The desk screen broke into life. The mottled jowls of Under-Secretary Sternwheeler appeared.
“Magnan! I’ve just learned of the Flamme affair. Who’s responsible?”
“Why, ah . . . I suppose that I might be said—”
“This is your work, is it?”
“Well . . . Mr. Retief did play the role of messenger—”
“Don’t pass the buck, Magnan!” the Under-Secretary barked. “What the devil went on out there?”
“Why, just a routine Protest Note. Everything is quite in order—”
“Bah! Your over-zealousness has cost me dear. I was feeding Flamme to the Aga Kaga to consolidate our position of moral superiority for use as a lever in a number of important negotiations. Now they’ve backed out. The Aga Kaga emerges from the affair wreathed in virtue. You’ve destroyed a very pretty finesse in power politics, Mr. Magnan! A year’s work down the drain!”
“But I thought—”
“I doubt that, Mr. Magnan. I doubt that very much!” The Under-Secretary rang off.
“This is a fine turn of events,” Magnan groaned. “Retief, you know very well Protest Notes are merely intended for the historical record; no one ever takes them seriously.”
“You and the Aga Kaga ought to get together,” said Retief. “He’s a great one for citing historical parallels. He’s not a bad fellow, as a matter of fact. I have an invitation from him to visit Kaga and go mud-pig hunting. He was so impressed by Corps methods that he wants to be sure we’re on his side next time. Why don’t you come along?”
“Mmmm. Perhaps I should cultivate him. A few high-level contacts never do any harm. On the other hand, I understand he lives in a very loose way, feasting and merry-making. Frivolous in the extreme. No wife, I understand, but hordes of light-clad women about. And in that connection, the Aga Kagans have some very curious notions as to what constitutes proper hospitality to guests.”
Retief rose, pulled on the powder blue cloak and black velvet gauntlets of a Career Minister.
“Don’t let it worry you,” he said. “You’ll have a great time. And as the Aga Kaga would say, `Ugliness is the best safeguard of virginity.'”
AIDE MEMOIRE
. . . Supplementing broad knowledge of affairs with such shrewd gambits as identification with significant local groups, and the consequent deft manipulating of inter-group rivalries, Corps officials on the scene played decisive roles in the preservation of domestic tranquility on many a far-flung world. At Fust, Ambassador Magnan forged to the van in the exercise of the technique . . .
—Vol. VII, reel 43. 487 A. E. (AD 2948)
Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan, rustling a stiff sheet of parchment, looked grave.
“This aide memoire,” he said, “was just handed to me by the Cultural Attaché. It’s the third on the subject this week. It refers to the matter of sponsorship of Youth groups.”
“Some youths,” Retief said. “Average age: seventy-five.”
“The Fustians are a long-lived people,” Magnan snapped. “These matters are relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age.”
“That’s right; he’ll try anything in the hope it will maim somebody.”
“Precisely the problem,” Magnan replied. “But the Youth Movement is the important news in today’s political situation here on Fust, and sponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of the Terrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of the mission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p— that is, to cement relations with this emergent power group: the leaders of the future. You, Retief, as Counselor, are the outstanding exception.”
“I’m not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing their rumbles,” Retief said. “Now, if you have a proposal for a pest control group—”
“To the Fustians, this is no jesting matter,” Magnan cut in. “This group,” he glanced at the paper, “known as the Sexual, Cultural and Athletic Recreational Society, or SCARS, for short, has been awaiting sponsorship for a matter of weeks now.”
“Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipment, and anything else they need to plot against the peace in style,” Retief said.
“If we don’t act promptly, the Groaci embassy may well anticipate us. They’re very active here.”
“That’s an idea,” said Retief, “let ’em. After a while they’ll be broke—instead of us.”
“Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can’t actually order you to step forward. However . . .” Magnan let the sentence hang in the air. Retief raised one eyebrow.
“For a minute there,” he said, “I thought you were going to make a positive statement.”
Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “I don’t think you’ll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naïve,” he said.
“I like the adult Fustians,” said Retief. “Too bad they have to lug half a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery—”
“Great heavens, Retief,” Magnan spluttered. “I’m amazed that even you would bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race’s unfortunate physical characteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity.”
“Well, I’ve only been here a month. But it’s been my experience, Mr. Ambassador, that few people are above improving on nature; otherwise you, for example, would be tripping over your beard.”
Magnan shuddered. “Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian.”
Retief stood. “My own program for the day includes going over to the dockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner the Fustians are putting together that I want to look into. With your permission, Mr. Ambassador . . . ?”
Magnan snorted. “Your preoccupation with the trivial disturbs me, Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working with youth groups—would create a far better impression.”
“Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good idea to find out a little more about them,” Retief said. “Who organizes them? There are three strong political parties here on Fust; what’s the alignment of this SCARS organization?”
“You forget, these are merely teen-agers, so to speak,” Magnan said. “Politics mean nothing to them . . . yet.”
“Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in a two-horse world like Fust? Normally they’re concerned with nothing but business; and what has Fust got that they could use?
“You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance,” said Magnan. “Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaci are barely ahead of them.”
“Barely,” said Retief. “Just over the line into crude atomics . . . like fission bombs.”
Magnan, shaking his head, turned back to his papers. “What market exists for such devices on a world at peace?” he said. “I suggest you address your attention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of insinuating yourself into the social patterns of the local youth.”
“I’ve considered the matter,” Retief said, “and before I meet any of the local youth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack.”
* * *
Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed the chancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, hailed one of the ponderous slow-moving Fustian flat-cars, and leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicle trundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards. It was a cool morning with a light breeze carrying the fish odor of Fustian dwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustians lumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audibly wheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them, shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of the flat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on his back, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through the shipyard gates, and creaked to a halt.
“Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed,” he said in Fustian. “Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste.”
Retief, climbing down, handed him a coin. “You should take up professional racing,” he said. “Dare-devil.”
Retief crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed. Boards creaked inside, then the door swung back. A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapace peered out at Retief.
“Long may you sleep,” Retief said. “I’d like to take a look around, if you don’t mind. I understand you’re laying the bed-plate for your new liner today.”
“May you dream of the deeps,” the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpy arm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist. “The youths know more of bed-plates than do I, who but tend the place of papers.”
“I know how you feel, old-timer,” Retief said. “That sounds like the story of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for the vessel? I understand it’s to be a passenger liner.”
The oldster nodded. He shuffled in a drawing file, rummaged, pulled out a sheaf of curled prints, and spread them on the table. Retief stood silently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines . . .