Chapter Five

 

1

 

            Back in Space, Retief found that all Ree military craft had withdrawn to extreme radio range, their traffic, coming through faintly amid a background of star static, being concerned with such topics as 'orderly withdrawal', 'tight quarantine' and 'Terry secret weapons.'

 

            He bypassed Prute and the other outlying Fringe worlds, and headed in-Arm at flank speed. M'hu hu's refurbished tramp had the high-speed capability to be expected of a former attack destroyer. He was passed inward without comment by the TSA pickets, and at a fractional AU from Aldo, he made contact via tight beam with Sector HQ in the person of Undersecretary Clayfoot, the Staff Duty Officer, and transmitted a concise report on his mission to Slive.

 

            "I had to twist the Intimidator's furb," Retief concluded, "but he agreed to exchange all the Terran hostages for one VIP from the Corps Diplomatique, namely me. I'm to return in one standard month, after I've made sure the hostages are safe."

 

            "You say your name is Retief?" Clayfoot cut in peremptorily.

 

            "Can't be," another voice in the background commented. "That's that fellow—the troublemaker; Crodfoller sent him off on a suicide mission. Must be a hoax."

 

            "Never mind, George," Clayfoot's glutinous voice responded, off-mike. "I'll just pump the hoaxer a bit, and find out something useful. Now, let's just scan this so-called report. Hmmm, proposes to exchange diplomats for dirt farmers; pedants for peasants, unlikely on the face of it. Here, fellow: how many senior CDT officials did you say they're demanding in return for, let me see, one hundred twenty distressed colonists?"

 

            "Just one, Mr. Secretary, me," Retief replied patiently.

 

            "That's absurd!" Clayfoot snapped. "Even if we considered one bureaucrat for ten bucolics a fair rate of exchange, that would be an even dozen. And you say they're only asking for a mere Second Secretary of Embassy and Consul; preposterous! You betray your lack of knowledge of great affairs, fellow! Now, give up this imposture and clear the channel for important matters!"

 

            "I was pressed for time," Retief informed his superior. "I didn't wait around to negotiate a less favorable exchange ratio."

 

            "Indeed! Now, Mr. Retief or whatever your actual identity may be, I shall now test your bona fides by a few questions regarding matters known only to a select few inner-circle officers here at Sector: What's on the menu for next Tuesday at the Officer's Open Mess?"

 

            "Gerbil-culture burgers, Ka-swe, cultured hundred-year cug, peanut-butter and olive salad, and authentic Chicago smörgäsar," Retief replied promptly, suppressing an impulse to gag.

 

            "I can see the rot runs deep," Clayfoot said to his unseen companion, "the rascal knows his eats."

 

            "Probably bribed Jerry, the bartender at the VIP lounge," the background voice suggested.

 

            "By no means," Retief corrected. "The menus for March were on page two of the Daily Corps last week."

 

            "By Jove, perhaps this Retief really did make the gaffe of returning from a one-way assignment," Clayfoot muttered. "Damned inconvenient. I've already assigned a new man to complete the iceberg count out on Icebox Nine. Now, see here, Retief," he went on, addressing the microphone directly:

 

            "You're to keep this strictly confidential; not a word to anyone until I've debriefed you! Is that understood?"

 

            "It's jake at this end, Mr. Secretary," Retief reassured the great man. "I'm estimating Aldo in plus twelve-ten-two. I could use a meal and a bed before debriefing, if the tactical situation allows."

 

            "Good notion, Retief! I follow your thinking: if you were rushed direct to the Staff Duty Office, rumors might spread that you had Hot Dope— and we wouldn't want that, eh?"

 

 

2

 

            Phoenix docked precisely on schedule, and Retief emerged to be met by an Embassy driver, who whisked him to HQ at a speed well in excess of the limit established by Regulations. He was at once assigned a spartan chamber in the Diplomatic Officers Quarters and had removed his shoes and stretched out when a cautious tapping sounded at the door. He opened it and Ben Magnan scurried in.

 

            "Gracious" Magnan whispered. "I mustn't be seen here, Retief! It's top hush-hush, but when I heard that you'd actually come alive through a meeting with CIIU Slive, naturally I had to see you at once. Candidly, I feared for you—for, in spite of all, I have a feeling that without your peculiar style of diplomacy, the CDT would be the poorer. Welcome back!"

 

            Retief accepted the excited Econ man's handshake and reassured him that Intimidator Slive had turned out to be a reasonable chap after all.

