THE SECRET

 

            "Tell His Excellency to get down off that chandelier at once!" Ambassador Smallfrog said in a choked voice. He plucked appealingly at his First Consuls sleeve. "But in a nice way, Ben, of course," he added.

 

            Ben Magnan nodded and rose briskly, glancing up in surprise at the scarlet-robed and gold-braided amoeboid form of the Grotian Minister of Foreign Affairs, which was clinging to the ornate crystal lighting fixture above the table where the three members of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—Ambassador Frederick Small-frog, First Consul Ben Magnan, and Special Envoy Retief—were plying the Minister with lunch.

 

            "Heavens! How did he get up there?" Ambassador Smallfrog murmured. "He didn't seem the athletic type. Retief!" he whispered sharply to the broad-shouldered Envoy seated to his right. "Do something! But use no force."

 

            Retief rose, studying the manner in which the short, digitless limbs of the alien were entwined among the branching arms of the chandelier. He drew on his Jorgensen cigar to bring it to a cherry-red glow, gestured the hot end toward the alien's purple-pink hide, and commented distinctly, "We could, you know, apply heat to the Minister's elbow—or is it a knee?"

 

            The limb immediately contracted, scrambling for new purchase farther from the potential source of discomfort.

 

            Retief waved the cigar closer to the Grotian's nervously quivering form.

 

            The alien retracted his pseudopods and contracted his bulk into a gourd-shaped mass dangling by a single jointless limb.

 

            "Dearie me, Retief," Magnan chirped. "I'm not at all sure Terran-Grote relations are being cemented by your somewhat drastic sign-language. You'd better let well enough alone."

 

            "Factually, I haven't touched him," Retief said. "How else can we get His Excellency's attention to a simple request? He seems pretty much wrapped up in himself."

 

            "Retief, shhh," Magnan interposed hastily, "that comes very close to being a racially biased remark."

 

            "I doubt that His Excellency is in any condition to comprehend it," Retief soothed his senior. "I'm not sure where he keeps his IQ, but by now it must be squeezed pretty flat."

 

            "Retief, hush! He's listening—see how he has his ear cocked."

 

            "Actually," Retief said, studying the puckered organ on the undercurve of the alien's bulk, "I think you'll find that's more of a navel."

 

            "Correct, my boy," said a mellow voice which seemed to issue from the general direction of the dangling diplomat. "Pray excuse my impulsive and probably unconventional act in retreating to this convenient perch. I'll be glad to descend now, since Freddy seems upset about it.

 

            "But, Mr. Minister, we heard you didn't speak Terran," Magnan wailed. "That's why Ambassador Smallfrog has been communicating with you in sign-language all week."

 

            "Indeed? I assumed poor Freddy was merely vocally afflicted."

 

            Magnan resumed his seat and picked at his shrimp cocktail, which consisted of a glass goblet half full of ketchup, with half a dozen extra-large boiled shrimp arranged about its rim. He glanced up and blinked as the alien Minister, once again equipped with various arms and legs, all neatly fitted to the appropriate sleeves and legs of his Terran-tailored satin finery, settled himself in his seat.

 

            "Why, Mr. Minister, you fair gave me a turn," Magnan exclaimed. "I didn't even notice you climbing down. In which connection," he went on, "may I inquire why Your Excellency found it expedient to take up a position on the chandelier just at that time?"

 

            "Doubtless bad protocol on my part, Ben," Foreign Minister D'Ong replied apologetically, "but I was quite upset to find that a number of small innocent creatures had crept into my pudding and expired there. Alas, how melancholy."

 

            He dabbed with his CDT-crested damask napkin at an eye-like organ from which a large tear was welling.

 

            "Pudding?" Magnan echoed. "But dessert hasn't been served yet."

 

            "He means his shrimp cocktail," Retief pointed out quietly.

 

            Magnan glanced at the glass cup half filled with red sauce that had been placed before the alien.

 

            "I don't quite ... er ... understand, Your Excellency," he murmured. "Creatures? Do you suggest that you found ... ah ... some sort of vermin in your cocktail?"

 

            "Not at all, my dear Ben," D'Ong replied. "I simply noted that some charming little fellows, resembling dear relations of my own, had crept over the rim of my cup to steal a bit of the tasty red pudding, and had slipped and fallen in and perished, poor little ones. How too, too sad."

 

            "Retief, he apparently thinks the shrimp are sentient—perhaps household pets," Magnan whispered urgently. "Tell him."

 

            "Better not," Retief said. "It might not be diplomatic to imply that his dear relatives resemble a lower species."

 

            "To be sure, to be sure," Magnan concurred.

 

            "By the way, Mr. Minister," he went on, "how did you get down from that chandelier? I was sitting right here, and it seemed as if one second you were up there, and the next you were sitting in your place."

 

            "I got down the same way I went up," the Grotian said, as he stared mournfully at his cocktail cup. "I whoofled, of course."

 

            "How exactly does one whoofle?" Magnan leaned forward to inquire.

 

            "First, one must cinch up the sphlincters nice and tight," D'Ong said mildly. "Then it's essential to take care not to cogitate on trivia— diplomacy, for example. Having thus placed oneself in the proper spiritual frame of reference, one simply concentrates on the desired destination and—whoofles."

 

            "Gosh, sir, it sounds easy," Magnan gushed. "Retief, just think of staff meetings—when you think you can't stand it another second—just tighten up the old sphlincters, think of a comfy park bench—and you're off!"

 

            "Sounds OK," Retief agreed.

 

            "I can't wait to try," Magnan said.

 

            "You'll never whoofle while thinking of staff meetings," D'Ong sighed. "And beware of impulsive inclinations to twaffle with unsettling matters on the agenda."

 

            "Twaffle, sir? What's that?" Magnan cried.

 

            A pink-veined crustacean gave a leap from the rim of the Minister's cocktail glass and flew across the white-linened table. Soon the other crustaceans in the glass were twitching and leaping among the crystal and silver.

 

            "What the devil's this?" the voice of Ambassador Smallfrog boomed out abruptly.

 

            "Gracious, that's his 4-c Bellow," Magnan whispered, looking anxiously at Retief.

 

            "Wrong, Ben!" Smallfrog roared. "That was my 4-z, and I've heard tell I have one of the finest 4-z's in the corps! Now," he proceeded more calmly, "what's the meaning of this?"

 

            He held up a wiggling fugitive from the cocktail glass.

 

            At that moment, Magnan yelped and groped in his lap. He held up a duplicate of the creature the Ambassador was displaying. "It just sort of sprang at me," he blurted.

 

            "Serving live shrimp at table!" Smallfrog boomed. "Possibly the chefs idea of a capital jape."

 

            "Oh, hardly, Mr. Ambassador," Retief said. "The shrimp are processed and deep-frozen before being exported from Terra. Obviously the Minister—in understandable shock at a specious resemblance—is merely twaffling."

 

            "I appreciate your sympathy, Retief," D'Ong said. He indicated Retief's untouched shrimp cocktail. "You say that the resemblance is specious. Do you mean that the creatures in our puddings—?"

 

            "The shrimp, as far as we know, are not sentient beings," Retief explained. "They are, to the contrary, a source of delicious food."

 

            He grasped the tail of a shrimp in his glass, dipped the shrimp into the sauce, and took a savoring bite.

 

            "Hm. It does look good," D'Ong acknowledged. "Perhaps a teensy morsel—"

 

            "Take the Ambassador's portion," Retief offered, sliding the glass across the tablecloth. "Protocol forbade him to start eating before you did."

 

            As Retief and D'Ong dipped and munched the tasty shrimp, Ambassador Smallfrog and Magnan drew their chairs together at the opposite corner of the table.

