“Mercy!” Yith hissed, his eye-stalks whipping in distress. “I claim diplomatic immunity.”
“No diplomat am I,” Whonk rumbled. “Let me see; suppose I start with one of those obscenely active eyes.” He reached . . .
“I have an idea,” Retief said brightly. “Do you suppose—just this once—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised to arrange for a Groacian Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?”
“But,” Whonk protested, “those eyes; what a pleasure to pluck them, one by one—”
“Yess,” Yith hissed, “I swear it; our most expert surgeons . . . platoons of them, with the finest of equipment.”
“I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel him squash beneath my bulk . . .”
“Light as a whissle feather shall you dance,” Yith whispered. “Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth . . .”
“Maybe just one eye,” Whonk said. “That would leave him four . . .”
“Be a sport,” said Retief.
“Well.”
“It’s a deal then,” Retief said. “Yith, on your word as a diplomat, an alien, and a soft-back, you’ll set up the mission. Groaci surgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments. It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. And in return, Whonk won’t sit on you. In addition, I won’t prefer charges against you of interference in the internal affairs of a free world.”
Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of the borrowed carapace, struggled to his feet . . . in time for Whonk to seize him, lift him high, and head for the entry to the Moss Rock.
“Hey,” Retief called. “Where are you going?”
“I would not deny this one his reward,” Whonk called. “He hoped to cruise in luxury; so be it.”
“Hold on,” Retief said. “That tub is loaded with titanite!”
“Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me a vengeance.”
Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the ramp and disappeared within the ship.
“I guess Whonk means business,” he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp, all five eyes goggling. “And he’s a little too big for me to stop, once he sets his mind on something. But maybe he’s just throwing a scare into him.”
Whonk reappeared, alone, and climbed down.
“What did you do with him?” Retief said.
“We had best withdraw,” Whonk said. “The killing radius of the drive is fifty yards.”
“You mean—”
“The controls are set for Groac. Long may he sleep.”
* * *
“It was quite a bang,” Retief said, “but I guess you saw it too.”
“No, confound it,” Magnan said. “When I remonstrated with Hulk, or Whelk—”
“Whonk.”
“—the ruffian thrust me into an alley, bound in my own cloak. I’ll most certainly mention the indignity in a note to the Minister.” He jotted on a pad.
“How about the surgical mission?”
“A most generous offer,” Magnan said. “Frankly, I was astonished. I think perhaps we’ve judged the Groaci too harshly.”
“I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it,” Retief said. “And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groups are on the way out.”
Magnan cleared this throat and shuffled papers. “I—ah—have explained to the press that last night’s ah . . .”
“Fiasco.”
“—affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenable position. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and the presumed death of the fellow, Slop—”
“The Fustians understand,” Retief said. “Whonk wasn’t kidding about ceremonial vengeance. Yith was lucky: he hadn’t actually drawn blood. Then no amount of dickering would have saved him.”
“The Groaci have been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,” Magnan said. “I think that a note—or perhaps an aide memoire: less formal . . .”
“The Moss Rock was bound for Groac,” Retief said. “She was already in her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments should arrive on schedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display. I think that should be all the aid the Groaci’s memoires will need to keep their tentacles off Fust.”
“But diplomatic usage—”
“Then, too, the less that’s put in writing, the less they can blame you for, if anything goes wrong.”
“There’s that, of course,” Magnan said, his lips pursed. “Now you’re thinking constructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet.” He smiled expansively.
“Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me.” Retief stood up. “I’m taking a few weeks off . . . if you have no objections, Mr. Ambassador. My pal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing is good.”
“But there are some extremely important matters coming up,” Magnan said. “We’re planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups.”
“Count me out. Groups give me an itch.”
“Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief. After all, we diplomats are ourselves a group.”
“Uh, huh,” Retief said. “That’s what I mean.”
Magnan sat quietly, his mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into the hall and closed the door gently behind him.