“Heavens, nobly done!” Magnan gushed. “Gracious, and I always thought your Groaci had sort of a teentsy little prejudice against us Terrans.”
“Ignoring for the moment the matter of Groaci interference in Quopp’s internal affairs,” Underknuckle barked, “there’s still the matter of the stolen publications! What about that, eh? Can’t wiggle out of this one, can you, by golly!”
“Oh, I wanted to mention,” Magnan said. “Those bound volumes of the Pest Control Journal—”
“You didn’t say Pest Control Journal, did you, Magnan?” Longspoon demanded.
“Yes, indeed I did way Pest Contr—”
“What idiot shipped that particular periodical in here?” Longspoon bellowed. “The entire journal’s devoted to methods of annihilating arthropods with chitinous exoskeletons and ventral ladder-type nervous systems! If that sort of thing were ever released among the Quoppina—why, we’d be hailed as the greatest murderers since Attila the Hung!”
“Hun,” Magnan corrected.
“Well, I trust he was hung eventually! And the same goes for the nincompoop who ordered the PCJ!”
“Gee, Fred.” Magnan looked at Underknuckle. “Wasn’t it you who—”
“Well, so that’s taken care of,” Underknuckle said briskly.
“That seems to leave nothing outstanding but the unauthorized absence,” Longspoon commented. “We can deal with this charge at the local level, I think, Fred.”
“Pity, in a way.” The attaché blinked at Retief. “I’d intended to ship him out under guard for examination by a Board of Interrogators, after which he’d be stripped of rank in a most colorful ceremony—”
The desk screen buzzed. “The Revolutionary Council is here to see you, Mr. Ambassador,” a vinegary voice announced.
“Show them in at once, Fester.” Longspoon arranged his features, faced the door expectantly. “I’ll just quickly establish my ascendancy over these fellows,” he explained. “May as well get matters off on the correct footing . . .”
Magnan leaned toward Retief. “I love watching him work,” he murmured. “It only took him an instant to decide on Hearty Congratulation plus Alert Awareness of Irregularities, and just the teeniest bit of Latent Severity, all tied together with a touch of Gracious Condescension.”
“A great technician,” Retief agreed. “Too bad you can’t tell the result from Stunned Incredulity.”
“Umm. Still, the Quoppina won’t know the difference.”
The door opened; Fester appeared, ushering in the newly buffed figure of Jik-jik, his scarlet-cuticula gleaming under multiple coats of wax, a new Jarweel feather bobbing behind his left rear antennae. Behind him was the tall figure of Tupper, similarly glorified; Ozzl followed, with half a dozen other representatives of the victorious Federation.
“Ah, Mr. Tief-tief, I presume?” Longspoon rose, extended a hand. Jik-jik waved it off.
“No thanks, not hungry. Besides, us is got a new rule: Greens for Grubs and Grown-ups. Allies is better than Entrées.”
“What’s he saying?” Longspoon muttered.
“He’s just explaining the Federation’s new dietary arrangements,” Retief explained.
“A food faddist, eh?” Longspoon nodded wisely.
Jik-jik glanced about the room; his oculars settled on Retief. “Hey,” he said. “Ain’t you—”
“Still working under cover,” Retief said quickly. “Pretend you don’t know me.”
“Tell Mr. Tief-tief that I’m much disturbed by the recent disorders,” Longspoon instructed. “Still, I’ll listen to an explanation.”
“Did you get the Terry females into the city safely?” Retief asked the Ween.
“Sure did, Tief-tief; they at the port, waiting for that Terry Peace Enforcer coming in this morning.”
“What did he say?” Longspoon demanded.
“He’ll examine your credentials presently, Mr. Ambassador. Meanwhile, keep your manipulative members out of Quopp’s affairs.”
“He said that?” Longspoon’s face darkened.
“I’m giving a free translation,” Retief explained. “Meanwhile, what about CDT recognition of the new regime?”
“Recognition? Hmmm. There was the matter of a certain understanding with the Voion . . .”
“Shall I remind him of that?”
“By no means! Tell him, ah, that I shall look forward to regularization of relations between our two peoples as soon as one or two points are ironed out. Now, we’ll want an understanding on commercial matters; I think a thousand-man Trade Mission would be about right . . .”
“Did you find the remains of the yacht the girls were in?” Retief inquired of Jik-jik.
“Uh-huh. Just like you say, Tief-tief: It blasted by some kind of big fire gun. Big hole busted in the side.”
Retief glanced at Hish, who aimed his five eyes at different corners of the room, began humming the opening bars of You tell Me Your Dream, I’ll Tell You Mine.
“Well?” Longspoon barked.
“He says there’s to be no Terry interference in Quopp’s tradition of free enterprise,” Retief advised the ambassador. “And no more harassment of the traders at Rum Jungle and the other market towns.”
“Eh? But what about the land reform program . . . ?”
“There’ll be a big party tonight aboard the Terry ship,” Retief said to the delegates. “The ambassador hopes you can make it.”
“Nothing like a little socializing to take the boys’ mind off the fun they missing not getting to loot the town,” Jik-jik said. “Us’ll be there.”
“The Federated Tribes will tolerate no political intervention of any kind,” Retief relayed to Longspoon. “They specifically reject anything with the word `reform’ in it.”
“Gad! This fellow’s a reactionary of the worst stripe! Surely he won’t object to my Jungle Slum clearance plan, my Pretties for the Underprivileged Program, and my Spiraling Price Support formula—”
“I hope you followed my advice and disarmed the Voion instead of annihilating them,” Retief said to Jik-jik.
“Head-chopping hard work,” the Ween agreed. “Us worked out a nice arrangement where one Voion assigned to each village to keep the sanitary drains open. It working out good.”
“They like the jungle the way it is,” Retief informed Longspoon. “No one gets any privileges unless he can manage them for himself; and prices will be controlled by supply and demand.”
“I see I’ve underrated this fellow,” Longspoon muttered to his aides. “He’s obviously an exponent of some rather far-out economic theories.” He adjusted a smile expressing the unspoken rapport existing between Men of the World. “Tell him that I’ve been considering the size of the development loan I’ll be prepared to recommend, and I’ve decided that the sum of, ah . . .” He glanced at Magnan. “Ten million . . . ?”
“Twenty,” Magnan murmured. “Per year,” he added.
“Plus the military aid program,” Underknuckle put in. “I’d estimate a hundred-man Advisory Group—”
“Twenty-five million per annum,” Longspoon said decisively. “With a cost-of-dying increase built in—plus a sliding scale to compensate for seasonal fluctuations.”
“Fluctuations in what?” Magnan asked alertly.
“Anything that fluctuates, dammit!” the ambassador snapped.
Retief nodded solemnly. “Did you collect the guns?” he asked Jik-jik. “All of them?”
Jik-jik wiggled his oculars uncomfortably. “Uh, well, Tief-tief, it like this—”
“Bury ’em, Jik-jik,” Retief said sternly. “Along with all the captured guns. We agreed that firearms take all the fun out of fighting.”
Jik-jik gave the soft squeal that was the Ween equivalent of a sigh. “OK; I guess you right, Tief-tief. Me and Tupper here already done a little scrapping over what tribe get ’em. I guess I rather bury ’em all than wind up looking down the barrel next time they a little intertribal rumble.”
“What does he say?” Longspoon demanded.
“No loan,” Retief translated.
“Oh, he’s holding out for an outright grant,” Longspoon rubbed his hands together. “Well, I think that could be arranged. Naturally, that will call for closer control: Say an additional staff of fifty—”
“No grants, either,” Retief interjected.
“See here,” Longspoon clamped his mouth. “If the fellow’s going to be unreasonable . . .”
“All he wants is a Monitor Service station in a quarter-million mile orbit to ensure that no cargoes move between Groac and Quopp—in either direction.”
General Hish made a choking sound. Colonel Underknuckle brightened. “That’s reasonable,” he stated. “Now let me see; the station would fall under my command, naturally; for a medium-sized unit, say thirty men—”
“There’s one other thing,” Retief said. “Terran honey will have to be added to Narcotics Control’s list of excluded items as far as Quopp is concerned.”
“Hmmph.” Longspoon eyed Jik-jik sourly. “I must say this chap is a shrewder negotiator than I’d anticipated. I can see we’re all going to have to tighten our belts and settle down to a long campaign before we can bring Quopp to readiness for membership in the Free Liaison of Organized Planets.”
Magnan sniffed. “From what I’ve seen of these confounded rebels—that is, the freedom-loving standard-bearers of the aroused populace—they may never be ready for FLOP.”
“Nonsense, Magnan; just give us a few more sessions at the conference table; they’ll come around. I may even take time to absorb the language—not that I don’t already have a good working knowledge of it,” he added. “You handled the interpretation fairly well, Retief, but you missed a few of the finer nuances.”
“I thought the nuances were the best part,” Retief commented.
“Maybe you’d better invite these fellows along to the military ball tonight,” Underknuckle announced. “After all, as the rebel leaders, we can consider them as honorary military men, even though they lack formal training.”