 

            "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" the Ambassador muttered. "When D'Ong whoofles, he—ah—"

 

            "Teleports?" Magnan ventured.

 

            "And when he twaffles, he—ah—"

 

            "Is applying telekinesis?"

 

            "Exactly, Magnan," the Ambassador said. "You have achieved the difficult maneuver of Deduction Under Pressure, Reg. K72. Congratulations. Extrasensory skills!" he whispered further, with rapture. "Terra must secure the Most Favored Planet treaty with Grote. We never suspected they had such—"

 

            He broke off, and his face became anxious. "Do you suppose those five-eyed, weak-kneed, deceptive little scoundrels, the Groaci, are aware of this extraordinary talent? Is that why their Ambassador Shiss is pushing D'Ong for a Groaci treaty?"

 

            D'Ong, having ingested the Ambassador's shrimp, asked Retief curiously, "Why have your superior officers withdrawn from us into that mumbling?"

 

            "Terran higher echelon diplomats can't eat and think at the same time," Retief explained.

 

            "How similar the species are!" D'Ong agreed.

 

            The shrimp was succeeded by boeuf awe champignons and raspberry trifle. As the waiter cleared the table, Ambassador Smallfrog moved his chair back to its original position, and began.

 

            "To resume our discussion of the mutually beneficial interplanet trade treaty, Minister D'Ong, is there any little thing you'd like to request from Terra?"

 

            "Right now, Freddy, old boy," D'Ong said, "I could use a quaff of that magic drink from ancient Terra."

 

            The three Terran diplomats exchanged questioning glances. Ambassador Smallfrog suggested, "A Bacchus black? A daiquiri sting? A nip of brandy?"

 

            "If I might request a pot of hot water," D'Ong said diffidently. "I think I can offer a demonstration."

 

            Magnan called back the waiter and issued the order.

 

            "Hot water? Hmph," Smallfrog snorted. "Since when do diplomats imbibe water, hot or other-wise?

 

            "Gracious," Magnan murmured behind his hand to Retief. "All this fuss over what was intended to be a cosy little tete-a-tete, to make some mileage with the Grotes before that sneaky little Ambassador Shiss has a chance to start toadying up to poor dear D'Ong. And Ambassador Smallfrog is never at his best when faced with the unexpected. I suggest we slip out and keep an eye on the Groaci Embassy. Perhaps Shiss is behind the foolish rumor that Terrans can do magic with hot water."

 

            Retief gestured him to silence.

 

            The waiter loomed, pot in hand.

 

            "Just put it down, my man," the Grotian Foreign Minister said quietly. "Leave four cups."

 

            The waiter obeyed and withdrew.

 

            Magnan lifted the lid of the handsome Yalcan teapot and peeked inside. He sniffed. "Hot water, just as His Excellency specified."

 

            "So. Hot water to top off a lunch of jumping shrimp and puzzling issues," Smallfrog remarked with false joviality.

 

            "Ah, sir, as to the rather unusual events—" Magnan started, only to be cut off by a peremptory Ambassadorial gesture.

 

            "Never explain, Magnan. Unless I order you to, of course. With your friends it isn't necessary, and with your superiors it doesn't work. An interesting entry in your form 163-9, Ben—'this officer has an unusual sense of humor.' Perhaps it won't seem too bad when the Promotion Board is mulling it over. Shall I pour?" He lifted the pot. "Hot water, Mr. Minister?"

 

            D'Ong eagerly offered his cup for filling. He groped in a satin pocket with a seven-fingered hand and brought out a small filter-paper packet, limp and stained, with a short length of string attached. Calmly he dipped it into his cup, the contents of which immediately turned a rich amber.

 

            He withdrew the bag and with a courteous nod, dunked it into Smallfrog's cup. Then in turn, into Magnan's and Retief's, dyeing each the same deep color.

 

            Smallfrog hesitated, lifted his cup, and sipped carefully. A somewhat forced smile contorted his meaty features. "Gad, sir," he said. "Orange Pekoe, my—er—favorite. Ann Page, too, if my memory serves me right."

 

            Magnan tried his. It was tea, no doubt of it.

 

            "A delightful brew," D'Ong said. "A souvenir of my great-aunt R'Oot's visit to Terra a few centuries ago. I keep it for sentimental reasons. And as a matter of taste, of course.

 

            "Poor auntie passed away last week," D'Ong went on, "leaving me a few hundred million in gold squiggs and green stamps. Decent old girl. I remember when she used to dandle me on a knee she extruded just for the purpose. Alas, I won't be seeing her again, unless she decides to furfle—and I don't see why she should."

 

            "To—to furfle? Goodness, D'Ong," Magnan asked, "how does one furfle?"

 

            "First, one has to be dead. Quite dead, you understand, Ben. Indisputably beyond the quaffling stage."

 

            "And quaffling is—?"

 

            "Very useful." D'Ong's glance went to the tea bag he had laid neatly in his saucer. "But let us not linger over poor Auntie. Freddy has asked what would sweeten the treaty deal. How about a gift of a magic drink pouch for every Grotian household?"

 

            "Ah—well—one moment, Minister," Ambassador Smallfrog said, drawing back to consult with Magnan. "Ben, do we have—?"

 

            "Not at the Embassy, sir," Magnan said apologetically. "It's true that traditional ethnic groups and historical societies cultivate the use of tea-bags, but—" He paused. "The Ladies Auxiliary might possibly—"

 

            "Magnan!" Smallfrog reproved in a low voice. "Would you imply that His Excellency has taste in common with the Ladies Auxiliary?"

 

            "He may hold ladies in high esteem, sir. Not that I'm saying you don't, sir. I mean—"

 

            "You certainly wouldn't accuse a superior of undiplomatic prejudice, I hope," Smallfrog muttered.

 

            D'Ong drained his cup, wrapped the tea-bag neatly in a small scarf, put it among the folds of his scarlet robe, and rose from his chair.

 

            "A pleasurable lunch, Retief," he said, "but now poor Freddy and Ben have withdrawn to think again, and I'm late for my appointment with Groaci Ambassador Shiss."

 

            Retief rose, also. "I'll escort you to the door, Your Excellency. Don't let the Groaci impose on your good nature. On behalf of Terra I can assure you the tea is in the bag."

 

            Ambassador Smallfrog and his First Consul struggled hastily to their feet and bade adieu to the Foreign Minister, who left the room under Retief's escort.

 

            "I don't need to tell you, Ben, this is a critical moment for Terry-Grote relations," Smallfrog said, dropping into his chair. "Lying as it does, squarely athwart the lanes of expansion of Terran Manifest Destiny, Grote—though a trivial world in itself—can pose an awkward problem should Groaci influence become dominant here.

 

            "But before expanding on that theme," he went on, "I must ask you, Ben, if you saw what I saw a moment ago. Or am I hallucinating?"

 

            "Hallucinating, sir? Oh, hardly that, sir. All you've had to drink is a cup of hot water."

 

            "Skip all that, Ben. Did you see what that fellow did? Brewed four cups of hearty tea from a single used tea-bag. By gad, sir, there's a trick that will cinch the Deputy Under-Secretary slot for me if I can report how it's done. That is to say, an apparent suspension of natural law such as this must surely be looked into!"

 

            "Right," Magnan agreed suavely, "and I imagine it would be a feather in the cap of the officer who is able to bring the information to you. I'd better hurry off at once."

 

            "Sit down, Magnan. I fear you don't fully appreciate the gravity of the matter I've entrusted to you. See to it you don't let the secret of the tea-bag slip from our grasp. Procure tea-bags and see what D'Ong does to them. If you succeed in this mission, tea-bagwise, there may be laurels in the offing for you yet."

