Chapter One
1
Sector Headquarters of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne at Aldo Cerise was a hundred-story slab of glass and blackish-gold eka-bronze, rising from a velvet-green lawn ornamented with the picturesque ruins of an angel fountain which had adorned a formal garden built on the site twenty-three thousand years before. The remainder of the ancient tiled street was essentially intact, lined with the vari-colored ceramic-faced palaces of the long-dead aristocrats of the deserted world.
A group of five Terrans disembarked from the CDT spinner which had transported them from the port which lay well beyond the limits of this long-dead city, on a deserted world of an alien star.
"This place always gives me the, ah, 'creeps' is the appropriate term, I believe," said Ben Magnan, currently serving as First Economic Secretary. His thin, narrow shoulders shuddered as his gaze darted along the silent avenue which thirty thousand years (standard) before had echoed to the tread of victorious legions.
"Cripes, Ben," muttered Hy Felix, the Information Service Attache. "Can't you just say the joint gives you the creeps just like it does everybody, without making it sound like a bailout clause in a treaty?"
"This, gentlemen," Career Ambassador Sidesaddle rebuked sternly, "is not the time for creeps, faced as we are with an awkward negotiation with a de facto invader of Terrestrial space."
"What's so awkward about it, Mr. Ambassador?" inquired Colonel Trenchfoot, the newly-assigned Military Attache, with only a touch of his well-known irascibility. "All we have to do is tell 'em to scram, right?"
The Ambassador turned on the colonel a look of Restrained Impatience (621-C), not unmixed with Greatness Sorely Tried (623-N). "That, my dear Colonel," he said coolly, "is hardly the diplomatic spirit, if I may say so. Perhaps you've not yet had time to read through the orientation binder, providing as it does the background to the present conference to which we've been summoned." The great man glanced at his watch, then up at the classical stainless steel facade which graced the ground-level entry, where two Marines in dress blues stood at parade rest.
"Sure, Chief, I read all that jazz," the colonel replied testily. "I still say if we run a bluff on them they'll fold like a three-card flush to a hundred-C raise."
"The allusion, one assumes," Sidesaddle returned coldly, "is to some ruffianly game of chance, which is precisely the diametrical opposite of the scientifically exact approach of enlightened diplomacy, which alone proffers hope of an equitable accommodation with the insidious Ree."
"Give these suckers an inch and they'll take a couple of lights," the colonel said stubbornly garbled (37-M).
"Your 37 requires work, Trenchfoot," His Excellency rebuked mildly. "I suggest you supplement your other professional reading with a re-perusal of the handbook Alien Organ Clusters and How to Read Them, I believe it's titled."
"Unless the rot runs even deeper than the rumors have it," the military man responded doggedly, "there's no aliens in HQ for me to read their organ clusters."
"Wait'll you meet some of these headquarters types, Stan," Information Attache Felix put in. "Maybe the rumors ain't so far off after all," a remark which netted him a frigid stare from the Ambassador. Before the situation could deteriorate further, the eerie silence was broken by a distant whining as of a giant and ill-tempered hornet, followed a moment later by a boom! which dislodged a number of tiles from the facades along the avenue to fall and shatter on the paving below. Immediately thereafter, a grotesque atmosphere craft of clearly alien design darted into view from behind the clustered towers and braked sharply to overfly the street on a strafing run.
"Gentlemen," Ambassador Sidesaddle intoned, over the chatter of bore-guns, "it appears we are witness to a breach of diplomatic etiquette of the grossest description." His pronouncement fell on empty air, however, since his colleagues were by this time halfway to the shadowy entry; noting which, Sidesaddle himself broke into a heavy trot toward shelter.
"Gracious, Mr. Ambassador!" Magnan burbled, as his chief arrived to take shelter between the two Marines, now standing at rigid attention. "That was a near thing! I do admire the way your Excellency stood your ground until the bullets were practically ripping up the pavement at your feet—but wasn't it just the teensiest bit foolhardy?"
"Perhaps, Magnan," His Excellency conceded modestly, "I was overbold. Still, perhaps the attack was only an expression of boyish exuberance on the part of a Ree pilot, without official sanction, and thus not an interplanetary incident worthy of response as such."
"The bullets still could have smarted," Hy Felix grunted, gazing after the receding craft as it finished its run and disappeared beyond the park at the south end of the avenue.
"Too right, Hy," Colonel Trenchfoot seconded. "The beggar was hosing us down with 50mm soft explosives, probably dum-dums at that. I'd better dig one or two out of the street."
He peered upward to be sure the coast was clear, and hurried off on his errand, returning the Marines' snappy rifle salute with a casual wave of his hand.
"I'm sure," the plump Political Officer commented, speaking for the first time, and still breathing hard from his sprint for safety, "that no hostile intent should be read into the matter. The more especially as we are here to assist in drafting the proposed accord with these confounded Ree!"
"Indeed, Hencrate?" his supervisor queried in a tone of Icy Neutrality (179-C). "It was my impression that the scoundrel deliberately chewed up the antique tilework at my very feet."
"Yeah, but a minute ago you said—" Hencrate blithered.
"I am well aware of what I said, Hencrate!" the Ambassador cut him off curtly. "It would be well for your own career development if you would give appropriate attention to my example of idealogical flexibility. A foolish consistency, Henry, is the hobgoblin of little minds," the great man concluded solemnly.
"Hey, you got that last part from whats-his-name, uh, Emerson ... or Thoreau or somebody," Hencrate blurted, with a distinct undertone of one who exposes sham. "Uh, most apropose, too, sir," he added belatedly.
"Apro-poe, Hencrate," the Ambassador corrected. "And I suggest you learn to distinguish between litarary allusion and plagiarism, the better to apreciate the bon mot."
"Bomo?" Hencrate repeated dully.
"He means 'bonn mott', Henry," Felix interpreted behind his hand. "Means something like 'wisecrack'."
"By no means, Hy," Magnan demurred. "The translation is more like 'clever saying,' with no connotation of unseemly levity."
Colonel Trenchfoot now returned from his projectile recovery errand.
"Did any of you fellows get the scoundrel's ID number?" he asked dubiously.
"I was quite fully occupied, Trenchfoot, in seeking to prevent a fatality in the person of myself," the Political Officer pointed out.
"Selfless, Hencrate," Magnan congratulated his fellow staff member.