 

            "Rumors are flying, Retief," Magnan reported breathlessly. "Somehow Jerry—the barman, you know—got wind of some immense plum of an assignment that's become available to a few select headquarters types, a result of your own dealings with the Chief Intimidator, the story has it. Perhaps I myself might aspire to be one of these Special Delegates, Jerry says. If you could give me the inside dope, Retief, that might just swing the balance in my favor. Surely, as an old associate, you'll give that edge, eh?"

 

            "I suggest, Mr. Magnan," Retief replied "that you let this particular plum go to some older, more deserving fellows. It's likely to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I don't think you're ready for it."

 

3

 

            When the majestic bulk of the august personage known to his underlings as Deputy Undersecretary Shortfall, and to his superiors as Tubby, had seated himself with a ponderous gravity reminiscent of the settling of the foundations of Boulder Dam, and had cleared his throat like the premonitory rumbling of a Richter 9 earthquake, the great man spoke:

 

            "Well, fellows, I suppose you've all heard the rumors of fantastically desirable assignments coming up for a few lucky chaps upon whom Fate and the Corps smile. The rumors, gentlemen are, in a word, true. And this morning it is my grave and solemn responsibility to designate those to whom this plum will fall. Proud-foot ..." Shortfall paused to turn a benign and slightly bleary eye on the assistant Political Officer, who looked bright-eyed and sat erect, "you, of course, are far too junior to fall within the zone of consideration."

 

            His gaze drifted to Career Ambassador Sidesaddle: "Now, Mr. Ambassador, you, on the other hand, with your vast field experience, merited serious consideration. Too bad most of your missions rated a big X in the 'Dismal Failure' column on your annual rating sheet. So let us pass on to ... hmmm, where is the fellow? Ah, there you are, Hencrate. Not trying to hide behind Marvin, are you?"

 

            "I'm skinny, sir," Hencrate said unhappily. "I was just trying not to look obtrusive."

 

            "I shall overlook your excessive modesty this time, Hank," the great man said in a tone of Heavy Indulgence (231-w). "I can tell you now that you are First Alternate on the Delegation of Honor."

 

            He paused for the spontaneous applause and congratulatory cries to subside.

 

            "Now, on to matters of more moment. Hencrate, Lackluster, Underthrust, Tumblehome, Ajax—you gentlemen are our first-line selections. Your team leader will be Career Minister Homer Sitzfleisch, a Galaxy-class diplomat whom I know you all revere." Again, faint cries and a spattering of handclaps sounded.

 

            "Now, you chaps selected as Special Aides and Attaches—let me see ..." Short-fall muttered as he peered along the table over the tops of the Ben Franklin spectacles he affected, "—ah, yes, all present, I see, as well as a number of excessively optimistic fellows. The following will kindly leave the room—"

 

            He tolled off the names of those eliminated, who dutifully and in silence filed from the chamber of the elect. The chosen few, relaxing a bit now that they knew they were in, listened almost casually as the rest of the names of the designated were called out.

 

            "Now, gentlemen," the Deputy Undersecretary summed up, "to you has fallen a proud and perilous honor: yes, perilous, gentlemen; we may as well face it: perilous because on your success rests the future of Ree-Terran relations for the next few millennia, at least, and the danger of failure is real. But all of you, I am persuaded, are of a stature equal to the challenge. You've already had your GUTS priority pre-orientation, and I now hand you your Cosmic-Category final briefing kits."

 

            He paused to unstrap an unwieldy briefcase of the type in which ambitious junior executives carry their lunch, and distributed pink-jacketed booklets.

 

            "What's this about 'ceremonial leg-irons'?" Underthrust demanded after a glance at his pamphlet.

 

            "A trifling formality," Shortfall explained. "A token nod to Ree custom. In the code of these primitive, ah, emergent, uh, developing ... inferior, that is, folk, the wearing of the comfy, lightweight, handsomely damascened shackles symbolizes acceptance of Ree dominance. A sop to their egos, Underthrust.

 

            "Now, as to the section detailing appropriate modes of address to Ree dignitaries, we must, of - course, as professionals overlook the superficially demeaning implications of saying: 'This inferior tool of a decadent tyranny abjectly supplicates his Galactic honor the Intimidator,' et cetera, et cetera. Doesn't mean a thing: it's like calling someone 'Mister,' that is, 'Master,' with no actual implications of slavery.

