one rid me of this troublesome fellow?"

 

            "Thomas Becket and King Henry," Magnan guessed. "Surely you don't mean me to assassinate Chief Smeer? Or was it Sid you had in mind?"

 

            don't trouble yourselves, the silent Voice commanded, in a tone like Mount Rushmore. the matter is academic. chief smeer is, after all a pillar and as such a latecomer to my native planet. the only party with whom a meaningful treaty can be joined is myself.

 

            "And who, pray, are you?" Shortfall and several others demanded in ragged unison.

 

            ask retief, was the curt reply.

 

            All eyes turned to the referenced diplomat.

 

            "Yes, yes," Shortfall stammered. "What do you know about this voice in the head, fellow? I'd feared I was going bananas."

 

            "Tell them, Gaby," Retief urged the girl, who stepped forward and recited: "The pillars are latecomers to the scene, Mr. Retief tole me, and Worm tole him," she stated woodenly, "they have arrived only a few months before Captain Goldblatt. Both were led and benignly instructed by the resident intellect, a hive intelligence, comprising several hundred billion individuals, intricately interconnected by telepathic linkages, analogously to the interconnections of the hundred billion neurons of the human brain, only more so. This Mind welcomed the pillars, a party of malcontents from some place called Kruntz, a few lights out-Arm, and taught them how to manipulate the energies. Cap Goldblatt came along and this Wiggly helped him out like he said, and pretty soon Cap was busy revamping the landscape. Not bad, either; nice woods and all like he read about but never saw. Then more Terries arrived, and everything got messed up. But, Mind, or Voice, or Worm like we been calling it, is a big-hearted fella, for a fella with no heart—and no body, really—"

 

            "Wait a minute!" Magnan objected. "There was no native life-form here except for the pillars!"

 

            "Just one, sir," Retief pointed out, brushing at a long gnat.

 

            "You mean ...?" Magnan choked. Retief nodded. Gaby resumed: "It was just a lot of free-flying neurons—"

 

            "Free-flying!" Magnan exclaimed. "Those confounded gnats! Good lord! You mean all along they've been supplying the energy that keeps this madhouse running?"

 

            "Enough, Ben," Shortfall ordained gravely. "At least we have a clear record there; not one of the little dacoits have we swatted, goaded almost to desperation as we were." As he spoke, the last few attendant gnats drifted away.

 

            sorry about that, Voice offered contritely, didn't mean to be a pest. but of course I had to keep tabs on just what all you foreigners were up to. now that I see not all of you—or even most of you are of the stripe of sidoverbore and bimbo and his ilk. now, captainsolgoldblatt is a reasonable fellow, and i'm sure he and I could conclude a modus vivendi, which benmagnan, a decent chap, could embody in a formal agreement. so let it be done.

 

            "Just arrange for a layman dead two centuries to negotiate on behalf of Terra, you suggest—" Shortfall started, halting abruptly as the old spaceman known to the other Terrans as Sol pushed forward.

 

            "Not by a damn sight I'm not dead!" he declared vehemently. "Sure, I'll work out a deal with old Worm. Told you he wasn't a bad fellow," he told Magnan, who was dithering, uncertain whether to offer the old fellow a chair, or summon the Marine guard.

 

            "Y-you mean ...?" he stuttered, "you're really the fabled Captain Goldblatt? Heavens, what an honor, sir!" He urged the old fellow to a chair, while Shortfall righted his hip-o-matic and settled himself in it, assuming his Benign (1-c) expression.

 

            "As you were saying, sir?" he prompted. "Just sketch in the broad outline, and I'll have my staff fill in the details." He turned reluctantly to face the irrascible Sol. "Captain Goldblatt," he managed, "you'll be hailed as a living monument to the great deep of exploration! It's as if Christopher Columbus showed up alive and well in Cuba! You'll be hailed as a planetary hero!"

 

            "Hero, schmero," Sol returned disdainfully. "I just want to get back to my retirement cottage, and see to the garden."

 

4

 

            Half an hour later, with an impressive document indicted, signed, sealed with scarlet ribbon and a blob of CDT-issue wax, His Excellency turned his attention to Magnan and Retief, still standing by after the rest had been dismissed, except for Gaby, who lingered behind Magnan.

 

            "In your case, Ben," Shortfall pontificated, "your very ineffectiveness redounds to your exoneration. You could have had nothing to do with this mess, from which I've so adroitly extricated us. You, Retief, are another matter: beginning with your unwarranted assault on my welcoming committee, you've repeatedly violated hallowed Corps policy by Doing Something where clearly, Creative Inaction was called for. I've been pondering an appropriate just and dispassionate response for Mother Terra to place in the record. I've found it, not, I admit without some hints from our new friend, Voice, and this is it." He fixed Retief with a steely, or possibly pot-metal gaze, and told the erring junior officer that Terra had decided that permanent assignment to his curious world as Consul-General would be in order. "You've made this mare's nest, Mr. Retief," he declared. "Now you lie in it!" He gave Retief a challenging look. Retief nodded casually. "Now you, Ben, I think it would be as well if I assigned you as a Special Supervising Consul just to more or less keep an eye on things. Dismissed."

 

5

 

                Gaby attempted to sit in Shortfall's lap. "Why you're a sweetie after all!" she burbled. Then she hurried to Magnan. "Now that you're going to stay on, Benny, we can do something about loose-nating a nice ten-room house in Scarsdale, with a heated pool and a Olympic size tennis court, and a private bowling alley. It won't be much, but I'll make it home for ya!"

 

            After a round of hand-shaking in the hall, Captain Goldblatt set off to see to his herbaceous borders, and Retief went alone along the empty corridor and out into the sunshine of the noisy street, hung with banners, alive with an eager crowd of Fragonards; looked eagerly along the street where a lead dire-beast had just appeared, brilliantly caparisoned. Retief s eyes went to a narrow window in an unremarkable facade across the way; something stirred behind the half-drawn shade, and light glinted from polished metal. He started determinedly across toward the inconspicuous door.

 

 

 

The End

 

 

* * * * * *