"Talking about selfless," Hy Felix said loudly. "How come we're standing around here waiting for the rascal to come back and finish the job? Personally, I say let's get on up to the twelfth floor and leave the body-count to the military boys. Right, Colonel?"
"I see no impropriety in an orderly withdrawal at this juncture, from a military standpoint," Trenchfoot agreed, edging closer to the great glass-slab doors. "In fact," he added, warming to his thesis, "it might legitimately be argued that having drawn enemy fire, thus forcing them to betray their position, it is incumbent upon us to survive so as to report our findings." He opened his hand to reveal two flattened copper-jacketed slugs. "Caliber .082," he stated. "A nonstandard load, thus clearly of alien manufacture; Ree manufacture, to be specific."
"We already know that, Colonel," Felix jeered. "Any kid of about seven who builds model aircraft knows a Ree day-fighter when he sees one. What else is new?" Hy snickered, casting a sidelong glance Ambassadorward to assess the effect of his remark.
"Cleverly reasoned, I'm sure, Colonel," Sidesaddle conceded, ignoring Felix. "And at considerable personal risk," he added. "I'll see a mention is made in my next dispatch to the Department."
"Could of got us all killed," Hencrate amplified sullenly. "It's OK for you, Trenchfoot; you're in the Armed Forces, where they give you medals and stuff. But what would Sector say if they found five Terry diplomatic corpses blocking the walk when they went out for lunch break, hah?"
"Gentlemen!" Ambassador Sidesaddle cut in. "Let me remind you that ours is a mission of peace, not war! Let others expose their reactionary tendencies by over-responsiveness to trivial provocation! As for us, as diplomatic officers charged with maintaining a state of unalloyed chumship with our fellow sentients in the Arm, surely we can refuse to allow ourselves to be distracted by every trifling incident which happens to occur in our vicinity!"
"Oh, well put, sir," Magnan gushed. "And after they shot up your personal spinner, Chief of Mission, For The Use Of, too."
"As to that, Ben," Sidesaddle replied stiffly, "I've a notion a stiff note to the Ree Charge at Dobe will soon show that scoundrel the error of his ways."
"Ahem, I say, Mr. Ambassador," Hencrate ventured. "Wouldn't that proposal be likely to be misconstrued by some as sheer jingoism?"
"Jingoism, Hencrate?" the Ambassador echoed. "Me? You charge your very own chief with irresponsible sabre-rattling?"
"Not me, Your Excellency," Hencrate protested. "Remember I said 'misconstrued'."
The further deterioration of Hencrate's career was forestalled for the moment by the abrupt arrival amid a miniature dust cyclone whirled up by its air-cushions, of a fast, black-enamel-with-chrome-inlays dispatch car, Chief, Security Services, For The Use Of, which skidded to a halt athwart the carved curbstone, nearly colliding with the angel fountain.
A pair of CDT security men stepped briskly from the vehicle almost before it came to rest, and advanced purposefully, briefcases in hand, their expression grim.
"Find out what this is all about, Ben," the Ambassador directed his Econ Officer, stepping back to allow his subordinate to edge forward to intercept the newcomers, who first tried to skirt him, then halted reluctantly and closed ranks to carry on a whispered conference, which Magnan tried vainly to overhear.
"Magnan, CDTO-1, First Secretary of Embassy of Terra at Flamme," the latter introduced himself hastily.
"Cruthers, Foreign Service Inspector," the nearer of the two newcomers said over his shoulder, terminating his conference with obvious reluctance.
"Could I just ask you gentlemen what it is which occasions such haste this fine morning?" Magnan bored on as Cruthers turned his back to snap at his partner. The inspector turned a pained look on Magnan.
"No time for gossip, Mr. Magnan," he said curtly. "I and Sid are already running late; I hear Ambassador Sidesaddle that's supposed to be sitting in on the conference this AM is as temperamental as a Minority Spokesman about being kept waiting. C'mon, Sid." Cruthers brushed past Magnan to find himself confronted by the short, pigeon-shaped physique of Ambassador Sidesaddle himself.
"One moment, Cruthers," he said, holding up an imperious hand. "No need to keep the Ambassador waiting at all. I am he."
Sid, peering from behind his colleague's shoulder, stage-whispered, "Ha! He don't look so tough. Charlie. Show him your badge."
Shushing his helper with a curt motion of his hand, Cruthers assumed a confidential tone:
"Actually, Mr. Ambassador, as you yourself well know, sir, it would be a gross breach of security, as well as of the letter of the Manual, sir, were I to divulge the nature of the information I and Sid are delivering to the Undersecretary."
"No big deal, Charlie," said Sidesaddle smoothly, "just tip me as to what I'm going to run into up there."
"Well, sir, since you've given me a direct order, I must of course defer to your Excellency's exalted rank. Word just came in from Fringe HQ that Space Arm reports no luck all across the board. They've been running a covert search and destroy, and the only Ree units they've seen fired first. So—well, you can see, sir, that leaves the ball in our park."
"Our chaps surrendered without a fight?" Colonel Trenchfoot butted in loudly, netting a triple shussh! from the Ambassador plus the two inspectors.
"Quiet, Trenchfoot," the Ambassador added curtly. "Inasmuch as we know nothing, officially, of the matter, it would be well if we refrained from leaping to any conclusions pertaining thereto."
"See?" Sid said. "He did it again."
Sidesaddle stepped back, made Alphonse and Gaston motions.
"Don't let me delay you in performance of your duties, gentlemen," he said as if for a Galactic teleview audience. "Magnan, gentlemen, don't block the way."
"Gee, sir," Magnan blurted, "you don't think they've got the entry bugged, do you?"
"Not unless security considerations render such a precaution advisable, in the opinion of those gallant bureaucrats entrusted with responsibility for such measures," Sidesaddle reassured his subordinate, plus anyone who might be monitoring the bug.
"Golly, Ben," Hy Felix put in sympathetically, "His Excellency has got the knack of not saying nothing down to a science, hey?" He wilted at a sharp glance of rebuke from His Excellency.
"Not 'nothing,' Hy," the great man pointed out glacially. "Just the absolute minimum—so as to reduce the likelihood of leaking hot dope to enemy spies, of course."
"Well, what now, gentlemen?" Sidesaddle addressed his underlings as the doors whoosh!ed shut behind the inspectors. "It appears certain hotheads have assayed a show of force, but failed to intimidate the insidious Ree. That," he concluded with satisfaction, "leaves matters squarely up to diplomacy, in its pure form. Now, we mustn't keep the Secretary waiting. So, shall we, gentlemen?"
Hy Felix responded by hauling the big black glass door open for the others to file through. Bringing up the rear, Magnan paused to mutter to the Information attache.
"One almost wishes Retief were here, eh, Hy?" a gambit which netted him a sour look from the former editor of the Caney, Kansas Poultryman's Gazette.
"But he ain't here, Ben," Hy grunted. "He's still taking wildlife census on Icebox Nine or something, after that fiasco out on Furtheron, eh? We won't see any more of him fer a while. Not that he'd make any difference: these here Ree got the Forces buffaloed, and the Corps, too. Let's go on up and find out what the Deep-Think teams have come up with."
2
The VIP conference room in which the historic Peace Strategy Council was to be held was on the twelfth floor. Three banks of elevators discharged arriving functionaries from Missions throughout Tip Sector who, with the professionalism of long experience, busied themselves competing for advantageous seats at the long table, with its mathematically precisely positioned long yellow pads and needle-sharp number two pencils at each place.
"The principle, Marvin," senior Cultural Attache Underthurst advised a young General Services Officer, "is to pick a spot close enough to the head of the table to be able to catch the eye of the chairman when you need to, but not close enough to put you directly in his line of vision, if he's looking for somebody to ream."
"Gosh, thanks, Mr. Underthrust," Marvin Lackluster said, and neatly hooked a chair rung with his foot just in time to preempt it from occupancy by an over-weight Counselor from the legation at Moosejaw.
"At the same time, Marvin," his mentor whispered, taking the adjacent place, "one mustn't be thoughtless of matters of protocol; after all, the Moosejaw Cadre may be making out your ER some day."
"Gee whiz, sir," the lad replied. "I didn't realize just coming in and sitting down would be so technical. We didn't learn anything about this part at the short course back at the Department."
"Hist! Here he comes!" Hy Felix's nasal whisper cut across the hubbub from the lookout post he had taken up at the door. At once, silence reigned, as glassy smiles—"Not too frivolous-looking, mind you, Marvin," Underthrust warned —were adjusted in readiness to greet the chairman. Instead, a reedy Admin type came in, and cleared his throat. The profound, attentive silence grew even more profound.
"Gentlemen; you too, Hy," the advance man began, pausing for the academic laugh, while Felix took his seat.
"Gentlemen, as an index of the gravity of today's meeting," the Admin type went on, "no less a personage than Temporary Acting Deputy Undersecretary Crodfoller himself will chair the proceedings."
"Well, it's better'n George, the janitor," Elmer Proudfoot, an Assistant Political Officer, said in the too-loud tone that had so often delayed his career development.
"I heard that, Elmer!" the hoarse voice of the janitor came from the back of the room. Before Elmer could phrase a rejoinder absolving himself of prejudice against custodial personnel, the door swung wide and Undersecretary Crodfoller entered, going directly to his upholstered chair at the head of the table as all hands rose; he replied to the chorus of effusive greeting with a grunt. As he settled himself, his deceptively bland gaze ran along the rows of faces: he summoned his advance man with a jab of a plump thumb.
"Clarence," his glutinous voice sounded clearly, "I thought I told you to weed out the trash first."
"Gee, sir, I was just going to, when you arrived so punctually." Clarence consulted his watch. "Actually, Mr. Temp—er, Act—, er, Depitty Undersecretary, sir," he said boldly. "Your Excellency is twelve seconds early."
"Precisely," Crodfoller pronounced the word as if confirming proof of his infallibility. "Now, down to business, gentlemen." He waved away the hovering Clarence, picked up a pristine pencil, and began drawing interlocking rectangles on his pad.
"Any suggestions from the floor before we begin?" he inquired in a tone which discouraged response. "What about you, Morris?" His little eyes glinted at Ambassador Sidesaddle, who writhed for a moment before rising, having assumed an expression of Astonishment at an Unwarranted Challenge (15-B).
"Whom, I, sir?" he inquired in an ingratiating tone quite at variance with that with which he was accustomed to address his staff. "I?" he repeated. "Why, sir, isolated as I am at Dobe, well off the trade routes, I've had little opportunity to fill myself in on the particular problem—the Ree invasion, I presume you mean, sir.
Crodfoller drew a jagged line across the pattern which had begun to evolve on his pad and wrote, 'Sidesaddle, have record up for review!' Then he let his glance wander to the cadaverous, uniformed figure of General Ralph Otherday.
"Ralph," the chairman addressed the officer blandly, "perhaps you'd be good enough to outline the situation for Ambassador Sidesaddle, and any others present who may have failed to keep their Classified Despatch Binders up to date."
General Otherday rose, a tall, gaunt man with a heavily sunlamped face and a black brush mustache.
"Fellows," he began abruptly. "It's like this: those damn worms—the Ree, they call themselves—have been making nuisances of themselves all across Tip space for some months now. Our intelligence boys say they've strayed across from the Western Arm, and we've been getting howls from every Tom, Dick, and Meyer on the frontier: infernal worms landing and menacing settlers and generally acting as if they own the place—. All our outlying systems are infested, it appears, and with our thin coverage out there, we haven't been able to bring them to decisive battle. One report here—" he stabbed at an imaginary trideogram of Tip space suspended before him "—and the next one over here." He indicated a spot eighteen inches, or a fractional light, from the first. "We head out that way, and they strike behind us, just isolated units, you understand, no concentration of force we can get our teeth into. So far, they've nibbled their way halfway across the Tip, and are about to enter the Arm proper. Frankly, we're running low on supplies, and the minor skirmishes we've had so far have been quite indecisive. So—we'll either have to mobilize the reserves, or call for an appropriation that will enable us to mount an across-the-board offensive, or fall back to prepared positions within the Arm and wait for their next move."
"Ah, the appropriation you have in mind, General," Crodfoller mused in a tone of innocence. "About how much—"
"Precisely twenty billion GUC this fiscal year, Mr. Undersecretary," the general replied promptly. "Calling up the reserves would be cheaper— and faster."
"Out of the question!" Crodfoller's pronouncement blanketed the chorus of shocked gasps from the committee members.
General Otherday resumed his seat, clipped a Jorgensen cigar, and glanced Chairmanward inquiringly, at which Crodfoller boomed:
"Light that thing, Ralph, and we'll see what kind of job a buck general can do on KP."