 

            "But, sir, procuring the tea-bags will take time. We must foil the Groaci Shiss right now. Do you suppose—?" Magnan hesitated.

 

            "Never start a speculation you can't finish," Smallfrog advised, "especially to a superior. Well, what do I suppose?"

 

            "Would D'Ong accept coffee cachets as a temporary substitute? Until we obtain the tea, I mean."

 

            Smallfrog frowned. "Regular or decaf?"

 

            "I could procure a sample of each from the kitchen, sir, and intercept D'Ong before he reaches the Groaci Embassy."

 

            As Magnan hastened to the kitchen, Retief returned from the front door. Ambassador Smallfrog said, "Retief! Has D'Ong departed already? We must have him back!"

 

            "Shall I go after him, Ambassador?" Retief asked.

 

            "Yes—that is, no, Retief. Magnan is earning merit points. Ah, here he is," he added, as Magnan returned. "Regular and decaf?"

 

            "One in each pocket, sir!"

 

            Magnan hurried through the Embassy hall and emerged on the front terrace. The broad avenue, curving away under the shady boughs of the imported heo trees, was deserted.

 

            The big Marine sergeant at the Embassy gate snapped to present arms.

 

            "At ease, Jim," Magnan said testily. "Didn't Foreign Minister D'Ong go out just now?"

 

            "Yessir—and nossir. Funny thing." Jim grounded his power gun, abandoning the attempt to maintain the Position of a Soldier. "For a second I didn't get it. Saw him come ankling down the steps and along the walk. D'Ong's a nice guy—usually stops to chat a minute, you know— but this time he did some kind of tricky sidestep and jumped right out of sight.

 

            "I figured maybe he'd wobbled into the bushes. These local pseudopods sometimes get unsteady on their extrusions. But I checked, and nope— nobody there except Mr. Prutty from the Econ Section smooching his neat little secretary, Miss Rumpwell. That's some duty, Mr. Magnan," he said indignantly. "While I've got to stand watch here, four-on, eight-off, this clown gets ten times my pay for keeping the help harmoniously adjusted to life at a hardship post—leastways that's what he told me. I invited Miss Rumpwell out three times and got a chill-off that'd give an Eskimo frost-bite, and then she goes for that crummy civilian—no offense, Mr. Magnan."

 

            "None taken, Jimmy. But to return to Foreign Minister D'Ong—"

 

            "It was screwy, Mr. Magnan. He sort of emerged, like. And the next I saw of him he was outside the gate, moving right along. But I swear he never passed me."

 

            "Perhaps you dozed for a moment."

 

            "Not me, Mr. Magnan. It don't add up. But come to think of it, I saw that crummy Groaci Fith hanging around across the street. Had a little pink parasol, made him look like a five-eyed Madam Butterfly. Maybe he had something to do with it, huh?"

 

            "Probably routine surveillance. I suggest you forget the matter, Sergeant," Magnan said stiffly. "No point in blowing it up into an interplanetary issue."

 

            "OK, but I'm gonna keep a sharp eye on the next local comes in here."

 

            "Quite right, my boy. Now I must be off. By the way, if Foreign Minister D'Ong should reappear in the next few minutes, just detain him in a casual way until I get back."

 

            "I'll see what I can do. You don't want me to arrest anybody, I guess."

 

            "Gracious, no, Jimmy. Arrest? Whatever for?"

 

            Magnan walked through the great wrought-iron gate and hurried away along Embassy Row. He went past the high board fence which concealed the deep mut-pit housing the Yulcan Consulate General, the placid pond under which lay the Rockamorran Legation, and the haughty, classic facade of the Sulinorean Mission to Grote.

 

            Next, there was a broad vacant lot with a "For Loan" sign almost invisible among the pitzle-weeds, then the low, unprepossessing structure of the Jaque Chancery. Beyond it, impregnable behind a high stone wall, the Groaci Embassy resembled an Assyrian maximum-security prison as visualized by the Galactic Teleview Theater.

 

            Magnan slowed to a casual saunter, veering close to the plate-steel gate to dart a quick glance through the 4-inch keyhole.

 

            "Hi, Ben," a breathy voice called from behind the gate. "Anything I can do for you?"

 

            Magnan executed a two-step, registering astonishment.

 

            "That 709 Back-and-Fill of yours needs work, Ben," the same faint voice commented. "What brings a Terry First Secretary, on foot already, to the gates of the Groacian Mission on such a warm afternoon?"

 

            "Just passing by, Fith," Magnan replied in a tone of Casual Indifference.

 

            "Don't waste a 301 Indifference on me, Ben,"

 

            Fith suggested. "If you expect to get a glimpse of nefarious doings right out in the driveway, forget it. Ambassador Shiss is too old a campaigner. He's got a special nefarious-stuff room for that kind of caper. Not that us peace-loving Groaci go in for skullduggery, you understand."

 

            "Of course, of course, Fith. It couldn't have been you the Marine Guard saw lurking outside our Embassy. But what in the world are you, a company grade officer, doing pulling two-on and four-off?"

 

            "Well, Ben, frankly, His Excellency has had it in for me ever since he caught me climbing into a tub of hot sand with the Lady Trish last Wednesday, when the old goof was supposed to be safely off watching a game of flat-ball over at the Inertian Consulate.

 

            "All perfectly innocent, of course," he added. "Her ladyship just asked me to check the temperature of her bath for her, to be sure she wouldn't get any damage to the ziff-nodes from that high, infra-red radiation, you know."

 

            "But, of course, Fith—we're both beings-of-the-world," Magnan said tolerantly. "Er—by the way—Foreign Minister D'Ong arrived here a few minutes ago, didn't he?"

 

            "Nope. I'm keeping four or five eyes out for him. Supposed to be here any time now. You don't happen to see an official limousine coming with the poor boob in it, do you?"

 

            "No," said a soft voice behind Magnan, "but here's the poor boob in person."

 

            Magnan whirled around. D'Ong stood at his elbow, robed now in green satin and silver braid, and with a serene expression on his rather lumpy features.

 

            "Your Excellency!" Magnan gasped. "I wondered where you—I mean, obviously you went home to change your attire."

 

            "New appointment, fresh robe. You Terrans are so drab," D'Ong said critically.

 

            "We weren't always—drab, I mean," Magnan apologized. "In ancient times we wore cloaks and doublets and garters and such. Nowadays the fancy robes are worn by the Ladies Auxiliary— no offense, Excellency."

 

            "None taken. More power to the girls," D'Ong said cheerily. "But what are you doing here, Ben? I hardly expected the pleasure so soon."

 

            "Well, that's diplomacy, Your Excellency. One keeps running into the same people—like Fith here—just beyond the gate, that is," Magnan said in a warning tone. "Fith was Consular Officer at Slunch when I was a mere Third Secretary. And then later, at Furtheron, we both served on the Chumship Team, arbitrating the Civil War. That's where I got this gash on the arm."

 

            Magnan turned his cuff to expose a crescent-shaped scar.

 

            "Nasty," D'Ong commented. "Got that in the War, did you?"

 

            "No, at the conference table. Between us, Mr. Minister," he continued in a whisper, "while Fith, like all Groaci, can be a charming fellow, he has a tendency to bite when crossed."

 

            "Well, enough of nostalgia for the moment, Ben," D'Ong said. "I mustn't keep Ambassador Shiss waiting. Until tomorrow at the jelly-flower judging, then?"

 

            "Ah—wait—Mr. Minister—"

 

            "Just call me D'Ong," the Grotian said affably.

 

            "All that 'Mr. Minister' jazz gives me a swift pain in the zop-slot."

 

            "Sure, er, D'Ong," Magnan agreed. "Why don't you and I sneak off for a couple quick cups of tea, and let old Shiss stew in his own juice?"

 

            "I couldn't think of it, Ben. One doesn't stand up a fellow-being, no matter how tiresome he may be."

 

            "Yes, but frankly, D'Ong, I have a feeling Shiss is up to no good. On the other hand, if I could speak to you for a moment, I could explain about a real treaty-sweetener as advantageous as your auntie's tea bag."

 

            "Why couldn't you have explained it at the lunch, instead of mumbling away to Freddy?"

 

            "Well, we only thought of it—"

 

            "Halt! What scheming Terry trick are you up to, Magnan?" Fith demanded through the keyhole. "How fortunate I alerted the guard at your unheralded approach!"

 

            There was a sudden outburst of breathy Groaci shouting from beyond the wall. A bolt screeched at being withdrawn, and the massive gate swung back.

 

            A platoon of Groaci peace-keepers in flaring red helmets and chrome-plated greaves with red and green studs emerged in a ragged column of twos.

 

            "To surround the soft ones instanter!" a non-com whispered in harsh Groaci.

 

            The troops at once formed a lopsided circle around Magnan and D'Ong, power guns at the ready.

 

            "Here, here, I protest!" Magnan cried. "Captain Fith!" He fixed the officer with an Indignant Stare (491-a) "You're making a serious blunder! Call off your boys at once!"

 

            "You know how it is, Ben," Fith said in his accentless Terran. "Got to keep on top of the situation. This puts me one-up. No hard feelings."

 

            "Au contraire, I shall have very hard feelings indeed unless Minister D'Ong and I receive an immediate apology."

 

            A hoarse Groaci voice called from beyond the wall, "To do your duty at once, Captain Fith—ah, Major Fith, that is, as soon as you have him bound hand, foot, and incidental members, and deposited in the torture cage."

 

            "You see how it is, Ben," Fith said sadly. "Ambassador Shiss is taking a personal interest in the caper." He turned to address the corporal of the guard. "You heard His Excellency. Tie him up! Be quick about it, nest-fouling litter-mate of drones!"

 

            The corporal paused to jot a note on his cuff, then laid hands on D'Ong.

 

            "Not the Foreign Minister—the Terry!" Brevet-Major Fith snapped. "Escort the Minister to his appointment in His Excellency's office."

 

            "Steady, Ben," D'Ong murmured. "I'm sure there'll eventually be a nice note of apology from the Groaci Foreign Office. But—"

 

            He broke off as a pair of Groaci peace-keepers seized him and hustled him up the broad steps and into the Embassy.

 

            Fith's sticky fingers were exploring Magnan's jacket pocket. They came out with the small packets of coffee.

 

            "What's this, Ben?" he asked. "A new product of Terran know-how?"

 

            "An old beverage, Fith," Magnan said, struggling against his captors. "Not worth drinking, really."

 

            "Poison? Not smart of you, Ben, seeking to poison Shiss and D'Ong and thus delay the signing of the Groaci treaty." Fith tossed the packets outside the gate.

 

            The penetrating voice of Ambassador Shiss called from beyond the wall, "Let's get this show on the road—Lieutenant."

 

            Fith leaped as if prodded by an electrospur.

 

            "There goes the old promotion," he mourned. "Drag him in, boys," he added to his troops.

 

            Four Groaci lifted Magnan bodily and staggered off with him, to the ground-level dungeon door. The massive Embassy gates clanged shut.

 

-

 

            Meanwhile Ambassador Smallfrog and Retief had adjoured to the No. 2 Reception Salon, and were refreshing themselves with a flagon of Bacchus black.

 

            "By gad, Retief," Smallfrog declared, placing his Toby mug on the table with emphasis, "a permatized tea bag ought to get me the Undersecretary-ship on Kreel, if not better. Did I tell you how I bested the Kreels during my Third Assistant days under old Charlie Gumlip? Well, my boy—"

 

            An hour later he paused in his narrative and remarked, "Ben is taking rather long to convince the Foreign Minister."

 

            "If he, indeed, was able to reach him, Mr. Ambassador," Retief pointed out.

 

            "Goodness gracious, Retief, Ben had only to step down the avenue to the Groaci Embassy," Smallfrog protested.

 

            "Exactly. The Groaci Embassy," Retief said quietly.

 

            "Hmph," Smallfrog snorted. "You'd best run down there, Retief, and find out what has happened. No telling what faux pas Ben has committed, in his eagerness to win merit points."

 

            "I agree there's no telling, with the Groaci," Retief said.

 

            He rose, sauntered down the hall, and out the front door. He paused on the terrace, enjoying the cedar-scented evening air. Grote's large pale-blue sun was near the horizon, and the shadows were dense beneath the heo trees.

 

            At the Embassy gate, the Marine guard came to attention. Retief nodded, " 'Evening, Jimmy. Have you seen Mr. Magnan? Which way did he go?"

 

            "He was headed for the Groaci Embassy, looking for D'Ong. Funny, the way D'Ong slipped right past me. I hope I didn't goof, letting him get away with it."

 

            "Not at all, Jim. I'm going to stroll that way and see what there is to be seen."

 

            Retief ambled along the shaded walk. Near-ing the Groaci Embassy, he studied the high, grayish-ocher walls, topped with corroded spikes. At the gate he paused, and stooped to pick up a flattened coffee packet from among the trampled leaves. He studied it thoughtfully, dropped it again, and approached the peep-hole in the massive metal gate. He rapped on it twice, and it slid back to reveal a cluster of eye-stalks in plain G. I. eyeshields.

 

            " 'Evening, Captain Fith," Retief said. "Where's Magnan?"

 

            "To imply that I, a peace-loving Groacian national, doing his simple duty, am aware of the comings and goings of Terry First Secretaries?" a breathy voice replied, then added in accent-free Terran, "Shucks, Retief, I just came on duty. You had an idea Ben was here?"

 

            "Never mind, Fith. I just thought maybe we could skip the formalities and get right to the point. If you boys are holding Mr. Magnan in your compound against his will, we'll have to call out a squadron of Peace Enforcers to make it clear, one more time, that you can't get away with it."

 

            "Curious fancy on your part, Retief. Why would we Groaci be interested in detaining a mere Terry?"

 

            "Skip it. Where's D'Ong?"

 

            "You refer to the feckless local Foreign Minister? He is, I believe, closeted at this moment with His Excellency, Ambassador Shiss, discussing means of enhancing Grote-Groaci relations—not that it's any of your business."

 

            "Better check your manual, Fith. This is too early in the treaty negotiations to start using your Tentative Insolence, 931-y. Stick to a 21-b Cautious Impertinence for the present, or old Shiss will have you on the carpet for impairing Terry-Groaci relations."

 

            "Mmm. To withdraw now, Retief, to see to my routine duties, such as inspecting my sluggards unaware, gold-bricking in the therapeutic sand-pit, instead of cleaning their power guns as instructed."

 

            He slammed the peep-hole cover.

 

            Retief went along to the corner and glanced down the narrow avenue that ran along the north side of the Groaci Embassy compound.

 

            The leaf-strewn sidewalks were deserted. A lone Yillian delivery van was slumped at the curb near the rear gate to the compound. Retief noted that it bore a legend painted in Yillian characters that resembled the word 'egg-nog,' indicating that it was the Yillian Consul-General's formal garbage truck. He noted as he passed it that it listed heavily to starboard. A sour odor of fermenting refuse hung over the grubby vehicle.

 

            Retief snorted and tried the rear gate. It was solidly locked. He stepped back and kicked it at lock height. There was a metallic tinkle and the gate swung ajar. At once, the snout of a Groaci power gun poled through the opening, then withdrew.

 

            There was the creak of a rusted chassis sagging on broken shock absorbers. Retief turned to see a heavy, gray-skinned Yill ponderously emerging from the side door of the garbage truck.

 

            "You Terries got an eye on this dump, too, huh?" the Yill said in a glutinous voice. "Some funny stuff going on around here. One of our boys came over to deliver a birthday stew to His Groacian Excellency and never came out again. Swell glimp-egg stew it was, too, aged six months, just ripe enough but not too ripe, you know?"

 

            "How long ago was that, F'Lin-lin?" Retief inquired.

 

            "About two weeks, come sundown. Hey, I just noticed—they goofed and left the gate open."

 

            "Careful," Retief cautioned as the Yill approached the gate. "There's a power gun just inside."

 

            "Sure, I know all that stuff," F'Lin-lin said carelessly. Reaching the gate, he thrust it open and instantly stepped back and flattened himself against the fence beside it. When the gun muzzle poked out, F'Lin-lin grabbed it and held on.

 

            "Watch it," Retief advised. "If he's on the ball, he'll set it at low beam and maximum choke, and it'll be red-hot in a few seconds."

 

            The Yill grunted and released the gun, which at once withdrew, while F'Lin-lin blew on his palm and muttered.

 

            Retief took up a position against the fence on the hinge side of the gate. After a few seconds a finger-like member poked out hesitantly. Retief caught the six-inch stalk tipped by a bulbous blue ocular, and held it gently but firmly as it twitched.

 

            "Nice going, Retief," F'Lin-lin said. "I always wanted to pull one of their wiggly eyeballs out by the roots. Interesting to see how much stress it'll take to do it."

 

            "To see anything, Quilf?" a wispy voice called from beyond the gate.

 

            "Not precisely to see anything, Whiff, but there's something rather curious going on. It got completely dark all of a sudden, and—well, better give me a hand. No!" came a gasp. "Not to try to drag me back. I have my eye fixed on something interesting."

 

            At once a second Groaci thrust out his head, all five eyes erect and alert. Retief released Quilf's eye-stalk, grabbed Whiff by the neck and assisted him out.

 

            The Groaci made a vengeful swipe with a heavy knout, missing Retief's head by an inch. Retief caught the weapon and wrenched it from the other's grasp. He broke it in two and returned the handle-end to his assailant.

 

            "Be nice, Whiff, and I won't tell anybody what happened. You can explain that you broke it over my skull."

 

            "To be sure, Terry. A consummation devoutly to be wished. Why are you skulking here?"

 

            "Where's Magnan?"

 

            "Where you, too, will end up, vile miscreant— on the interrogation rack."

 

            Retief lifted the business end of the knout. "We agreed, I think, that you and Quilf have no further interest in my fate."

 

            The two Groaci shrank aside and scuttled away.

 

            "Shall we?" Retief inquired of the Yill and indicated the abandoned gate, now swinging wide to reveal a cobbled court lined with stalls in which poorly maintained Groaci ground-cars were parked.

 

            A lone Groaci in a ribbed hip-cloak leaned casually against the wall by the dark, dungeon archway, fingering a six-foot pike. He came to a slack-twisted position of attention as Retief approached, covering the agitated twitching of his eye-stalks by pretending to adjust his top-three-grader eye-shields.

 

            "What's up, Retief?" he wheezed. "I guess it was you that spooked Private Quilf."

 

            "Yes, Sergeant. I caught his eye and gave him the nod. Obliging fellow."

 

            "Left the gate open, too," the sergeant said. "Quilf is overdue for a few hours on pots and pans, I guess. By the way, why are you violating the sacred precincts of the Groacian Embassy?"

 

            "Just dropped by to remind Mr. Magnan of a staff meeting. Which way?"

 

            "I'd like to escort you, but I can't leave my post. I see that Yill no-good F'Lin-lin, hanging around there."

 

            "What's your name, Sergeant?" Retief asked.

 

            "Yish," the Groaci replied.

 

            "It seems to me I remember you from somewhere," Retief said. "Squeem, perhaps?"

 

            "I was there when the dam let go," Yish conceded. "I lost my stamp collection in the flood—and I've never been convinced you weren't behind the collapse of our lovely new dam."

 

            "Several hundred yards of it," Retief agreed.

 

            "To have a personal score to settle, wise guy!"

 

            The Groaci jabbed suddenly at Retief with his broad-headed pike. Retief moved aside. The sharp point slid past him and nicked the door frame. Yish withdrew it and jabbed again.

 

            "To stand still, miscreant!" he hissed.

 

            The point lodged firmly in the hard wood. Grasping for the shaft, Retief was overpowered by the stench of prime Yill garbage as F'Lin-lin jumped forward and jerked the point free.

 

            The off-balance Groaci relinquished his hold on the pike and sat down suddenly. F'Lin-lin reversed the weapon and aimed it at Yish's throat sac.

 

            "What was that crack about a Yill no-good?" he growled.

 

            "To disregard," panted the Groaci weakly. "To assure the generous Yill the remark referred to somebody else."

 

            "Thanks, F'Lin-lin," Retief said. "Keep him here, will you? And, Yish," he added to the Groacian, huddled in his crumpled hip-cloak, several umbrella-like ribs of which were now hopelessly buckled, "stay quiet, before you lose any more face than you have to."

 

            The dungeon door was not barred. Retief opened it, walked noiselessly along a dim, stone-flagged passageway, and came to a downward spiralling staircase. He heard anguished cries from the lower region, and tiptoed down the stone stairs. As he descended, the cries became clearer.

 

            "Nith, you leather-brained rascal," Magnan was shouting. "I demand to see the Ambassador at once!"

 

            Retief cautiously stepped into the lower passageway and peered into the cell from which the demand was echoing. He saw Magnan strapped to a conversation rack. A leather-aproned executioner confronted him.

 

            "No use being a sorehead about it, Ben," Nith was saying. "Actually, you surprise me. I expected you, as one who has survived staking-out in the sulphur pits of Yush, to stand up to a routine interview in more Spartan fashion."

 

            "It's the indignity of the thing," Magnan explained in a sulky tone. "After all, this wicker-work strait-jacket hardly allows a person to breathe."

 

            "Just spill a few official secrets, Ben, and you'll be breathing in a trice. By the way, what's a trice?"

 

            "It's what you'll be in jail in, as soon as my chief learns of my situation."

 

            "Old Freddy? Forget it, Ben. Now, how about starting with whatever you figured you'd accomplish, snooping around here today."

 

            "I was hardly 'snooping' as you so insolently put it, my dear Nith. I was innocently waiting for Foreign Minister D'Ong, whom I wished to consult most urgently."

 

            "Ah, yes, the insidious D'Ong. We've had our eye-stalks zeroed in on that fellow for some time. Not quite the standard bureaucrat."

 

            "Nonsense. It's just that he whoofles easily."

 

            "Grotian semantics will not save you," Nith warned, finishing off a package of smoked gribble-grubs. "You've remained adamant under the torments of the toe-tickler and the Tantalizing Tasties, and even endured a half hour of tape-recorded staff meetings—in an alien tongue, yet.

 

            "But you'll not so easily shrug off the upcoming torture. In the very next cell is a cinema projector, a screen, and a full program of old Nelson Eddy movies. Thereafter, a broken man, you'll be only too happy to sob out your secrets."

 

            "Oh, not Nelson Eddy!" Magnan cried. "Spare me that!"

