“Just a minute, Mr. Fiss. How long are your tourists planning to stay on Yalc? Just during Voom Festival, I assume?”
“I believe our visas read . . . ah . . . indefinite, Mr. Minister . . .”
“I’m Magnan, Chargé in the absence of the Minister,” Magnan said.
Fiss waved his eyes. “The Minister is not here?”
“No, he’s off mountain climbing. Very keen on sports. Now, ah, may I ask where your other forty-nine vessels might be?”
“Just where is the Minister to be found?” Fiss inquired.
“I really can’t say,” Magnan sniffed. “We’ve had no word for two days. Now, about your other ships—”
“There are, I believe, forty-nine cities here on this charming little world,” Fiss said smoothly. “One transport is calling at each.”
“Curious way to conduct a tour—” Magnan broke off as a cargo port rumbled open and a heavy six-wheeled vehicle churned out. Rows of multi-eyed Groaci heads peered over open sides, on which the words GROAC PLANETARY TOURS, INC. had been hastily lettered. A second vehicle followed the first, and then a third and fourth. Magnan gaped as the emerging carriers took up positions in an orderly double file.
“Here, what’s this, Fiss?” he blurted. “These are tourists?”
“Of course? What else? Please note the presence of the ladies and also a number of lovable Groaci grubs. Yes, innocent, fun-loving tourists all.”
“Why are they in armored cars?” Magnan watched as the vehicles moved off in the direction of the towering glass temples. “Here, where are they going?”
“Since the entire local populace is fully occupied with Voom Festival activities,” Fiss hissed blandly, “Groac Tours has thoughtfully arranged to occupy available unused housing . . .”
“Why, that’s the local Holy of Holies,” Magnan expostulated. “You can’t go in there . . . !”
“The structures are not in use,” Fiss whispered. “And I see no objection on the part of the aborigines.” He indicated the cab driver who was watching indifferently as the first tractor moved under a graceful crystalline arch into the sparkling glass-bricked avenue.
“Hey, Mac-Tic,” the driver called to Retief in Yalc. “Time’s up. I wanna get there before the mud cools . . .”
“Are you out of your mind, Mr. Fiss?” Magnan demanded. “You’re deliberately precipitating an incident! I’m warning you, I’ll refer this to Sector HQ and call for a squadron of Peace Enforcers—”
“What need for Peace Enforcers, my dear fellow?” Fiss murmured. “Peace reigns! We are unarmed; no act of violence is contemplated.”
“We’ll see about this!” Magnan fumed. He turned and stamped toward the waiting taxi.
“So thoughtful of you to welcome us,” Fiss’s faint voice followed him. “I shall be calling at the Legation later to arrange a number of formalities—all quite legal, I assure you.”
“It’s worse than I thought,” Magnan groaned to Retief as he climbed into the cab. “When a Groaci starts citing statutes, you can be sure there’s mischief afoot.”
* * *
“This is incredible!” Magnan barked at the screen where Oo-Rilikuk’s multi-colored visage nodded blandly against a background of sinuously moving Yalcan dancing-wenches. “You calmly admit that these foreigners are occupying every pagoda on the planet, strewing dope-stick butts and algae-bar wrappers—”
“This is Voom season, Mr. Magnan,” Rilikuk said reasonably. “What could be more fitting?”
“Your concept of propriety confounds me. There are fifty thousand of these fellows—and I have the distinct impression they’re planning an extended stay!”
“Very likely,” Rilikuk agreed, twitching in time to the music in the background. “And now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” The screen blanked.
Magnan threw up his hands. “I don’t like it, Retief; there’s an aspect of this we’re missing—”
A chime sounded; the door opened and the Groaci Fiss bustled in, breathing noisily under the weight of a heavy briefcase.
“Ah, Mr. Magnan! So good of you to await me. I have the papers here . . .” He hoisted the case onto the desk and undid stout straps. “I’m sure you’ll find all in order: Territorial claims, governmental charter, application for League membership—”
“What’s this?” Magnan scanned the heavy documents. “What are you saying, sir? That Yalc—that the Groaci—that you—”
“Quite right,” Fiss nodded. “This world is now Groaci property.”
There was a loud crash from the direction of the now deserted street. Magnan swiveled, stared out at a band of business-like Groaci, hard at work on a shuttered shop with pry-bars.
“What are they doing?” he yelped. “Mr. Fiss, order those vandals away at once! The situation is getting out of hand!”
“Not at all; those chaps are merely following my instructions. And now if you have any belongings you wish to take along, please feel free—”
“Eh? Belongings? I’m not going anywhere!”
“Permit me to contradict you,” Fiss hissed softly, prodding a paper with a damp-looking finger. “This is the eviction order. I find that this humble structure will adequately fulfill my requirement for a field-office here in the village.”
“F-field office?”
“I expect we shall be busy here for a few days,” Fiss said. “Transferring useful items to our quarters.” He waved airily toward the sparkling towers beyond the swamp.
“You’re violating the Legation?” Magnan’s eyes bulged.
“There has been a change of status quo since my arrival,” Fiss pointed out. “No formal relations exist between my government and the CDT; therefore, this is merely an office, and you are unregistered aliens—”
“This is an outrage!” Magnan sputtered. “I’m not leaving!”
“So?” Fiss murmured. He stepped to the door, opened it, waved in a quartet of bigger-than-average Groaci.
“To intimidate the soft ones,” he hissed in Groaci. “To make threatening gestures.”
Two of the newcomers stepped to Retief. He took them casually by their thin necks, escorted them to the window, and tumbled them out. The second pair jumped at him in time to meet a stiff-arm which slammed both of them onto their backs. Fiss emitted a weak but impassioned bleat.
“Unhand them, brute! These are lawfully appointed bailiffs—”
Retief tossed the stunned Groaci after their fellows and took a step toward Fiss. The Tour Director squeaked and darted through the door.
“Retief!” Magnan yelped. “Stop! After all, these papers—”
Retief gathered in the parchments, tossed them after the intruders. The outraged face of Tour Director Fiss appeared at the opening.
“Ruffians! Bandits! Our legal and just claim—”
“—isn’t worth the plastic it’s printed on,” Retief stated. “And if any more tourists wander into the Legation I won’t be so polite with them.”
Fiss turned and made frantic gestures to the foraging crew. “To enter and evict the madmen!” he hissed. “To cast them forth bodily!”
The several dozen Groaci who had gathered moved in a body toward the Legation door.
“I’m disappointed in you, Fiss,” Retief said, shaking his head sadly. “I thought you were going to pretend that this was all perfectly legal, and here you are about to violate a diplomatic mission in broad daylight.”
Fiss hesitated, then hissed an order to his men. They halted.
“Very well, Soft One,” he whispered. “What need of force? Unlike the higher races, you require water at frequent intervals, I believe. Since, alas, I cannot authorize further deliveries through the village mains, you will soon emerge to seek it. We will be waiting.”
Magnan tottered to Retief’s side. “Mr. Fiss,” he croaked. “This is madness! You can’t possibly hope to justify this outrageous seizure—”
“On the contrary, Mr. Magnan,” Fiss waved a fistful of paper. “If you will re-read your Colonial Code, Title Three, Section XXI, paragraph 9b, you will find that, and I quote, `any planetary body lacking an indigenous culture may be considered as available for homesteading by any Power covenant to these articles—'”
“Surely, Fiss, you don’t imply that Yalc is uninhabited! Great Heavens, the world is known throughout the Sector for the beauty of its glass and ceramics work—”
“I refer further to paragraph 12d, ibidem,” Fiss bored on, “which provides the following criteria for determination of cultural level within the meaning of the Code: (a) an active, organized government competent to represent native interests; (b) a degree of social organization characterized by cities of at least one thousand inhabitants; and (c) individual or group IQ (as applicable), averaging .8 (standard) as evidenced by GST Test scores—”
“Have you lost your wits?” Magnan cut in. “You’re standing in the midst of a Yalcan City! I deal daily with representatives of the Yalcan government! And as for intelligence—”
“Inhabited city, Mr. Magnan, permit me to remind you minimum population, one thousand individuals.” Fiss waved a hand at the empty street. “I see no individuals here.”
“But they’re all away participating in a festival—”
“As for government,” Fiss continued blandly, “I have been totally unsuccessful in discovering any active organization. I confess I have been unable to secure a specimen of the local fauna for IQ Testing, but I feel sure any such effort would be unrewarded.”
“You deliberately timed this coup to take advantage of local customs!” Magnan said in shocked tone. “The Code will be amended, Fiss—!”