The general deftly tucked away the offensive smoke, unlit, and assumed a bitter smile. "Sorry, sir. I'm just a simple soldier, you recall, not accustomed to such plush surroundings, of course. Out there in the foxholes, we get a little careless about the niceties like air-conditioning."
"It's my understanding that you and your staff are quartered at the Ritz-Krudlu, on Gaspierre, Ralph," Crodfoller countered. "Had no intention of denying a vereran his comforts, of course."
"Sure," the general agreed, "but what about these Ree? While we're sitting here jawing about air conditioning, they're eating our outposts and settlements like a Creepie swallowing jelly beans."
"It is precisely that question that brings us here today, Ralph," Crodfoller said reasonably. "I have, at the request of your chief, Grand Admiral Starbird, called together my Principal Officers and their key staffs from every mission above Consulate-General rank in the entire Sector! And I am now prepared, gentlemen," the Crodfoller glance drifted along the eager faces at the table, "to entertain any constructive proposals which those of you who, unlike Ambassador Sidesaddle, have kept abreast of events, may care to offer."
"What did he say?" Hy Felix asked Colonel Trenchfoot. "I heard him, but I got lost somewhere."
Colonel Trenchfoot shush!ed the Press man and cleared his throat.
"As the general said, sir," he addressed Crodfoller, "it's about time we got off our duffs and showed these worms who's running the Arm."
"Ahem, Colonel," the Undersecretary replied, "I can overlook your aggressive terminology because you're new to the give and take of enlightened diplomacy."
"Looks to me like we're doing all the giving, and they're doing all the taking, Boss," Trenchfoot came back cheekily. Hy Felix snickered.
"Mr. Magnan," Crodfoller singled out the inoffensive Econ man for attention, "What have you to contribute at this juncture?"
"Well, sir, if this is a juncture, I feel we should perhaps do something positive."
"If this is a juncture, you say, Magnan?" The Undersecretary's frown resembled a cold front forming over jagged mountain peaks. "Inasmuch as I characterized it as a juncture, you wish to question my judgment?" Crodfoller paused ominously and deliberately blacked in a square on his pad, and noted 'Run a 734 on Magnan.'
"Insubordination will contribute little to interplanetary peace, Ben," he pointed out sadly.
"All I said was—" Magnan began, but was cut off by Crodfoller's booming voice, his face now wreathed in smiles.
"Enough of dissention, fellows," he suggested. "Mr. Lackluster, we haven't yet heard from you."
"Uh, sir, that is, Mr. Assistant Deputy—I mean Deputy Assistant—er, Mr. Undersecretary, that is," Marvin faltered, looking desperately to First Secretary Underthrust for a hint.
"Why don't we just send 'em a blank surrender form, signed and sealed, and let them fill in the terms?" the older diplomat suggested in a sardonic whisper to his pupil.
"Why don't we—uh, just send 'em a blank surrender form," Marvin parroted, "and let them fill in the terms .., OK, sir?"
"Oh-kay, Marvin?" Crodfoller echoed hollowly. "When has a fighting Crodfoller ever been known to throw in the figurative towel without a show of symbolic resistance? I'll have no craven proposals, gentlemen! We can achieve the same results while at the same time saving face, if we put on a spirited retreat," he amplified.
"I say, let's form up a cordon and lay for the infernal worms out past Tip space," General Otherday proposed loudly.
"Warmongering, Ralph? Open warmongering, at that. I'm surprised at you, General. A bit more subtlety is to be expected of an officer of your rank, even if you are known as a hawk type."
"Sir, I can't sit here and let the Armed Forces be slurred," the general stated, rising. "Otherday, do you mean to stand there and tell me your service so far lacks resilience as to be unable to accommodate to the realities of inter-Arm relations?"
"As for inter-Arm relations," the general came back doggedly. "The less there is of em the better."
"Isolationism?" Crodfoller cried in a tone of Deep Anguish (17-V). "Pardon my use of the expression, gentlemen—but I was deeply shocked."
"Maybe we could sort of feint a move to get em to raise their picket lines to about the galactic ecliptic level," General Otherday improvised, "and sneak a task force in under them."
"Underarm strategy, General?" Crodfoller, overcome by strong emotion, covered his eyes and moaned. "I see I must reemphasize, gentlemen, that this is a peace conference. A unilateral one, to be sure, inasmuch as our overtures through normal channels have been spurned by the Ree—or worse, ignored. What's an Acting Assistant Deputy Undersecretary to do?"
"A Temporary Acting Assistant Deputy Undersecretary," someone muttered, an amendment Crodfoller pretended not to hear, merely jotting the word 'Rot' on his pad.
"But I think we all see the problem, now, boys," he went on more spiritedly, sitting up with an air of briskness.
"The time, gentlemen," he stated in tones of Impending Doom (731-W) not unmixed with History in the Making (003-a)(*A nuance not listed in the official handbook CDT-628B-1 rev. 6/9/25, but well-known to junior bureaucrats throughout the Corps, said to have been originated by no less a personage than Career Ambassador Spradley on the occasion of his announcement of the Yill-Terry Accord in 479 AE.) "has arrived: the time for creative diplomacy on a scale undreamed of by our predecessors."
"Cool, boss," Press Officer Felix murmured, sotto voce, "but what's it mean?"
"To those who pretend not to recognize the immense significance of this moment," Crodfoller went on, pointedly ignoring Hy's query, though he circled 'Rot' on his pad, "I can say only that History has not, heretofore, presented honest diplomats with such an opportunity to lay the foundation for an unprecedented era of peaceful coexistence."
"What kind of diplomats did he say?" Hy inquired of Magnan, his neighbor at the long conference table, nudging Magnan with a shirt-sleeved elbow in solicitation of acceptance of his good-natured jibe.
"Quiet, Hy," Magnan hissed, withdrawing as far as the confines of his chair would permit from any appearance of cronyhood with the notoriously indelicate Press man.
"I think, Ben," the Undersecretary suggested in an ominously mild tone, his gaze fixing on Magnan, "that if you and Hy would postpone your lively exchange until happy hour this evening, I might better be able to convey to the staff the need for immediate and effective action as regards the alleged incursions of the Ree into Terran mandated space."
" 'Alleged,' heck!" Hy said, spoiling the moment of respectful silence the rest of the staff had spontaneously accorded the great man's pronouncement.