 

            "Oh, yes, I meant to add that a fellow named Retief will be going along as a sort of guide; over my objections, actually; still, he's been there before and may possibly prove of some use. Gentlemen, if there are no questions—" he paused to show the assembled honorees an expression which strongly suggested that there had better not be—

 

            "The meeting is concluded. Wear your new laurels lightly, fellows. Those of you who survive the experience—all of you, I meant to say— will no doubt receive appropriate notations on your next ER."

 

            "Lordy," a starry-eyed Budget and Fiscal man in from Krako Six murmured. "Just having the privilege of sitting at his feet is an education in sophisticated Nullspeak. Over a thousand cogent and syntactically faultless words, and he commits himself and the Department to absolutely nothing."'

 

            "He did not," the portly Political Officer on his left objected in a whisper. "He distinctly said there'd be promos all around when we get back!"

 

            "Hardly, Cedric," the Undersecretary corrected quietly. "I fear high-level Nullspeak is wasted on certain individuals."

 

            "I didn't mean," Cedric protested. "I only meant—"

 

            "Now you're getting the idea," Shortfall encouraged his subordinate. "Never forget the stirring admonition of AE and MP Slipshod, reveered be his remains, wherever they may be."

 

            "Sure, but what was the stirring admonition and all?" someone wondered aloud, then went on: "Oh, I remember: that was the one about 'The implication is mightier than the affidavit.' Right, boss?"

 

            "Pack carefully, gentlemen," Shortfall admonished his flock as he rose and moved to the door. "No need to burden yourselves with excessive reserves of denture-cleaner and rug-adhesive, since within the month you shall be either on your way home, triumphant, or entered on the roll of Those Who Gave Their All in the line of duty. Gentlemen, I salute you." With a final flip of his hand, the Deputy Undersecretary departed.

 

            As if a conversational dam had burst, a babble of conversation broke out at once, quickly diminishing in effusiveness as the proximity of the great man, and the likelihood of being overheard diminished.

 

            "—laying it on the line!"

 

            "—the privilege of participating in the briefing, alone!"

 

            "—did he mean by that last crack, 'Gave Their All', huh?"

 

            "—a mere figure of speech. Can't say he didn't warn us."

 

            "What about this tourist guide wallah he mentioned?"

 

            "—ask him a few questions."

 

            "Now, gentlemen," Homer Sitzfleisch, as Team Leader designee, spoke up in mild reproof. "Every assignment has both its positive and its negative aspects. I suggest, indeed direct, that we concentrate our attention on the former. You noted that when Cedric mentioned that we'd all been promised promotions, the Undersecretary didn't actually deny it."

 

            "He said 'hardly'." Underthrust countered bleakly.

 

            "You're just not used to the subtleties of Nullspeak," Sitzfleisch reproved his junior. "After all, why does the language possess such expressions as 'maybe,' 'in a sense,' 'perhaps,' 'about,' 'more than,' 'almost,' and so on? To enable us to communicate at a more delicate level, commitment-wise," he answered his own rhetorical query. "Now, chaps, let's get over to Supply and draw our special issue, as it says here in the folder."

 

            "I still got my doubts," Underthrust muttered. "If it's such a choice trip, how come old Shortfall's not going himself?"

 

4

 

            "What's all the hassle?" the chinless lad assigned as assistant to the HQ Chief Clerk, Message Center, inquired of his boss, a paunchy little man with an offensively silky manner, and mustache to match.

 

            "Not to worry, Cricket, my boy," the chief urged his minion. "Just another tempest in a chamber pot, I'm sure. Routine personnel action, nothing more."

 

            "OK, boss," Cricket replied. "I guess I got no call to put in for overtime to try to get this stuff off to Central Record Control ahead of the semiannual requisitions. I already got about a carload of them, and more still coming in."

 

            "No item for overtime pay was included in my last budget estimate, dear boy," the chief clerk pointed out stiffly. "Thus, clearly, the proposal is out of order. Get the Requisition collated and dispatched at once. You know how fussy General Services is about timely submission. Never mind about the queries that have been coming in from Preliminary Review. It's none of our business if certain posts are calling for hand-guns instead of hand-lotion, and flamethrowers in place of flame retardants."

 

            "Yeah, but," Cricket objected feebly. "And I was meaning to ask you: Is it OK if I let a CDTO-2 help me out? Fella was in the office looking up some stuff when the fecal matter encountered the air-distribution system, and he gave rne a hand sorting out stuff like these here personnel actions, transfers and like that; routine, like you said."

 

            "I myself cleared Mr. Retief to enter the vaults," the pot-bellied chief clerk replied grandly. "Has a right to, you know. CDTM-1-23A sub-paragraph two b, on Review of Records, covers it."

 

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