 

            "Nelson Eddy and the Andrews Sisters," said Nith remorselessly.

 

            He turned to open an inner door. Retief poised to spring to Magnan's aid—then froze as Nith swung back to confront Magnan.

 

            "The projector and the screen are gone. Vile Terry, who has been here?"

 

            "Why, only yourself," said Magnan. "You went into that room after you first tied me up."

 

            "Hm, so I did, making sure the Roy Rogers movies were in stock," Nith said. "The disappearances are a mystery. I must discuss them with Shiss."

 

            He started for the stairs. Retief hid in an adjacent cell until he was gone. When the Groaci's footsteps had faded away, Retief entered the torture chamber.

 

            "Retief!" cried Magnan. "Save me! To be forced to view a Roy Rogers movie is a fate worse than death!"

 

            Retief examined the harness restraining Magnan, then jerked the straps loose. The wicker-work fell away. Magnan stepped down from the conversation rack with a sigh of relief.

 

            "Let's get out of here while the getting's good," he said. "Two merit points are not commensurate with the danger of the job."

 

            "We can't leave before we've seen Minister D'Ong," Retief objected. "D'Ong may also be in danger."

 

            "But he did have an appointment with Ambassador Shiss, you know. And I'm sure," Magnan said nervously, "that it's very bad protocol to conduct unauthorized searches of other embassies. I feel strongly that we must report to Smallfrog before taking any action."

 

            "I certainly won't keep you from reporting," Retief said. "Go up the stairs and follow the passageway to the outer door. A Yill named F'Lin-lin is rendering Sergeant Yish a spent force."

 

            "Aren't you coming, too?"

 

            "No. I'll look around down here for a stairway to the main part of the embassy."

 

            "Now, Retief," Magnan said severely, "as your immediate supervisor, I must caution you to do nothing rash."

 

            "Actually, Mr. Magnan, I haven't yet thought up anything rash to do."

 

            "Excellent. Perhaps you're learning restraint at last."

 

            "I guess it had to happen. But why should we be any more restrained than we have to? After an hour in a Groaci conversation frame, I should think you'd like being unrestrained."

 

            "Ah, yes. To be sure, Retief. Nith stepped a bit over the line restraint-wise in trussing a Terran First Secretary and Consul in that fashion. Still, he merely hinted at the other torments he had planned. He stopped short of screening them."

 

            "So, inasmuch as you have Nith's dossier well in hand, it seems logical for me to tackle his boss."

 

            "Umm. I trust you employ the term 'tackle' figuratively."

 

            "I don't expect to have too much trouble with the old boy. After all, he's a career bureaucrat, too."

 

            "Retief, need I caution you not to rely on any fellow-feeling from that sneaky, five-eyed little devil?"

 

            "Nope."

 

            "I thought not. Just employ standard diplomatic techniques. Shiss is enough of an old campaigner to yield gracefully to a proper approach."

 

            "I assume from that you'd be against my braiding his eyes together, or pinching his air bladder shut."

 

            "Correct. Go in there like a true bureaucrat, Retief. Let him know we've got the dirt on him, though, of course, we wouldn't dream of giving it to the media—as long as he confides in us his object in a Grotian treaty."

 

            Leaving these words of advice, Magnan hurried up the stairs.

 

            Retief continued along the low-ceilinged passage, past barred cell doors and what looked like large fish bones heaped on the stone-slab floors, among rusted chains. Ahead a dim light burned, illuminating a wider staircase. He followed it upwards to a vast portal. He poked at it with a finger. It swung easily back, revealing a gloomy and cavernous hall, dim-lit by tapers on tall wrought-iron standards.

 

            A narrow spiral stair led upward at the far side of the great hall. Aside from a number of impervious-looking doors set in deep recesses, the surrounding walls were featureless stone.

 

            As Retief paused at the top of the staircase, peering beyond the portal, a door opened along the hall. Five familiar eye-stalks bent in his direction.

 

            "To stop there, snooping Retief!" Fith croaked, dashing toward him. "To arrest you on the spot." "For what?"

 

            "Trespassing, invasion, violation of Groaci sovereignty—"

 

            "Hold it, Fith. You make me sound like an enemy planet."

 

            "To rue the day you intruded here, Terry evil-doer!"

 

            "Where's Foreign Minister D'Ong?"

 

            "That, Retief, is a secret of the Groaci state. No more questions. To descend to the dungeons."

 

            "I'd rather not. I just came from there."

 

            Fith made an odd motion of several eyes. A black-clad Groaci stepped from the shadows behind the portal, delicately fingering a long stiletto.

 

            "Hired muscle," Fith said. "My apologies, Retief, but that's the way it has to be." The hit-man edged toward Retief, who stepped forward to meet him. As the Groaci went into a menacing crouch, Retief caught him firmly by the neck, up-ended him, producing a rain of coins and other small objects, shook him once, and tossed him down the staircase. He tumbled with increasing momentum, but it seemed a long time before a heavy crump! announced his arrival below.

 

            Retief picked up the knife his would-be assassin had dropped. "Cheap goods," he commented. "If that's hired muscle, I wonder what the free stuff is like."

 

            "Well, you know how it is, Retief. You can't hardly get good help these days."

 

            "I heard that," a resentful voice wheezed from below. "Some loyalty. And after I got a sprung gusset in the service of the state."

 

            "Still, he's tough," Retief conceded.

 

            "Well, yes. Hiff knows how to take a fall. And now, if you'll just follow me, Retief—"

 

            "I'll follow you to Ambassador Shiss. Keep in mind that I have an easy-access blast pistol in my pocket."

 

            "Shucks, Retief, you don't think I'd try to pull a swifty, do you?" Fith scurried ahead, across the vast hall. He stopped before a bank of unlighted, gray-painted elevator doors. In the adjacent wall was another, elaborately decorated in scarlet and gold.

 

            "Let's take that one," Retief suggested.

 

            "Perish, forbid!" Fith exclaimed. "That one's for the exclusive use of His Excellency."

 

            "He won't mind if we go up in it, as long as we don't meet him coming down."

 

            "True. But one never knows. On the other hand, he never comes to the main hall from the Chancery Tower. So I suppose we're safe."

 

            They rode up uneventfully. Mirrors on two walls reflected the tall, powerfully built Terran dressed in a late mid-afternoon sub-informal coverall with the CDT crest on the pocket, and beside him the spindle-legged Groaci in the drab hip-cloak and dun eye-shields.

 

            The third wall was occupied by an array of control buttons of many colors and shapes beneath a placard reading:

 

            PERIL! ONLY ONE CONTROL SWITCH IS NOT BOOBY-TRAPPED. THE OFFICER OF THE DAY HAS THE CODE. THE SAFE BUTTON WILL OPEN THE DOORS AT THE CHANCERY LEVEL. ALL OTHERS WILL DETONATE AN EXPLOSIVE CHARGE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. SIGNED: THE AMBASSADOR.

 

            The car stopped. A faint humming sound was audible.

 

            "Seen the Officer of the Day lately?" Retief inquired.

 

            "To have trapped you neatly, impetuous Soft One!" Fith hissed. "To be no way out for you now. As for myself, I expire with enthusiasm. My only regret is that I can only experience self-immolation once in line of duty. So to get on with it."

 

            "Very dramatic," Retief said, "but pretty silly. Just get busy and open up, Fith. No one will ever know that you skipped your big chance to do your closing number."

 

            "Wild Goroonian Glump-beasts could not wring the secret from me, vile Terry!"

 

            "Why would they try?" Retief wondered aloud. "I'll bet a valuable collector's item against a plain set of Taiwan-made eye-shields you'll be eating lunch in half an hour with your appetite intact."