"Everybody knows," Hy went on, "the confounded worms have infiltrated Tip space and dispossessed Terry settlers from their homes,"
"Hy," Crodfoller said sadly, "I've cautioned you before regarding the use of derogatory epithets directed at alien species!" He eyed Hy without approval. "After all, Hy," he went on, "after we've succeeded in our present effort and have entered with a treaty of eternal chumship with these damned worms, whom I'm sure will settle down to a more halcyon pattern of coexistence once they've been properly pacified and reoriented, such past lapses could rise up to haunt your personnel file."
"Just like not knocking the old-Moosejaw fatso," Marvin whispered over-loudly. "Which I might wind up with him as my supervisor someday, right, Mr. Underthrust?"
"A modicum of discretion, Marvin, might well be in order," Crodfoller suggested. "And I submit that calling Counsellor Lipschitz 'Fatso' is unlikely to contribute to your career development."
"I never meant—" Marvin began, but subsided at a sharp jab in the ribs by his mentor.
"You know, Ben," Ambassador Sidesaddle commented to Magnan behind his hand, "this one is getting off to an even worse start than usual. Half an hour we've been at it already, at combined salaries of maybe fifty thou per hour, and all we've done so far is find out that Space Arm wants more money."
All hands swiveled in shock at the sound of a diffident rapping at the door. Chairman Undersecretary Crodfoller, his wattles a dangerous purplish shade, assumed an expression of Astonishment at a Gaffe of Unprecedented Proportions (1231-p) and grated, "See what they want, George."
The janitor dutifully went to the door, opened it and was thrust aside by a young fellow in the blues of a Naval rating, holding a strip of gram paper before him as if it were about to burst into flames.
"Par me, fellows," he blurted, "I got some hot poop here the Chief said you wanna see." He looked inquiringly at Crodfoller at the head of the table, then summarized:
"Seems like one of your boys is in deep stuff, Mr. Assis—uh, Deputy ..."
" 'Mr. Undersecretary' will do, my boy," Crodfoller offered kindly.
"Sure, Mr. Undersecretary, sir," the yeoman agreed, nodding vigorously. "Anyways, we got word here the worms have now took over Region Thirteen. Not a whole lot out there, but according to the records, you got some kinda dog-catcher out on Icebox Nine, which it's in that area, taking a icicle census or like that." The lad guffawed comfortably to indicate that he was essaying a jest.
"To be sure," Crodfoller conceded, nodding in agreement with himself. "Dismissed, my boy."
The yeoman saluted and left.
Crodfoller addressed Magnan, "I seem to recall something of the matter, a sort of semi-disciplinary thing, wasn't it Ben? Some sort of insubordination charge. I recall you testified in the fellow's favor at the hearings."
Magnan nodded. "Yes sir: not exactly in his favor, sir; just the truth. There were extenuating circumstances. Although he did leave a Career Ambassador to languish in a Crawlie dungeon for a week or two, he was the one who rescued him, otherwise he'd still be in stir or worse."
"Doubtless," the chairman said doubtfully. "In any case, Ben, it's not wise to allow oneself to be drawn into such matters; tendency to acquire guilt by association, you know."
"Oh, but I was associated with him—Retief was his name, Mr. Undersecretary," Magnan pointed out. "Through no fault of my own, we served together at Furtheron and a number of other stations—you remember, he was a third secretary in your mission to Petreac—and actually, I sort of miss him. How long was he supposed to be on detached duty?"
"Oh, a normal hardship post tour, I suppose, perhaps thirteen months standard," Crodfoller replied. "But as I seem to recall, the fellow was something of a chronic trouble-maker, so it's just as well he's out of the way for a time."
"Oh, I was just thinking, Mr. Undersecretary," Magnan said almost wistfully. "Retief used to have a kind of knack for cutting through the formalities and getting down to cases. Unorthodox, of course, but with blank surrender forms under discussion, perhaps we need his unique approach."
"Perish the thought, Ben," the Chairman grunted. "An idea like that is enough to make blank surrender forms seem almost reasonable."
"I suppose so," Magnan agreed, wagging his narrow head in resignation. "Still, we can't very well let one of our own perish miserably at the hands of the aggressors, while we do nothing ... I hope."
"Certainly not, Magnan. In fact, you yourself may draft a stiff Note, requesting his return in a reasonable time. Nothing truculent, of course. A 'We beings of the world quite understand this Retief got himself in this fix on his own, he'll have to get out the same way."
"Precisely my point, Hy," Crodfoller said quickly. "And don't you worry about the old retirement."
"Marvin," Underthrust whispered urgently to the neophyte, "did you see how quickly his Ex checked over his possible response spectrum, and selected a winner? Hardly paused. Magnificent!"
"Yessir," Lackluster confirmed enthusiastically, "I noticed his face writhing a little, when he tried on a 602 Indignation, then a 431 Reluctant Satisfaction with a Subordinate's Performance."
"Still," Magnan persisted, with a slight quaver, "I think perhaps we have a sort of obligation, almost, in a sense, to attempt—to state an intention to try to attempt, that is—some kind of affirmative action to show these worms they can't just invade Terry-mandated space and capture harmless Terry bureaucrats." He sat down abruptly.
"I hope I didn't express myself too vigorously, Your Excellency," he added. "Perhaps I got a little carried away."
"By no means, Ben," Crodfoller said kindly. "Actually, I admire your spirited efforts in support of a colleague—a junior, at that— no matter how he himself may have contributed to the present contretemps."
"He contributed to it, sir?" Magnan echoed. "How? All he did was go where he was assigned."
"Indeed, Ben? Are you quite sure he voiced no resentment when he found himself overwhelmed by an unauthorized invasion of aliens?"
"Why, no, sir," Magnan quavered. "As to that, why, I suppose perhaps he might well have expressed some objection."
"So you see?" Crodfoller beamed along the board. "No need overly to excite ourselves, gentlemen, though I shall look into the matter one day soon, when other, more substantive matters have been dealt with. For example, just how we can best indicate to the Ree, without giving offense, that our plans for development of the region do not include the settlement of hordes of displaced persons from the Western Arm?"
"I still say let's show 'em a little muscle," Colonel Trenchfoot muttered doggedly. "Not an actual attack, if that's too rich for your blood, but just show the flag, like, with a goodwill tour of Tip space by the Second Fleet, maybe."
"Threats of force, Trenchfoot, I repeat," Crodfoller intoned stonily, "are hardly the finest expression of enlightened diplomacy."
