There was a discreet tap at the door; it opened and the young Third Secretary poked his head in.
“Mr. Ambassador, I have a reply to your message—just received from Glave. It’s signed by the Steward of the GFE, and I thought you’d want to see it at once . . .”
“Yes, of course; let me have it.”
“What’s the GFE?” someone asked.
“It’s the revolutionary group,” the messenger said, passing the message over.
“GFE? GFE? What do the letters signify?”
“Glorious Fun Eternally,” Retief suggested. “Or possibly Goodies For Everybody.”
“I believe that’s `Glavian Free Electorate’,” the Third Secretary said.
Sternwheeler stared at the paper, lips pursed. His face grew pink. He slammed the paper on the table.
“Well, gentlemen! It appears our worst fears have been realized! This is nothing less than a warning! A threat! We’re advised to divert course and by-pass Glave entirely. It seems the GFE wants no interference from meddling foreign exploiters, as they put it!”
Magnan rose. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Ambassador, I want to get off a message to Sector HQ to hold my old job for me—”
“Sit down, you idiot!” Sternwheeler roared. “If you think I’m consenting to have my career blighted—my first Ambassadorial post whisked out from under me—the Corps made a fool of—”
“I’d like to take a look at that message,” Retief said. It was passed along to him. He read it.
“I don’t believe this applies to us, Mr. Ambassador.”
“What are you talking about? It’s addressed to me—by name!”
“It merely states that `meddling foreign exploiters’ are unwelcome. Meddling foreigners we are, but we don’t qualify as exploiters unless we show a profit—and this appears to be shaping up as a particularly profitless venture.”
“What are you proposing, Mr. Retief?”
“That we proceed to make planetfall as scheduled, greet our welcoming committee with wide diplomatic smiles, hint at largesse in the offing, and settle down to observe the lie of the land.”
“Just what I was about to suggest,” Magnan said.
“That might be dangerous,” Sternwheeler said.
“That’s why I didn’t suggest it,” Magnan said.
“Still it’s essential that we learn more of the situation than can be gleaned from official broadcasts,” Sternwheeler mused. “Now, while I can’t justify risking the entire Mission, it might be advisable to dispatch a delegation to sound out the new regime—”
“I’d like to volunteer,” Magnan said, rising.
“Of course, the delegates may be murdered—”
“—but unfortunately, I’m under treatment at the moment.” Magnan sat down.
“—which will place us in an excellent position, propaganda-wise.”
“What a pity I can’t go,” the Military Attaché said. “But my place is with my troops.”
“The only troops you’ve got are the Assistant Attaché and your secretary,” Magnan pointed out.
“Say, I’d like to be down there in the thick of things,” the Political Officer said. He assumed a grave expression. “But, of course, I’ll be needed here, to interpret results.”
“I appreciate your attitude, gentlemen,” Sternwheeler said, studying the ceiling. “But I’m afraid I must limit the privilege of volunteering for this hazardous duty to those officers of more robust physique, under forty years of age—”
“Tsk. I’m forty-one,” Magnan said.
“—and with a reputation for adaptability.” His glance moved along the table.
“Do you mind if I run along now, Mr. Ambassador?” Retief said. “It’s time for my insulin shot.”
Sternwheeler’s mouth dropped open.
“Just kidding,” Retief said. “I’ll go. But I have one request, Mr. Ambassador: no further communication with the ground until I give the all-clear.”
* * *
Retief grounded the lighter in the center of Glave spaceport, cycled the lock, and stepped out. The hot yellow Glavian sun beat down on a broad expanse of concrete, an abandoned service cart, and a row of tall ships casting black shadows toward the silent control tower. A wisp of smoke curled up from the shed area at the rim of the field. There was no other sign of life.
Retief walked over to the cart, tossed his valise aboard, climbed into the driver’s seat, and headed for the operations building. Beyond the port, hills rose, white buildings gleaming against the deep green slopes. Near the ridge, a vehicle moved ant-like along a winding road, a dust trail rising behind it. Faintly, the tiny rap! of a distant shot sounded.
Papers littered the ground before the Operations Building. Retief pushed open the tall glass door, stood listening. Slanting sunlight reflected from a wide, polished floor, at the far side of which illuminated lettering over empty counters read IMMIGRATION, HEALTH, and CUSTOMS. He crossed to the desk, put the valise down, then leaned across the counter. A worried face under an over-sized white cap looked up at him.
“You can come out now,” Retief said. “They’ve gone.”
The man rose, dusting himself off. He looked over Retief’s shoulder. “Who’s gone?”
“Whoever it was that scared you.”
“Whatta ya mean? I was looking for my pencil.”
“Here it is.” Retief plucked a worn stub from the pocket of the soiled shirt sagging under the weight of braided shoulder-boards. “You can sign me in as a Diplomatic Representative; a break for you—no formalities necessary. Where can I catch a cab for the city?”
The man eyed Retief’s bag. “What’s in that?”
“Personal belongings under duty-free entry.”
“Guns?”
“No, thanks, just a cab, if you don’t mind.”
“You got no gun?” the man raised his voice.
“That’s right, fellows,” Retief called out. “No gun; no knife, not even a small fission bomb; just a few pairs of socks and some reading matter.”
A brown-uniformed man rose from behind the Customs counter, holding a long-barreled blast-rifle centered on the Corps insignia stitched to the pocket of Retief’s powder-blue blazer.
“Don’t try nothing,” he said. “You’re under arrest—”
“It can’t be overtime parking; I’ve only been here five minutes.”
“Hah!” the gun-handler moved out from the counter, came up to Retief. “Empty out your pockets!” he barked. “Hands over head!”
“I’m just a diplomat, not a contortionist,” Retief said, not moving. “Do you mind pointing that thing in some other direction?”
“Looky here, Mister, I’ll give the orders. We don’t need anybody telling us how to run our business—”
“I’m telling you to shift that blaster before I take it away from you and wrap it around your neck,” Retief said conversationally. The cop stepped back uncertainly, lowering the gun.
“Jake! Horny! Pud! Come on out!”
Three more brown uniforms emerged from concealment.
“Who are you fellows hiding from? The top sergeant?” Retief glanced over the ill-fitting uniforms, the unshaved faces, the scuffed boots. “Tell you what—when he shows up, I’ll engage him in conversation, and you beat it back to the barracks and grab a quick bath—”
“That’s enough smart talk.” The biggest of the three newcomers moved up to Retief. “You stuck your nose in at the wrong time. We just had a change of management around here.”
“I heard about it,” Retief said. “Who do I complain to?”
“Complain? What about?”
“The port’s a mess,” Retief barked. “Nobody on duty to receive official visitors! No passenger service facilities! Why, do you know I had to carry my own bag—”
“All right, all right, that’s outside my department. You better see the boss.”
“The boss? I thought you got rid of the bosses.”
“We did, but now we got new ones.”
“They any better than the old ones?”
“This guy asks too many questions,” the man with the gun said. “Let’s let Sozier answer ’em.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s the Military Governor of the City.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Retief said. “Lead the way, Jake—and don’t forget my bag.”
* * *
Sozier was a small man with thin hair oiled across a shiny scalp, prominent ears, and eyes like coal chips set in rolls of fat. He glowered at Retief from behind a polished desk occupying the center of a spacious office.
“I warned you off,” he snapped. “You came anyway.” He leaned forward and slammed a fist down on the desk. “You’re used to throwing your weight around, but you won’t throw it around here! There’ll be no spies pussy-footing around Glave!”
“Looking for what, Mr. Sozier?”
“Call me General!”
“Mind if I sit down?” Retief pulled out a chair, seated himself, and took out a cigar. “Curiously enough,” he said, lighting up, “the Corps has no intention of making any embarrassing investigations. We deal with the existing government, no questions asked—” His eyes held the other’s. “Unless, of course, there are evidences of atrocities or other illegal measures.”
The coal-chip eyes narrowed. “I don’t have to make explanations to you or anybody else—”
“Except, presumably, the Glavian Free Electorate,” Retief said blandly. “But tell me, General—who’s actually running the show?”
A speaker on the desk buzzed. “Hey, Corporal Sozier! Wes’s got them two hellions cornered. They’re holed up in the Birthday Cake—”
“General Sozier, damn you! And plaster your big mouth shut!” He gestured to one of the uniformed men standing by.