With a rush Hoshick threw himself at Retief, who ducked, whirled, and leaped on the Flap-jack’s back—and felt himself flipped clear by a mighty ripple of the alien’s slab-like body. Retief rolled aside as Hoshick turned on him, jumped to his feet, and threw a punch to Hoshick’s mid-section. The alien whipped his left fringe around in an arc that connected with Retief’s jaw, spinning onto his back. Hoshick’s weight struck Retief like a dumptruck-load of concrete. Retief twisted, trying to roll. The flat body of the creature blanketed him. He worked an arm free and drummed blows on the leathery back. Hoshick nestled closer.
Retief’s air was running out. He heaved up against the smothering weight; nothing budged. He was wasting his strength.
He remembered the ranger-form he had captured. The sensitive orifice had been placed ventrally, in what would be the thoracic area . . .
He groped, feeling tough hide set with horny granules. He would be missing skin tomorrow—if there was a tomorrow. His thumb found the orifice, and he probed.
The Flap-jack recoiled. Retief held fast, probed deeper, groping with the other hand. If the creature were bilaterally symmetrical there would be a set of ready-made hand-holds . . .
There were. Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed and pulled away. Retief held on, scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against Hoshick, and fell on top of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, flopped in distress, then went limp. Retief relaxed, released his hold, and got to his feet, breathing hard. Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted, and moved gingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assisted him into his trappings, and strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily, adjusting the volume.
“There is much to be said for the old system,” he said. “What a burden one’s sportsmanship places on one at times.”
“Great fun, wasn’t it?” said Retief. “Now, I know you’ll be eager to continue. If you’ll just wait while I run back and fetch some of our gouger-forms—”
“May hide-ticks devour the gouger-forms!” Hoshick bellowed. “You’ve given me such a sprong-ache as I’ll remember each spawning-time for a year.”
“Speaking of hide-ticks,” said Retief, “we’ve developed a biter-form—”
“Enough!” Hoshick roared so loudly that the translator bounced on his hide. “Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I had hoped . . .” He broke off, drawing a rasping breath. “I had hoped, Retief,” he said, speaking sadly now, “to find a new land here where I might plan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a crop of paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. But my spirit is not equal to the prospect of biter-forms and gouger-forms without end. I am shamed before you.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m old-fashioned myself,” said Retief. “I’d rather watch the action from a distance too.”
“But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude.”
“My spawn-fellows aren’t here. And besides, didn’t I mention it? No one who’s really in the know would think of engaging in competition by mere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling the sand, raising lichens—”
“That on which we dined,” said Hoshick, “and from which the wine is made.”
“The big trend in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition. Now, if you’d like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we’ll promise to stick to the oases and raise vegetables.”
Hoshick curled his back in attention. “Retief, you’re quite serious? You would leave all the fair sand hills to us?”
“The whole works, Hoshick. I’ll take the oases.”
Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. “Once again you have outdone me, Retief,” he cried, “this time, in generosity.”
“We’ll talk over the details later. I’m sure we can establish a set of rules that will satisfy all parties. Now I’ve got to get back. I think some of the gouger-forms are waiting to see me.”
* * *
It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreed on with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stood up.
“There you are,” he said. “We been wonderin’ whether to go out after you.”
Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out a raw-boned hand. “Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, I thought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT.”
Bert came up behind Lemuel. “How do you know he ain’t, Lemuel?” he said. “Maybe he—”
Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. “Next cotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse’n that.”
“Tell me,” said Retief. “How are you boys fixed for wine?”
“Wine? Mister, we been livin’ on stump water for a year now. ‘Dobe’s fatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment liquor.”
“Try this.” Retief handed over a squat jug. Swazey drew the cork, sniffed, drank, and passed it to Lemuel.
“Mister, where’d you get that?”
“The Flap-jacks make it. Here’s another question for you: would you concede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peace guarantee?”
At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief. “We’ll make any reasonable deal,” he said. “I guess they got as much right here as we have. I think we’d agree to a fifty-fifty split. That’d give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side.”
“What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them the desert?”
Lemuel reached for the wine jug, his eyes on Retief. “Keep talkin’, mister,” he said. “I think you got yourself a deal.”
* * *
Consul Passwyn glanced up as Retief entered the office.
“Sit down, Retief,” he said absently. “I thought you were over on Pueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert.”
“I’m back.”
Passwyn eyed him sharply. “Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speak up. Don’t expect me to request any military assistance.”
Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. “Here’s the Treaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact and a Trade Agreement.”
“Eh?” Passwyn picked up the papers and riffled through them. He leaned back in his chair, beaming.
“Well, Retief, expeditiously handled.” He stopped and blinked at the Vice-Consul. “You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you’ve been conducting yourself as befits a member of the Consulate staff.”
“I attended a sporting event. One of the players got a little excited.”
“Well . . . it’s one of the hazards of the profession. One must pretend an interest in such matters.” Passwyn rose and extended a hand. “You’ve done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of following instructions to the letter.”
Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough to take from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and drop it in the slot.
PART III: BUT MAGNAN’S STAR RISES
Editor’s Note: Magnan appears in almost all of the Retief stories. He provides the ongoing comic relief—the “straight man,” as it were, for Retief’s wit and sarcasm. In the first three stories, however, Magnan is not quite the unmitigated ass he becomes as time goes on. Not that all the raw material isn’t there from the very beginning, of course, but early in his career Magnan does show occasional flashes of spirit. An example is the scene in “The Brass God” where Magnan, reacting in a quick and decisive manner which he will soon relinquish, stuffs a cummerbund into the mouth of a Hoogan priest.
Soon enough, however, Magnan adapts completely to the culture of the Corps Diplomatique. From then on, his rise is more or less uninterrupted as Retief’s career continues to stagnate due to his awkward habit of ignoring CDT precepts.
Insofar as the Retief stories have an overall architecture, it is provided by two themes: the steady rise of Magnan—who only gets his “just desserts” at the very end of Retief’s career, as told in Diplomat-at-Arms—and the emergence of the Groaci as Retief’s major antagonist (outside, of course, of the ranks of the CDT itself).
In Part III, we examine the first of these.
PALACE REVOLUTION
. . . Ofttimes, the expertise displayed by experienced Terrestrial Chiefs of Mission in the analysis of local political currents enabled these dedicated senior officers to secure acceptance of Corps commercial programs under seemingly insurmountable conditions of adversity. Ambassador Crodfoller’s virtuoso performance in the reconciliation of rival elements at Petreac added new lustre to Corps prestige . . .
—Vol VIII, reel 8. 489 A. E. (AD 2950)
Retief paused before a tall mirror to check the overlap of the four sets of lapels that ornamented the vermilion cut-away of a First Secretary and Consul.
“Come along, Retief,” Magnan said. “The ambassador has a word to say to the staff before we go in.”