“If I were you, I’d relax,” Retief said, rising and releasing his grip. Qorn got a leg under him. Retief kicked it. Qorn’s chin hit the floor with a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbs and gay silks.
Retief turned to the watching crowd. “Next?” he called.
The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. “Maybe this would be a good time to elect a new leader,” he said. “Now, my qualifications—”
“Sit down,” Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table, seated himself in Qorn’s vacated chair. “A couple of you finish trussing Qorn up; then stack him in the corner—”
“But we must select a leader!”
“That won’t be necessary, boys. I’m your new leader.”
* * *
“As I see it,” Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wine glass, “you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don’t particularly like to fight.”
“We don’t mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, as Qornt, we’re expected to die in battle. But what I say is—why rush things?”
“I have a suggestion,” Magnan said. “Why not turn the reins of government over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group—”
“What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt; and it seems there’s always one among us who’s a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to follow him.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the way it’s done.”
“Why not do it another way?” Magnan offered. “Now, I’d like to suggest Community singing—”
“If we gave up fighting, we might live too long; then what would happen?”
“Live too long . . .” Magnan looked puzzled.
“When estivating time comes, there’d be no burrows for us; and anyway, with the new Qornt stepping in next Awakening—”
“I’ve lost the thread,” Magnan said. “Who are the new Qornt?”
“After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they’re Qornt, of course. The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosize into Verpp—”
“You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-mannered naturalists—will become warmongers like Qorn?”
“Very likely; `the milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qornt,’ as the old saying goes.”
“What do Qornt turn into?” Retief asked.
“Hmmmm. That’s a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood.”
“Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways?” Magnan asked. “What about taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance—”
“Don’t mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It’s great sport to sit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashing off to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. But we prefer a nice numerical advantage. Now, this business of tackling you Terrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea what your strength was—”
“But now that’s all off, of course,” Magnan chirped. “Now that we’ve had diplomatic relations and all—”
“Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days; after all, we’re Qornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action.”
“But Mr. Retief is your leader, now. He won’t let you . . .”
“Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack Day comes. And even if he orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the other Centers—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the invasion is definitely on.”
“Why don’t you go invade somebody else?” Magnan suggested. “Now, I could name some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course.”
“Hold everything,” Retief said. “I think we’ve got the basis of a deal here . . .”
* * *
At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retief and Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDT Sector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged, flying an Ambassadorial flag below a plain white banner.
“Curious,” Magnan commented. “I wonder what the significance of the white ensign might be?”
Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrements, a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The high white sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes, ceremonial swords, the polished butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather.
“A brave show indeed,” Magnan commented approvingly. “I confess the idea has merit—”
The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tired wheels, tyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomat stepped out.
“Why, Ambassador Nitworth,” Magnan glowed. “This is very kind of you—”
“Keep cool, Magnan,” Nitworth said in a strained voice. “We’ll attempt to get you out of this . . .” He stepped past Magnan’s outstretched hand and looked hesitantly at the ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond at the eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnoughts.
“Good afternoon, sir . . . ah, Your Excellency,” Nitworth said, blinking up at the leading Qornt. “You are Commander of the Strike Force, I assume?”
“Nope,” the Qornt said shortly.
“I . . . ah . . . wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuate the Headquarters,” Nitworth plowed on.
“Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said. “This—”
“Don’t panic, Retief. I’ll attempt to secure your release,” Nitworth hissed over his shoulder. “Now—”
“You will address our leader with more respect!” the tall Qornt hooted, eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up.
“Oh, yes indeed, sir . . . Your Excellency . . . Commander. Now, about the invasion—”
“Mr. Secretary,” Magnan tugged at Nitworth’s sleeve.
“In heaven’s name, permit me to negotiate in peace!” Nitworth snapped. He rearranged his features. “Now, Your Excellency, we’ve arranged to evacuate Smørbrød, of course, just as you requested—”
“Requested?” the Qornt honked.
“Ah . . . demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered. Instructed. And, of course, we’ll be only too pleased to follow any other instructions you might have—”
“You don’t quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary,” Retief said. “This isn’t—”
“Silence, confound you!” Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked at Retief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth, and stuffed a length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around and held him facing Retief.
“If you don’t mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said blandly, “I think I should mention that this isn’t an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the Peace Enforcement Corps.”
Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth’s mouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. “We felt,” he said, “that the establishment of a Foreign Brigade with the P E Corps structure would provide the element of novelty the Department has requested in our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma of Terrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations.”
Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caught the Qornt’s eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides.
“I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun,” Retief said. Magnan edged closer. “What about the gag?” he whispered.
“Let’s leave it where it is for a while,” Retief murmured. “It may save us a few concessions.”
* * *
An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across his desk at Retief and Magnan.
“This entire affair,” he rumbled, “has made me appear to be a fool!”
“But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just how clever you are,” Magnan burbled.
Nitworth purpled. “You’re skirting insolence, Magnan,” he roared. “Why was I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at the sight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced?”
“We tried to get through, but our wave-lengths—”
“Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle of those armed horrors advancing.”
“Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking—”
“I did NOT panic!” Nitworth bellowed. “I merely adjusted to the apparent circumstances. Now, I’m of two minds as to the advisability of this foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believe the wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruise in an uninhabited sector of space—”
The office windows rattled. “What the devil—!” Nitworth turned, stared out at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale blue light. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third—
Nitworth whirled on Magnan. “What’s this! Who ordered these recruits to embark without my permission?”
“I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,” Retief said. “There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltrating the Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it.”
“Call them back! Call them back at once!”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. They’re under orders to maintain total communications silence until completion of the mission.”
Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtful expression dawned. He nodded. “This may work out,” he said. “I should call them back, but since the fleet is out of contact, I’m unable to do so, correct? Thus, I can hardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising the Groaci.” He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan.