His first act after his formal enthronement had been the abolition in perpetuity of the rite of the tourney, and the formal cancellation of all genealogical requirements for appointments public or private. He had ordered the release and promotion of the Battle Ensign who had ignored Rolan’s arrest order and had been himself imprisoned for his pains. Fitzraven he had seen appointed to the Imperial War College—his future assured.
Retief smiled as he remembered the embarrassment of the young fellow who had been his fellow-finalist in the tourney. He had offered him satisfaction on the field of honor as soon as his arm healed, and had been asked in return for forgetfulness of poor judgment. He had made him a Captain of the Guard and a peer of the realm. He had the spirit for it.
There had been much more to do, and Retief’s days had been crowded with the fantastically complex details of disengaging a social structure from the crippling reactionary restraints of ossified custom and hallowed tradition. In the end, he had produced a fresh and workable new constitution for the kingdom which he hoped would set the world on an enlightened and dynamic path to a productive future.
* * *
The memory of Princess Monica lingered pleasantly; a true princess of the Lily, in the old tradition. Retief had abdicated in her favor; her genealogy had been studded with enough Imperial forebears to satisfy the crustiest of the Old Guard peerage; of course, it could not compare with the handsome document he had displayed showing his own descent in the direct line through seven—or was it eight—generations of Emperors-in-exile from the lost monarch of the beleaguered Lily Empire, but it was enough to justify his choice. Rolan’s abortive usurpation had at least had the effect of making the Northroyalans appreciate an enlightened ruler.
At the last, it had not been easy to turn away forever from the seat of Empire which he so easily sat. It had not been lightly that he had said good-by to the lovely Monica, who had reminded him of another dark beauty of long ago.
A few weeks in a modern hospital had remedied the harsher after-effects of his short career as a gladiator, and he was ready now for the next episode that fate and the Corps might have in store. But he would not soon forget Northroyal. . . .
” . . . magnificent ingenuity,” someone was saying. “You must have assimilated your indoctrination on the background unusually thoroughly to have been able to prepare in advance just those artifacts and documents which would prove most essential. And the technical skill in the production itself. Remarkable. To think that you were able to hoodwink the high priests of the cult in the very sanctum sanctorum.”
“Merely the result of careful research,” Retief said modestly. “I found all I needed on late developments, buried in our files. The making of the Signet was quite a piece of work; but credit for that goes to our own technicians.”
“I was even more impressed by that document,” a young counselor said. “What a knowledge of their psychology and of technical detail that required.”
Retief smiled faintly. The others had all gone into the hall now, amid a babble of conversation. It was time to be going. He glanced at the eager junior agent.
“No,” he said, “I can’t claim much credit there. I’ve had that document for many years; it, at least, was perfectly genuine.”
PART II: A CAREER BEGINS . . .BADLY
Editor’s Note: The Retief stories were written over a period of many years, and Laumer does not seem to have had any overarching scheme guiding the development of his character. Still, some of the stories clearly belong toward the beginning of Retief’s career—these three, in particular.
PROTOCOL
” . . . into the chaotic Galactic political scene of the post-Concordiat era, the CDT emerged to carry forward the ancient diplomatic tradition as a great supranational organization dedicated to the contravention of war. As mediators of disputes among Terrestrial-settled worlds and advocates of Terrestrial interests in contacts with alien cultures, Corps diplomats, trained in the chanceries of innumerable defunct bureaucracies, displayed an encyclopedic grasp of the nuances of Extra-Terrestrial mores as set against the labyrinthine socio-politico-economic Galactic context. Never was the virtuosity of a senior Corps diplomat more brilliantly displayed than in Ambassador Spradley’s negotiation of the awkward Sirenian Question . . .”
—extract from the Official History of the Corps Diplomatique, Vol I, reel 2. Solarian Press, New York, 479 A. E. (AD 2940)
In the gloom of the squat, mud-colored reception building, the Counselor, two First Secretaries, and the senior Attachés gathered around the plump figure of Ambassador Spradley, their ornate diplomatic uniforms bright in the vast gloomy room. The ambassador glanced at his finger watch impatiently.
“Ben, are you quite certain our arrival time was made clear?”
Second Secretary Magnan nodded emphatically. “I stressed the point, Mr. Ambassador. I communicated with Mr. T’Cai-Cai just before the lighter broke orbit, and I specifically emphasized—”
“I hope you didn’t appear truculent, Mr. Magnan,” the Ambassador cut in sharply.
“No indeed, Mr. Ambassador. I merely—”
“You’re sure there’s no VIP room here?” The Ambassador glanced around the cavernous room. “Curious that not even chairs have been provided.”
“If you’d care to sit on one of those crates, I’ll use my hanky—”
“Certainly not.” The Ambassador looked at his watch again and cleared his throat.
“I may as well make use of these few moments to outline our approach for the more junior members of the staff. It’s vital that the entire mission work in harmony in the presentation of the image. We Terrestrials are a kindly, peace-loving race.” The Ambassador smiled in a kindly, peace-loving way.
“We seek only reasonable division of spheres of influence with the Yill.” He spread his hands, looking reasonable.
“We are a people of high culture, ethical, sincere.”
The smile was replaced abruptly by pursed lips. “We’ll start by asking for the entire Sirenian System, and settle for half. We’ll establish a foothold on all the choicer worlds and, with shrewd handling, in a decade we’ll be in a position to assert a wider claim.” The Ambassador glanced around. “If there are no questions . . .”
Jame Retief, Vice-Consul and Third Secretary in the Corps Diplomatique and junior member of the Terrestrial Embassy to Yill, stepped forward.
“Since we hold the prior claim to the system, why don’t we put all our cards on the table to start with? Perhaps if we dealt frankly with the Yill, it would pay us in the long run.”
Ambassador Spradley blinked up at the younger man. Beside him, Magnan cleared his throat in the silence.
“Vice-Consul Retief merely means—”
“I’m capable of interpreting Mr. Retief’s remark,” Spradley snapped. He assumed a fatherly expression.
“Young man, you’re new to the service. You haven’t yet learned the team play, the give-and-take of diplomacy. I shall expect you to observe closely the work of the experienced negotiators of the mission, learn the importance of subtlety. Excessive reliance on direct methods might tend in time to attenuate the rôle of the professional diplomat. I shudder to contemplate the consequences.”
Spradley turned back to his senior staff members. Retief strolled across to a glass-paneled door and glanced into the room beyond. Several dozen tall grey-skinned Yill lounged in deep couches, sipping lavender drinks from slender glass tubes. Black-tunicked servants moved about inconspicuously, offering trays. Retief watched as a party of brightly-dressed Yill moved toward a wide entrance door. One of the party, a tall male, made to step before another, who raised a hand languidly, fist clenched. The first Yill stepped back and placed his hands on top of his head with a nod. Both Yill continued to smile and chatter as they passed through the door.
Retief rejoined the Terrestrial delegation, grouped around a mound of rough crates stacked on the bare concrete floor, as a small leather-skinned Yill came up.
“I am P’Toi. Come thiss way . . .” He motioned. The Terrestrials moved off, Ambassador Spradley in the lead. As the portly diplomat reached the door, the Yill guide darted ahead, shouldering him aside, then hesitated, waiting. The Ambassador almost glared, then remembered the image. He smiled, beckoning the Yill ahead. The Yill muttered in the native language, stared about, then passed through the door. The Terran party followed.
“I’d like to know what that fellow was saying,” Magnan said, overtaking the Ambassador. “The way he jostled your Excellency was disgraceful.”
A number of Yill waited on the pavement outside the building. As Spradley approached the luxurious open car waiting at the curb, they closed ranks, blocking his way. He drew himself up, opened his mouth—then closed it with a snap.
“The very idea,” Magnan said, trotting at Spradley’s heels as he stalked back to rejoin the staff, now looking around uncertainly. “One would think these persons weren’t aware of the courtesies due a Chief of Mission.”