Retief smiled. “The Admirable speaks wisdom.”
“Of course, a being prefers wenches of his own kind,” F’Kau-Kau-Kau said. He belched. “The Ministry of Culture has imported several Terrestrial joy-girls, said to be top-notch specimens. At least they have very fat watchamacallits.”
“Your Admirableness is most considerate,” Retief said.
“Let us to it then, Retief. I may hazard a tumble with one of your Terries, myself. I fancy an occasional perversion.” F’Kau-Kau-Kau dug an elbow into Retief’s side and bellowed with laughter.
As Retief crossed to the door at F’Kau-Kau-Kau’s side, Ambassador Spradley glowered from behind the plain tablecloth. “Retief,” he called, “kindly excuse yourself. I wish a word with you.” His voice was icy. Magnan stood behind him, goggling.
“Forgive my apparent rudeness, Mr. Ambassador,” said Retief. “I don’t have time to explain now—”
“Rudeness!” Spradley yipped. “Don’t have time, eh? Let me tell you—”
“Please lower your voice, Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said. “The situation is still delicate.”
Spradley quivered, his mouth open. He found his voice, “You—you—”
“Silence!” Retief snapped. Spradley looked up at Retief’s face, staring for a moment into Retief’s grey eyes. He closed his mouth and swallowed.
“The Yill seem to have gotten the impression I’m in charge,” Retief said. “We’ll have to maintain the deception.”
“But—but—” Spradley stuttered. Then he straightened. “This is the last straw,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am the Terrestrial Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary. Magnan has told me that we’ve been studiedly and repeatedly insulted, since the moment of our arrival; kept waiting in baggage rooms, transported in refuse lorries, herded about with servants, offered swill at the table. Now I, and my senior staff, are left cooling our heels, without so much as an audience, while this—this multiple Kau person hobnobs with—with—”
Spradley’s voice broke. “I may have been a trifle hasty, Retief, in attempting to restrain you. Slighting the native gods and dumping the banquet table are rather extreme measures, but your resentment was perhaps partially justified. I am prepared to be lenient with you.” He fixed a choleric eye on Retief.
“I am walking out of this meeting, Mr. Retief. I’ll take no more of these personal—”
“That’s enough,” Retief said sharply. “We’re keeping the Admirable waiting.”
Spradley’s face purpled.
Magnan found his voice. “What are you going to do, Retief?”
“I’m going to handle the negotiation,” Retief said. He handed Magnan his empty glass. “Now go sit down and work on the Image.”
* * *
At his desk in the VIP suite aboard the orbiting Corps vessel, Ambassador Spradley pursed his lips and looked severely at Vice-Consul Retief.
“Further,” he said, “you have displayed a complete lack of understanding of Corps discipline, the respect due a senior officer, even the basic courtesies. Your aggravated displays of temper, ill-timed outbursts of violence, and almost incredible arrogance in the assumption of authority make your further retention as an Officer-Agent of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne impossible. It will therefore be my unhappy duty to recommend your immediate—”
There was a muted buzz from the communicator. The Ambassador cleared his throat.
“Well?”
“A signal from Sector HQ, Mr. Ambassador,” a voice said.
“Well, read it,” Spradley snapped. “Skip the preliminaries . . .”
“Congratulations on the unprecedented success of your mission. The articles of agreement transmitted by you embody a most favorable resolution of the difficult Sirenian situation, and will form the basis of continued amicable relations between the Terrestrial States and the Yill Empire. To you and your staff, full credit is due for a job well done. Signed, Deputy Assistant Secretary Sternwheeler.”
Spradley cut off the voice impatiently. He shuffled papers, then eyed Retief sharply.
“Superficially, of course, an uninitiated observer might leap to the conclusion that the ah . . . results that were produced in spite of these . . . ah . . . irregularities justify the latter.” The Ambassador smiled a sad, wise smile. “This is far from the case,” he said. “I—”
The communicator burped softly.
“Confound it.” Spradley muttered. “Yes?”
“Mr. T’Cai-Cai has arrived,” the voice said. “Shall I—”
“Send him in, at once.” Spradley glanced at Retief. “Only a two-syllable man, but I shall attempt to correct these false impressions, make some amends . . .”
The two Terrestrials waited silently until the Yill Protocol chief tapped at the door.
“I hope,” the Ambassador said, “that you will resist the impulse to take advantage of your unusual position.” He looked at the door. “Come in.”
T’Cai-Cai stepped into the room, glanced at Spradley, then turned to greet Retief in voluble Yill. He rounded the desk to the Ambassador’s chair, motioned him from it, and sat down.
“I have a surprise for you, Retief,” he said in Terran. “I myself have made use of the teaching machine you so kindly lent us.”
“That’s good,” Retief said. “I’m sure Mr. Spradley will be interested in hearing what we have to say.”
“Never mind,” the Yill said. “I am here only socially.” He looked around the room.
“So plainly you decorate your chamber; but it has a certain austere charm.” He laughed a Yill laugh.
“Oh, you are a strange breed, you Terrestrials. You surprised us all. You know, one hears such outlandish stories. I tell you in confidence, we had expected you to be over-pushes.”
“Pushovers,” Spradley said tonelessly.
“Such restraint! What pleasure you gave to those of us, like myself of course, who appreciated your grasp of protocol. Such finesse! How subtly you appeared to ignore each overture, while neatly avoiding actual contamination. I can tell you, there were those who thought—poor fools—that you had no grasp of etiquette. How gratified we were, we professionals, who could appreciate your virtuosity—when you placed matters on a comfortable basis by spurning the cats’-meat. It was sheer pleasure then, waiting, to see what form your compliment would take.”
The Yill offered orange cigars, then stuffed one in his nostril.
“I confess even I had not hoped that you would honor our Admirable so signally. Oh, it is a pleasure to deal with fellow professionals, who understand the meaning of protocol.”
Ambassador Spradley made a choking sound.
“This fellow has caught a chill,” T’Cai-Cai said. He eyed Spradley dubiously. “Step back, my man, I am highly susceptible.
“There is one bit of business I shall take pleasure in attending to, my dear Retief,” T’Cai-Cai went on. He drew a large paper from his reticule. “His Admirableness is determined that none other than yourself shall be accredited here. I have here my government’s exequatur confirming you as Terrestrial Consul-General to Yill. We shall look forward to your prompt return.”
Retief looked at Spradley.
“I’m sure the Corps will agree,” he said.
“Then I shall be going,” T’Cai-Cai said. He stood up. “Hurry back to us, Retief. There is much that I would show you of the great Empire of Yill.” He winked a Yill wink.
“Together, Retief, we shall see many high and splendid things.”
THE BRASS GOD
“Rising above crass materialism, the native piety of Corps diplomats, coupled with a solemn appreciation of universal spiritual values, has enriched Corps annals with no more inspiring example of the reconciliation of alien ideologies than that of Ambassador Straphanger’s virtuoso performance among the Hoog. Ever humbly aware of the Great Notebook in the hand of the Big Inspector—whose E.R.’s are written on the parchment of Eternity—Straphanger penetrated the veils of ecclesiastical mystery to base a rapprochement on the firm ground of the realistic doctrine of the Universal Popularity of Sin . . .”
—Vol. II, Reel I, 480 AE (AD 2941)
The Hoogan chamberlain was tall, black-clad, high-shouldered, with an immense dome-shaped head sloping into massive shoulders, eyes like freshly shelled oysters in a leathery face and over-long, dangling arms. He turned to face the party of Terrestrial diplomats who stood clutching suitcases, dwarfed under the lofty vaulted ceiling of the vast, dark hall. Shafts of eerily colored light filtered through stained-glass loopholes high in the walls to shed a faint glow on the uneven stone floor, the drab-colored murals and hangings depicting the specialties of the seven Hoogan Hells, the mouths of dark corridors radiating from the circular chamber with helmeted and kilted Hoogan pikemen spaced between them, immobile as the gargoyles that peered from high niches.
“His Arrokanze the Bope has kraziously blaced at your disposal these cosy quarters,” the chamberlain said in a deep, hollow voice. “You may now zelect rooms on the floors above and array yourselves in the karments provided—”
“Look here, Mr. Oh-Doomy-Gloom,” Ambassador Straphanger cut in. “I’ve been thinking it over, and I’ve decided that my staff and I will just nip back over to our ship for the night—”
“His Arrokanze will pe eggpecting you at the fête in the Bapal Kardens in one hour’s time,” the Hoogan bored on. “His Arrokanze tislikes intenzely to be kept waitink.”
“Oh, we’re all keenly aware of the honor His Arrogance has paid us in offering accommodations here in the Papal Palace, but—”
“One hour,” Oh-Doomy-Gloom repeated, his voice echoing across the hall. He turned away, the symbolic chain attached to his neck clanking as he moved. He paused, turned back.