 

            "Never, crass violater of hallowed Groacian tradition!" Fith shifted position, folded his arms, and leaned back against the wall.

 

            At once colored lights flashed, buzzers buzzed, beepers beeped, and a faint odor of Celestial Queen incense was wafted on the air. The elevator doors slid smoothly open.

 

            "Drat! I blew it!" Fith said casually, moving away from the treacherous control panel.

 

            "Sure you did. It was the thought of lunch that confused you," Retief said soothingly. "Anybody could have made the same mistake. You can go play in the sand now, Fith. If I need you I'll call."

 

            "You're a regular guy, Retief," Fith said, in his fluent Terran. He wedged himself into a corner of the car in an attempt to disappear.

 

            The room on which the doors opened was a spacious chamber with wide windows overlooking the Embassy fungus gardens. The walls were panelled in pale yellow blinwood, and hung with richly brocaded tapestries that Retief recognized as of Fufian manufacture.

 

            At the far side of the room, behind a wide desk inlaid in violet-dyed tump leather, sat Ambassador Shiss. He was unusually scrawny even by Groacian standards, but richly arrayed in a pink velvet tunic of Terran cut adorned with scarlet aiguillettes, purple shoulder-boards with Major General insignia and gold Austrian knots. His platinum eye-shields were jewel-encrusted.

 

            "What's this?" he barked in perfect Terran. "Fith, I see you skulking there in my personal VIP lift. What's the meaning of conducting this interloper into the Presence—and unannounced at that?"

 

            "Why, hi there, sir," Fith chirped. "I hope you don't mind our popping in. Under the circumstances one had no time to phone ahead for an appointment."

 

            "Skip it, Private Fith. You'd better hang up your jock when you report in for confinement to quarters. Your career is at an end." The irate Ambassador turned a pair of eyes on Retief, keeping three on Fith. "Now, as for you, Retief—" he began. "Wait a minute," he interrupted himself, "where's Magnan?"

 

            "My colleague was detained on a cultural exchange with headsman Nith," Retief said.

 

            "Is that damn fool playing with his Roy Rogers films again? He was up here a few minutes ago, asking about a missing projector. But no matter—I didn't summon you here to blather about trivia."

 

            "That's right, Your Excellency."

 

            "Eh? What's right?"

 

            "You didn't summon me here," Retief said.

 

            "And you'll have a heck of a time leaving without an invitation. To you this gracious structure may appear no more than an ordinary masterpiece of Groacian institutional architecture, but beneath its homey exterior lies the framework of a Groaci Number Nine fortress, of the type we normally use on these crude, outpost worlds."

 

            "Consider me deeply impressed," Retief said. "Where's Foreign Minister D'Ong?"

 

            "Your insolence would be insupportable, if I did not feel a need to talk to a fellow-diplomat about D'Ong. You may be seated, Retief. And as for you, Fith," the Ambassador added, swivelling an eye-stalk to the cowering figure in the elevator, "kindly remove yourself to the sub-dungeon."

 

            The elevators doors slid shut.

 

            Retief pulled out the deep easy chair beside the desk and seated himself. He lit up a dope-stick and puffed smoke at the Groaci, causing the latter to snap his nostrils shut after a single snort of irritation.

 

            "You know I hate those stinky dope-sticks," Shiss said in a thin voice, "Which is doubtless why you lit it. But I'm determined not to let you distract me by these petty tactics."

 

            "Let's get back to D'Ong," Retief suggested. "And this is a top-quality Groaci Hoob-flavored stick I'm smoking."

 

            "Um. Let us place our fingering pieces on the table. Naturally I recognize that Terra, like Groac, must interest itself in Grote. Freddy gave a lunch for D'Ong this afternoon. Did D'Ong leave at the time prescribed by protocol?"

 

            "He left, at any rate," Retief said. "We don't hustle Foreign Ministers into our Embassy and lock them away."

 

            "Neither do the Groaci—at least," Shiss added, with a brief thrashing of eye-stalks, "not Foreign Ministers we hope to persuade into treaty relationships. True, we hurried D'Ong away from Magnan's perfidious attempt to intercept him. True, we installed D'Ong in a High Security room—luxuriously furnished—in which he could stay until he made his decision. But he won't decide! He's just staying!"

 

            "Doesn't sound like Minister D'Ong," Retief said. "He's very sensitive to the feelings of others, and punctual to a fault."

 

            "Strange. I fear, like all inferior life-forms, a category which includes all non-Groaci—and, between us, quite a number of the Groaci—D'Ong is not to be trusted in matters of great import."

 

            "I can't accept that, Your Excellency, without proof," said Retief.

 

            "Proof!" Ambassador Shiss rose, with a great jingling and creaking and rustling of his attire. "Come. I'll show you."

 

            He led Retief across the room to a bar. To the left was a panel apparently identical to that in the elevator. Shiss pressed a button. The entire bar, with its mirrored back wall, slid aside.

 

            Retief was looking into a softly lit room, garishly paneled in deeply carved and gilded wood, and carpeted with a high-pile rug in puce and magenta, with mauve curlicues.

 

            D'Ong, seeming rather plain in his green satin and silver braid, sat in an overstuffed chair, his eyes fixed on a small screen on which Roy Rogers' face grimaced while the soundtrack moaned of love on the range.

 

            "Come in, Retief," D'Ong called absently. "You here, too, Shiss? Nagging me again for a decision, I suppose."

 

            The Ambassador's eye-stalks waved wildly at the film. "The missing projector! How did it get here? Nith must be tanked to the oculars on switz-juice!" Shiss hurried off.

 

            Retief, careful not to break the beam from the projector, circled to stand beside D'Ong. "Mr. Minister," he said, "the cavalry has arrived. Are you ready to go?"

 

            "Goodness, no, Retief. Sit down—and don't brush those dope-stick ashes onto the carpet. We're just getting to the good part, where Roy mounts his wench and rides off into the wasteland."'

 

            "I think you've got Trigger and Dale confused," Retief said, sinking into a nearby chair and stubbing the dope-stick out in a Ming bowl.

 

            "I confess I pay little attention to names, but how I admire the savoir faire of the cowpersons, who, in times of strife, think first of love. Always they and their faithful mates couple joyously as they dash off across the plains, hero and villain alike. Silly of me to be so sentimental, I know, but nostalgia is such sweet sadness. How it reminds me of my honeymoon with CTunt, so long ago."

 

            "Understandable, of course."

 

            "One would have to know dear C'lunt to empathize fully. He's such a darling."

 

            "He? Then you're female?"

 

            "You're surprised?"

 

            "No, not really," Retief said, after a moment of thought. "I might have guessed that your charm and sensitivity are feminine. It was stupid of me to confuse you with a male."

 

            "It certainly was stupid, Retief. Our males are only seven inches in height."

 

            "I don't think I've ever met a male Grotian socially."

 

            "Oh, no. They don't mingle. The dear creatures tend to feel inferior, being only seven inches tall. Sometimes they feel quite low indeed. That's why, when I saw the creatures in the pudding—"

 

            "You associated them with Grotian males, and whoofled."

 

            "Yes. Oh, dear," she sighed, as the reel whirred with a slapping of the film end. "That was beautiful."

 

            Retief rose and shut down the projector. "How did you obtain the film equipment?"

 

            "Well, Retief, frankly I was bored. Ambassador Shiss was so thoughtful, escorting me into this lovely room and securing the entry. I had almost made up my mind to sign the Terran treaty. I felt Terra and Grote had so much in common. The females wear gorgeous attire and revel at social functions, while the males are drab and do the menial labor. And then, too, Terra could provide every Grote household with a tea-bag.

 

            "But I had to see what Groac had to offer. I waited for the Ambassador to enter and place his proposals before me. But he only nagged me and kept the entryway secured. So I got bored. I wondered what the Groaci had done with poor Mr. Magnan—so I whoofled."

 

            "You—er—whoofled to the dungeons?"

 

            "I meant to whoofle there, but I was uncertain of the Embassy floor plans. I found myself in a dank stone room where a leather-aproned Groaci was viewing these precious films. He did not see me in the darkness. After he left, I—well, it was bad protocol, I know—I twaffled the equipment and the round tins of film up here.

 

            "I shouldn't say so, Retief, but I'd about decided to sign the Groaci treaty, if I could have the Roy Rogers love story. Selfish of me, isn't it?"

 

            "Not at all, D'Ong," Retief smiled. "But those are Terran films. Sign with Terra, and you'll get all the Roy Rogers films. And Gene Autry and the lot. Not to mention Nelson Eddy and the Andrews Sisters. I think I could promise you Vera Hruba Ralston."

 

            "Oh, Retief, how sublime! The Terran treaty is as good as signed!"

 

            "I heard that!" wheezed Ambassador Shiss's hoarse voice from the entry panel. "Never will Groac accept such humiliation! Minister D'Ong, you and Retief will stay in that room until you agree to a Groaci treaty!"

 

            He stepped back. The entire bar slid into place again and sealed with a complex click.

 

            Retief commented, "Now well be getting bored together, Madam Minister."

 

            "Goodness, no. We can whoofle," D'Ong said casually.

 

            "You can whoofle. I can't," Retief said.

 

            "Yes, that is tiresome. And the Terran metabolism would probably suffer from being twaffled through a metal door. But cheer up, Retief," D'Ong said. "I shall whoofle out and twaffle you free. If you can prevail upon Ambassador Shiss to allow us to exit through his office—"

 

            "My hand blaster will suffice for that maneuver," Retief said. "But, Madam D'Ong, the bar panel is a suicide device. One touch—"

 

            "I can twaffle without touching, and I shall stand well back. You'd better do the same, Retief."

 

            She abruptly vanished.

 

            Retief prudently distanced himself from the entry wall. He drew his hand blaster. When the wall went up in smoke, he intended to have the drop on Ambassador Shiss.

 

-

 

            "Well, Ben, a bath and a fresh coverall have improved you considerably," Ambassador Smallfrog observed, lolling back in his hip-o-matic. "Coming home in a Yill garbage truck!"

 

            "I was thankful enough for F'Lin-lin's help in escaping the Groaci, Mr. Ambassador," Magnan said, stroking his brow. "My head is still a-whirl after my harrowing experience."

 

            "Urn, Mustn't brood, Magnan. Pity we can't send a squad of Marines over there to search the Groaci compound from ridge-pole to refuse-pits and catch the scamps red-handed with D'Ong and Retief. But, of course, to violate a friendly embassy would be unthinkable."

 

            "Let's think about it anyway," Magnan suggested.

 

            "Surely you're joking," Smallfrog said icily. "As convention-abiding bureaucrats, we have no choice but to chalk one up for Shiss and his boys, after which we can rest on our oars until morning, when Shiss proceeds to express regrets to the Grotian Foreign Office. A pity poor D'Ong was seized and compelled into durance vile. I suppose he naively revealed the magic tea-bag to Shiss just as carelessly as he did to us. Magnan, do you believe in magic?"

 

            "No, of course not. But the whoofling and twaffling happened all the same."

 

            "It would be injudicious of me, as a senior officer, to say whether those things are possible or impossible. These trivia are outside our interest cluster. I merely assigned to you the task of ferreting out the secret of the four-cup tea bag. That does not imply an interest in parlor tricks."

 

            "But where's Retief?" Magnan queried his chief. "We can't just forget the whole matter and abandon him to his fate in a Groaci dungeon."

 

            "I suppose you're right, Ben. In spite of the fact that the fellow clearly exceeded instructions in going so far as to attempt something actually constructive, certain small-minded critics of the corps might adopt a negative, or even antagonistic, attitude, were it known he disappeared forever under unconventional circumstances."

 

            "Quite. And all for naught. We still don't have the secret of the magic tea bag," Magnan mourned.

 

            "Harrumph. We must avoid the use of the word 'magic,' Ben. Once again, you risk laying this Mission—and even myself—or yourself—open to criticism. I think 'miraculous tea-bag' communicates the essentials without the undignified connotations of the other term."

 

            "Gosh, yes, Your Excellency. I was just thinking how you go right to the heart of a matter, side-stepping the pitfalls that trap lesser bureaucrats."

 

            "To be sure, Ben. Still, one can't help wondering what Shiss is doing with Retief."

 

            The French windows swung open.

 

            Magnan yelped and grabbed for suddenly flying papers as Retief and Foreign Minister D'Ong stepped into the room.

 

            "Retief! And Mr. Minister!" Magnan cried. "Goodness knows you've had His Excellency and myself on tenterhooks, wondering what happened to you. And here you are, safe and sound. Heavens, you could at least give a person warning before appearing out of nowhere like that!"

 

            "Not out of nowhere, precisely, Ben," Ambassador Smallfrog corrected gently. "They came through the windows, quite obviously. Excellency, pray take a chair. Retief, there'll be an entry in your file regarding your rather excessive zeal in invading a friendly embassy."

 

            "I thought the signing of the Grote-Terra trade treaty was worth the bending of a few rules," Retief said.

 

            "Why, Mr. Minister—" Smallfrog began.

 

            "Its Madam Minister," Retief interposed.

 

            "Madam!" The Ambassador and his First Consul exclaimed at once.

 

            D'Ong shook her green satin robe impatiently. "Yes, Freddy, you'll find it quite natural when you get used to it. While Retief is explaining the treaty to you, dear Ben can take me to the projection room, where the film stacks might have a Hopalong Cassidy."

 

            "Of course, Ben, escort Her Excellency immediately," Smallfrog ordered.

 

            When the pair had left the room, Smallfrog turned to Retief. "So D'Ong is a female! I never realized! How are we to avoid such a horrible blunder in future?"

 

            "Easily. Grotian males are seven inches tall. Really, Mr. Ambassador, we mustn't serve shrimp cocktail again."

 

            "Retief, my head is positively spinning," the Ambassador declared. "All the regulations you've broken are passing in review in front of my eyes."

 

            "May I interrupt the long tailback to discuss the treaty?"

 

            "Yes, first things first. What do the Grotians want?"

 

            "A tea-bag in every pot, and Nelson Eddy on every video. In return," Retief explained, "we are permitted to call upon the Grotians for whoofling, twaffling, and quaffling."

 

            "I have seen the whoofling and twaffling. But what is quaffling?"

 

            Retief took D'Ong's scarf from his pocket.

 

            Smallfrog blurted, "Why, I saw D'Ong wrap the tea-bag in that scarf at lunch!"

 

            "Yes," Retief said, unwrapping the inexhaustible bag. "D'Ong apparently carries it everywhere, renewing it by quaffling."

 

            "And quaffling is—?"

 

            "The indefinite replacement of used atoms. Quaffling is why the Grotians live for hundreds of years. And why the tea-bag is ever fresh. Of course, as D'Ong says, one can't quaffle forever. Then the only recourse is to furfle."

 

            "And what is furfling?"

 

            "I fear it would be counter-productive, Mr. Ambassador," Retief said seriously. "Furfling is done only by the deceased. I don't think we really want to know how to furfle."

 

            "Oh, quite right, Retief. Quite right."

 

 

 

The End

 

 

 

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