"To heck with 'threats of force'." Hy grumped. "How's about going directly to force, and no threats to tip 'em off."
"These reactionary comments, Mr. Felix," the Undersecretary stated formally, "reflect little credit on the Information Agency you represent in these councils."
"I'm speaking for myself," Hy said bluntly. "The Agency's just as chicken as the Corps— maybe more so."
"In that case, Hy, give me a break," Crodfoller demanded. "Don't file a story on the negotiation until after the apparent conflict of interest has been resolved. Why, I imagine that when tempers have cooled, and counsels of restraint have prevailed, you'll be very glad indeed that you didn't go on record with any premature pronouncements possibly critical of Corps policy."
"File what?" Hy demanded. "A first-grade spelling bee'd make hotter copy than this get-together."
The subdued hubbub which followed Felix's gaffe had hardly died down when again the deliberations of the august body were interrupted by a rap at the door. Grumpily, Crodfoller turned to rebuke the intruder, but the reprimand died on his lips as he was greeted by the entrance of a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in a scorched and torn garment barely recognizable as a CDT issue coverall, informal, undeveloped worlds, for use on, and supporting on one shoulder a bulky polyon bag.
"What's this, sir?" Crodfoller barked. "Your appearance is disgraceful!"
"Not nearly as disgraceful as his disappearance, Mr. Undersecretary," Magnan objected, jumping up excitedly. "Retief," he went on more calmly, addressing the newcomer, "we'd heard you'd been captured by the insidious Ree, out on Icebox Nine!"
"Not quite, Mr. Magnan," Retief replied coolly. "I spotted them landing, and decided to surround them, just in case."
"Surround them?" Crodfoller echoed hollowly. "You did nothing to create an impression of hostility, I hope!"
"Nothing much, Mr. Undersecretary," Retief demurred. "I just gave them a good scare, and let it go at that."
"Indeed? And how, may I ask, did you, a single individual, terrorize an entire detachment of Ree?"
"Easy," Retief said, as he seated himself and dumped on an adjacent chair the polyon bag-he was carrying.
"A small Ree VIP scout-boat landed in an adjacent sector," he reported. "Captain Fump, who seemed not only lost but at his wit's end, pulse-bombed my bubble and sent a squad after me. I dodged the squad, boarded the scout, and parleyed with Captain Fump."
"Oh, dear; oh, dear," Crodfoller mourned. "A VIP boat, you say; and you waylaid the VIP himself. I do hope you didn't give offense. A complaint lodged by an important Ree dignitary just at this juncture could prove disastrous to my plans for a Ree-Terry accord."
"Don't sweat, Mr. Undersecretary," Retief soothed the great man. "Captain Fump didn't complain. He got interested in my gun collection, and hardly uttered a word."
"How did you get here, Mr. Retief?" Crodfoller demanded. "All unessential travel has been suspended for the duration of the crisis." The Undersecretary pulled at his ear thoughtfully. "And it was my understanding you had been delivered to Icebox Seventeen or whatever by a Corps lighter, which at once returned to base. You, I believe, were to await pick-up at the conclusion of your assignment, some months hence."
Retief nodded. "I had to take Fump's boat," he explained. "Unfortunately, it got shot up a little on the way in."
"Worse and worse," Crodfoller mourned. "You had the audacity to preempt, confiscate, requisition—"
"Steal is the word you want," Retief put in. "Yep. I did. Steal Fump's boat, I mean."
"And then permitted the borrowed vessel to be damaged by an alert Naval Patrol," Crodfoller grieved.
"Not quite," Retief corrected. "Our alert patrols weren't around. Did you forget? Today is the Inter-Arm Friendship Ceremonial. All patrols are grounded for Maximum Fraternization. It was a Ree Dreadnought that opened fire on me."
"This," Crodfoller pronounced, "is disaster, unadorned. It's war, Mr. Retief! And yon precipitated it." Hastily the Undersecretary scribbled out a whole row of squares.
"No, just a routine foul-up," Retief corrected. "After all, the Ree fired on a Ree boat by mistake; no official Terran involvement at all."
"Let us hope," Crodfoller said fervently, "that Captain Fump is sufficiently large-minded to view the affair in that light."
"A fast Note of Apology ought to do the trick," the long-silent political officer Proudfoot suggested quickly, thereby scoring a point for anticipating his colleagues, a coup which the Undersecretary duly noted on his pad: 'Proudfoot—1 up.'
"Why don't we just send along a few billion GUC as a sort of subsidy or something?" Hencrate wondered aloud.
"What?" Colonel Trenchfoot barked. "Pay tribute to these pirates, when they haven't even demanded any?"
"That's far the best time, Colonel," Ambassador Sidesaddle pointed out, almost kindly. "This way we get to set the amount of the reparations," he finished, pointedly avoiding the word 'tribute.'
"Yeah," Marvin Lackluster blurted, "but what are we paying reparations for?" The young fellow scratched his scalp, miming Honest Confusion (32-b).
"Marvin," the Undersecretary said gently, "don't waste that rather unsophisticated 32 on this simple question. After all, when offered ten or twelve billion GUC in amends, are the Ree likely to query the philosophical basis of the grant?"
"But it was Mr. Retief who got shot at," Marvin persisted, at which the Undersecretary noted, 'Lackluster—stubborn' on his crowded pad.
"Quick action is essential, gentlemen," the Undersecretary rapped out in his most authoritative tone, a modified 738-z (Patience Reluctantly Prodded to Stern Action). "Initially, of course, I must prepare a formal apology to Captain Fump, for the signature of the Deputy Undersecretary himself.
As if to refresh himself, Crodfoller took a deep breath and surveyed a yet-untapped sector of the conference table.
"Manny," he prompted, fixing a steely gaze on his Communications Officer, who had been contentedly resting on his oars, "What's our best mode for a fast contact with this confounded worm troublemaker, 'Our esteemed colleague,' that is to say?"
The officer, who had allowed his eyes to glaze, blinked and offered, "Well, sir, with all travel out for the duration like you said, I guess we better get off a quick flash on the hot-line—only it's broken down, I hear."
"If it's broken down, how the heck are we going to get off any flashes, hot or otherwise, on it?" Crodfoller demanded.
"You've definitely got a point there, Mr. Acting, uh, Assistant Deputy, sir," Manny conceded forthrightly. "I was just coming to that."
"Maybe," a heretofore silent Political Section type from the Consulate at Dobe hazarded, "maybe we'd better try to get the word through via the Groaci Minister at Prute. He's handling Terry affairs out there vis-a-vis the Ree."
" 'Maybe' Eustace?" the Undersecretary queried. "Do you intend that to be a firm proposal?"
Eustace protested, "I only said—I mean, I was noodling. Why not shove it into the reactor and see if it melts the rods?"
General Otherday rose. "Gentlemen, I predict that Fleet orders declaring a Red Alert Status are even now being issued. Thus I will make every effort to see that my command is on a war footing. Action must not be delayed."
"Swell, General," Crodfoller acceded with a sour-sweet smile, his personal modification of the time-hallowed 29-c (Toleration of the Intolerable in the Interest of Chumship). "But," he went on, "just what is this action you contemplate?"
"I figure to have my Supply Sergeant stock up on smokes and ammo and stuff," the general replied. "No telling how bad the rationing will be."
"There is that," Crodfoller agreed sagely, noting on his pad 'See Mel re essentials'. "But even before that we must, I say MUST, gentlemen, proffer appropriate balm to the wounded Ree ego. We—Mr. Retief, that is—have, or has, offered an affront which will doubtless, as the general suggests, elicit a maximum response from the confounded worms. After all, until now, they have met with nothing but sweet reasonableness, unless you want to count the abortive efforts at interference which General Otherday attributes to our extended patrol units, and even so, their response has been less than conciliatory. Presented with the outrage to Captain Fump, I shrink from contemplating the repercussions. The apology must be made at once!"
On the last words, his voice broke, as did his pencil point as he attempted to jot a note. Then he looked up, his reddened eye falling in turn on each underling sitting slumped along the table. "Are there any, ah, less-than-totally-idiotic proposals, gentlemen?"
"I have one, which might qualify, Mr. Undersecretary," Retief spoke up, netting a glare like a fish-spear from the Undersecretary.
"And what might it be, sir?" Crodfoller grated in an ominous tone.
"Why not tell him yourself?" Retief suggested, as he unknotted the thong securing the lumpy sack beside him. He upended the container, and dumped onto the chair a blunt cylindrical mass which, the assembled diplomats judged from its restless writhing, was a living creature.
3
"Whoof, Retief," a gluey voice issued from the alien, which was decorated on its upper end-plate with a complex pattern of orifices and tentacular growths, from which the sound came. "Bagging me up was a pretty cheeky thing to do, you know—" the complaint was interrupted by a muffled sneeze. "Dusty in that spud sack, too," the alien continued.
"I seem to recall that at the time you were quite enthusiastic about it, Fump," Retief pointed out. "But I didn't bring you here to talk about all those promises you made when you were begging me to bag you instead of scragging you."
"A moment," the Undersecretary interrupted. "You suggest, Mr. Retief, that the captain was placed in that rather informal container at his own request?"
"Actually, I stated it quite definitely, Mr. Undersecretary," Retief corrected.
"Why in Tophet would he make such a request?" Crodfoller demanded incredulously.
"Because it was better'n getting recycled with the rest of the garbage," the alien pointed out.
"And why, my dear captain, did you imagine yourself faced with such a Draconian choice?"
"That," Retief spoke up, "was because I was aiming my gun at him with one hand and holding the bag open with the other. He reached his decision quite promptly."
"I bet there's some kind of rule against that," the alien ventured. "A CDT rule, I mean. Us Rees are practical about stuff like that."
"Don't make a speech right now, Fump," Retief cut in. "Undersecretary Crodfoller has something to say to you, I think."
"Sure, I heard," Fump said impatiently, "the sucker wants to offer me a bribe to put the hush on the outrage you slipped over on my boys and me. Go ahead, Herky."
"Uh, you know my name, Captain Fump," Crodfoller responded in a surprised tone.
"Sure, our Confidential Source boys are on the ball," the Ree dignitary confirmed. " 'Hercules Crodfoller'; how could a guy forget a handle like that?"
"I'm flattered, Captain," Crodfoller said shyly. "One was unsure that one's reputation had been noised so far abroad."
"Don't close out your memoirs just yet," Fump cautioned. "I found your name in a pamphlet entitled Reliables in Event of Ree Occupation of Tip Space. A list of easy marks, you know, Herky."
"I must protest, Mr, ah, just what is your civil title?"
"I'm a Maker of Ritual Grimaces, First Class, in the reserves," the alien replied. " 'Captain' is my regular honorific. Retief calls me 'Fumpy': I like it. Short and snappy, even if it does sound like some kinda Terry handle; no offense. Or maybe a little offense at that." Fump's sense-organ cluster hardened. "I overheard you boys talking about reparations and all. You can hand over the blank surrender forms now, and the fifty million Guck, too."
"Why, the audacity of the fellow fairly takes my breath away," the Undersecretary said in admiring tones to Ben Magnan, who was now standing behind Retief's chair. "And before I could lodge my protest at his implication, too."
"You don't deny the Efficiency Rating of our agents, do you? It was them as made up the Questionnaire and slid it into the system. According to the Form X-13 questionnaire you filled in—and signed—you're ready to pay up and shut up, if anybody jumps out and says boo! to you."
"I thought the X-13 was a personnel form I was completing," Crodfoller protested. "I felt I handled some of the trick questions rather cleverly. I assumed it was a new technique for weeding out, if you'll pardon the expression, isolationists. Like the sneaky one in the 'Ability to Empathize With Our Friends We Haven't Met Yet' column: "If you should discover local employees in collusion with black marketeers (individualist entrepreneurs, that is) to loot the Embassy commissary, would you (select one):
Clobber them and ask questions later
Request a cut
Demand a cut
Call for help
File a confidential report
Lodge an official protest
Fire them en masse (local employees only)
Volunteer to serve as lookout
Congratulate them on their enterprise
None of the above?"
"I spotted that one easy," Crodfoller continued. "Transparently bait to tempt one to an intemperate response. But if it was actually a fake, slipped into channels by Ree espionage agents— heavens! I shudder to contemplate the impression—"
"Sure; you can skip all that jazz, Herky," the cylindrical alien dismissed Crodfoller's complaint. "Us Rees are practical. So let's get down to cases: are you boys going to turn your backs and let us deserving underprivileged fellows from the Western Arm take over East Arm, or what?"
"Such presumption!" Magnan ventured cautiously, one eye on the Undersecretary's reaction. Seeing none, he went on: "As if we'd sit back and allow our brave Terry pioneers in Tip Space to perish for want of the support they were promised when we were pushing the Take a Trip to the Tip program."
"Now. Ben, I wouldn't precisely say 'promised'." Crodfoller demurred. "Actually, we said 'maybe, depending on the exigencies of Corps policy' and like that. Check the wording; I'm sure you'll find nothing to which we could actually be rigorously held."
"Anyway, it's a darn shame, just like Ben says," Hy Felix spoke up from his spot downtable. "Our folks have just about had time to start getting a little return on all the time and effort they've put into this Settlement venture—and all of a sudden they got these worms coming in and throwing them off the farm, or worse."
"The Corps," the Undersecretary said loftily, "can hardly assume responsibility for the success of private ventures embarked upon by rootless adventurers."
"Ten years ago we were blanketing the media with our Settlement promo. I know. Remember I've been in journalism a while. Back in Caney, even, we run ads for new breeds of amphibious Plymouth Rocks and fancy hummingbird-ostrich hybrids 'suitable for Frontier conditions'."
"That's neither here nor there, Hy," Crodfoller dismissed the protest. "As for you, Ben, I'm surprised at such intemperate utterances from a proven bureaucrat of your experience."
"Maybe Hy's bitch ain't here nor there," the alien put in, in his squeaky voice. "But I'm here, and I wanna be there, so what are you boys going to do about a little repatriation with apologies, for openers?"
"Why, Captain," Crodfoller replied soothingly (19-r), "I shall of course set wheels in motion at awakened until the situation is resolved. Oh, by the way," he added, "his minion Goop is estivating in the scout-boat. Farewell, gentlemen. Keep the old CDT flag flying."
4
It was hardly a CDT socio-economic audit period later that Undersecretary Crodfoller summoned Magnan to the Presence. After curtly ordering his underling to be seated, the Undersecretary fixed the mild-mannered Consul and First Secretary with a steely look.
"See here, Ben," he barked. "What's gone wrong at General Services? There's a foul-up in our Goodies for Undesirables program. I have a stack of complaints an inch thick, from Missions in Tip Space mostly, regarding non-receipt of vital emergency supplies. Space Arm swears convoys have been getting through on schedule. The foul-up is clearly here at Sector! What are you doing about it?"
"Me, sir?" Magnan cried in a voice with a tendency to slip into a falsetto. "Gracious, Mr. Dep—er, Assis—er, Acting Undersecretary, why ask me? Why, I'm on the Groaci Desk, as your Excellency is aware."
"Urn," Crodfoller grunted, a monosyllable well known to his subordinates in the Corps, and commonly translated: "I'm not interested in excuses: better come up with something useful if you expect to salvage your career, such as it is.
"I seem to recall," the Undersecretary went on with the ponderous insistence of a glacial advance, "that you once mentioned that you and this fellow Retief are cronies."
"Not cronies, sir," Magnan objected. "Chums, possibly, or associates, perhaps. That is, we've shared assignments to a number of the most dismal hardship posts in the sector. Not my doing, of course: doubtless Personnel can explain it."
"I'm not conferring with Personnel at the moment, Ben," Crodfoller pointed out coldly. "I'm interviewing you. Ergo, it is you I shall have to depend upon for any answers that are to be forthcoming."
"But—but, sir, what sort of snafu am I supposed to answer for?" Magnan queried in bewilderment.
"In place of sorely needed rubber stamps, red tape, and blank forms, our beleaguered frontier posts are receiving personal armament kits! How are our hard-working bureaucrats to keep their paperwork flowing smoothly in the face of alien invasion without the most basic of supplies?"
"Well, sir," Magnan mused. "Maybe they could sort of spring a little April Fool surprise on the worms when they come swaggering in—"
"Worms, Mr. Magnan, or, ah, Ree troops, that is, do not swagger. I remember that Fump fellow; it was all the beggar could do to stand erect! And as for April Fool's Day, Ben: your file is up for review by the Promo Board soon, is it not?"
"Sure, sir, but it wasn't I who shipped guns in place of gummed labels, PAPA gear instead of paper; it was Retief."
"Do you realize, Ben," Crodfoller thundered, a shade more kindly, Magnan estimated hopefully, "that while passing classified comm gear into a hostile world under duty-free entry as 'office supplies' is a time-honored custom, to smuggle in small arms instead could not only jeopardize this convenient polite fiction, at which all sides wink, but could suggest to the Ree that our expressed desire for peace at a reasonable discount is a mere ruse!"
"I guess so, sir," Magnan conceded. "But I'm sure Retief didn't mean any harm—"
"Since the fellow was undoubtedly instrumental in the fiasco," Crodfoller intoned. "It is only meet that he should be given the opportunity to undo the mischief. Accordingly, I am assigning him as Special Envoy to the Ree Legation at Goldblatt's World, one of those which were the victim not only of Ree aggression, but of Retief's mismanagement of requisitions! I am informed that no less a Ree dignitary than Chief Intimidator of Insolent Upstarts Slive himself is Chief of Mission there; our man will treat directly with Slive, to convince His Excellency that the CDT is indeed a pacific service, dedicated to cementing cordial relations with all our friends we haven't met yet."
"That seems a rather dirty detail, Mr. Undersecretary," Magnan protested mildly.
"Indeed, Ben? Rather, it is an instance of unsurpassed magnanimity. Let me tell you a story, Ben, concerning an ancestor of mine, General Lord Crodfoller, in command of the Twenty-third Foot at Gheewallah; in Inja, don't you know. According to family tradition, it was during a hot exchange with a well-organized besieging force of hill tribesmen that a young subaltern broke under fire and fled the field. Disgraced, he skulked in his tent, shunned by the Officer's Mess, and thus doomed to slow starvation. Magnanimously, General Lord Crodfoller summoned the unfortunate fellow, and handed him a dispatch for his subordinate across the valley. All the young fellow had to do to redeem himself was mount and ride across the battlefield in the face of the enemy. Instead, he went to his tent and shot himself. Sad ending, that. I don't suppose Retief is the suicidal type?"
"Oh, no, sir. At least, I don't think—" Magnan stammered.
"You'll find out when you inform him," Crodfoller said shortly.
"M-me, sir?" Magnan said, appalled.
"Yes, better the news comes from a colleague. Of course, the assignment has gone through channels and all that. You, Magnan, are the last to know. Or rather, the next to last. Go and enlighten Retief."
Magnan sighed and tottered away.
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