“Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot.” Retief stepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure at the head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat, staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past, followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the table faded.
Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb stepped forward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back his chair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief, moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, to bear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushy hair, springing out in a giant halo around the greyish, porous-skinned face, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzz surrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall headdress of scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop of pink pearls had slipped down above one eye.
Zubb finished his speech, fell silent, breathing hard.
Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched.
“Not bad,” Retief said admiringly. “Maybe we could get up a match between you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You’ve got the volume on him, but he could spot you points on timber.”
“So,” Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. “You come from Guzzum, eh? Or Smørbrød, as I think you call it. What is it you’re after? More time? A compromise? Negotiations? Peace?” He slammed a bony hand against the table. “The answer is NO!”
Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. “Chain him, then . . .” he indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. “This one’s bigger; you’d best chain him, too.”
“Why, your Excellency—” Magnan started, stepping forward.
“Stay back!” Qorn hooted. “Stand over there where I can keep an eye on you.”
“Your Excellency, I’m empowered—”
“Not here, you’re not!” Qorn trumpeted. “Want peace, do you? Well, I don’t want peace! I’ve had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries! I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory!” He turned to look down the table. “How about it fellows? It’s war to the knife, eh?”
There was a momentary silence.
“I guess so,” grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue with flame-colored plumes.
Qorn’s eyes bulged. He half rose. “We’ve been all over this!” he bassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. “I thought I’d made my point . . .”
“Oh, sure, Qorn.”
“You bet.”
“I’m convinced.”
Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. “All for one and one for all, that’s us.”
“And you’re the one, eh Qorn?” Retief commented.
Magnan cleared his throat. “I sense that some of you gentlemen are not convinced of the wisdom of this move,” he piped, looking along the table at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests, and staring eyes.
“Silence!” Qorn hooted. “No use your talking to my loyal lieutenants anyway,” he added. “They do whatever I convince them they ought to do.”
“But I’m sure that on more mature consideration—”
“I can lick any Qornt in the house,” Qorn said. “That’s why I’m Qorn.” He belched again.
A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with a crash at Magnan’s feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrapped three loops around Magnan’s wrists, snapped a lock in place.
“You, next!” The guns pointed at Retief’s chest. He held out his arms. Four loops of silvery-grey chain in half-inch links dropped around them. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through the ends and closed it.
“Now,” Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. “There’s a bit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them?”
“Let them go,” the blue and flame Qornt said glumly.
“You can do better than that,” Qorn hooted. “Now, here’s a suggestion: we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae, say—and ship them back—”
“Good lord! Retief, he’s talking about cutting off our ears and sending us home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal!”
“It wouldn’t be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,” Retief commented.
“It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up a reasonable scrap,” Qorn said judiciously. “I have a feeling that they’re thinking of giving up without a struggle.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” the blue-and-flame Qornt said. “Why should they?”
Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. “Take these two,” he hooted. “I’ll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender!”
“Well,” Magnan started.
“Hold it, Mr. Magnan,” Retief said, “I’ll tell him.”
“What’s your proposal?” Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet. “A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I can assure you, it’s useless. We Qornt LIKE to fight—”
“I’m afraid you’ve gotten the wrong impression, Your Excellency,” Retief said blandly. “We didn’t come to negotiate. We came to deliver an ultimatum . . .”
“What?” Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered.
“We plan to use this planet for target practice,” Retief said. “A new type hell bomb we’ve worked out. Have all your people off of it in seventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences.”
* * *
“You have the gall,” Qorn stormed, “to stand here in the center of Qornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains—”
“Oh, these,” Retief said. He tensed his arms; the soft aluminum links stretched, broke. He shook the light metal free. “We diplomats like to go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn’t want to mislead you. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I—”
Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt at the table craned, jabbering.
“I told you they were brutes,” Zubb shrilled.
Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. “I don’t care what they are!” he honked. “Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships—”
“And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcers, with a hundred megatons/second firepower each.”
“Retief—” Magnan tugged at his sleeve. “Don’t forget their superdrive—”
“That’s all right; they don’t have one.”
“But—”
“We’ll take you on!” Qorn French-horned. “We’re the Qorn! We glory in battle! We live in fame or go down in—”
“Hogwash,” the flame-and-blue Qornt cut in. “If it wasn’t for you, Qorn, we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having to prove anything.”
“Qorn, you seem to be the firebrand here,” Retief said. “I think the rest of the boys would listen to reason—”
“Over my dead body!”
“My idea exactly,” Retief said. “You claim you can lick any man in the house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on the floor, and we’ll see how good you are at backing up your conversation.”
* * *
Magnan hovered at Retief’s side. “Twelve feet tall,” he moaned. “And did you notice the size of those hands?”
Retief watched as Qorn’s aides helped him out of his formal trappings. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. I doubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard pounds here.”
“But that phenomenal reach—”
“I’ll peck away at him at knee level; when he bends over to swat me, I’ll get a crack at him.”
Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort.
“Enough! Let me at the upstart!”
Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointed arms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feet clacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitors and bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on the combatants.
Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut at Retief, who leaned aside, caught a lean shank below the knee. Qorn bent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker took him just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retief leaped clear.
Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien’s off-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed to the floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behind the narrow back, seized Qorn’s neck in a stranglehold, and threw his weight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at an awkward angle. He squawked, beat his free arm on the floor, reaching in vain for Retief.
Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him.
“Need I remind you, sir,” he said icily, “that this is an official diplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterested parties.”
Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. “I must ask you to hand me your weapons, Zubb.”
“Look here,” Zubb began.
“I MAY lose my temper,” Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passed them to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turned back to watch the encounter.
Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn’s left wrist, bound it to the alien’s neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn’s shoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrapped it around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qorn flopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around his neck jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly.