“Well, how about it, Xif,” the commissioner buzzed in harsh tribal Voion to his companion. “Is this the one?”
“That’s him, chief,” the other cop confirmed. “He was the ringleader.”
“Here, Commissioner, I must ask you to speak Terran!” Longspoon rasped.
“Just advising my associate that he mustn’t harbor grudges for the brutal treatment he received,” Ziz said smoothly. “I assured him Your Excellency will make full amends.”
“Amends. Yes.” Longspoon favored Retief with a look like a jab from an old maid’s umbrella. “It appears there’s been some sort of free-for-all in an unsavory local drinking spot.” He put bony fingers on the desk top and pinched them together. “I trust you have some explanation?”
“Explanation of what, Mr. Ambassador?” Retief inquired pleasantly.
“Of just what would possess an Embassy Officer to attack members of the Planetary Police in the performance of their duties!” Purplish color was creeping up from under Longspoon’s stiff midmorning informal collar.
Retief shook his head sympathetically. “No, I certainly couldn’t explain a thing like that.”
Longspoon’s lower jaw dropped. “Surely you have some, ah, justification to offer?” He shot a quick side glance at the Voion.
“It would be pretty hard to justify attacking a policeman,” Retief offered. “In the performance of his duties at that.”
“Look here . . . !” Longspoon leaned toward Retief. “You’re supposed to be a diplomat!” he hissed from the corner of his mouth. “You might at least try lying a little!”
Retief nodded agreeably. “What about?”
“Confound it, sir!” Longspoon waved a hand. “When a police commissioner rolls into my office and charges one of my staff with aggravated breach of the peace, you can hardly expect me to simply ignore the situation!”
“Certainly not,” Retief said firmly. “Still I think if you explain to him that invading the Terrestrial Embassy to make unsupported charges is impolite, and warn him never to try it again, it won’t be necessary to demand his resignation—”
“His resignation!” Longspoon’s mouth was open again. “Hmmm . . .” He swiveled to face the commissioner. “Perhaps I should point out that invading the Terrestrial Embassy to make unsup—”
“One moment!” Ziz cut in harshly. “The question here is one of appropriate punishment to lawless foreigners who engage in the murder of harmless, grub-loving Voion! I demand that the culprit be turned over to me for a fair Trial by Internal Omens!”
“As I recall, the method requires a surgical operation to study the evidence,” Longspoon mused. “What happens if the victim, er, I mean patient, is innocent?”
“Then we weld him back up and give him a touching funeral ceremony.”
“No, Ziz,” Longspoon wagged a finger playfully. “If we simply turned our diplomats over to anyone who wanted them, we’d be stripped of personnel in no time.”
“Just the one,” Ziz suggested delicately.
“I’d like to oblige, my dear Commissioner, but the precedent would be most unfortunate.”
The desk screen chimed apologetically.
“Yes, Fester?” Longspoon eyed it impatiently. “I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed—”
“It’s His Omnivoracity,” Fester squeaked excitedly. “He presents his second best compliments and insists on speaking to you at once, Mr. Ambassador!”
Longspoon twitched a bleak smile at the police commissioner. “Well, my good friend Ikk seems to be a bit outside himself today. Just tell him I’ll ring him up later, Fester—”
“He says it’s about an educational shipment,” the female cut in. “Heavens, what language!”
“Ah, yes, educational material,” Longspoon said. “Well, I’m always most concerned about educational affairs; perhaps I’d best just see what he has in mind . . .” He turned the volume down low, listened as a tiny voice chirped angrily.
“Are you sure?” he muttered. “Six cases?”
There was more shrill talk from the communicator.
“Nonsense!” Longspoon snapped. “What possible motive—”
Ikk buzzed again. Longspoon glanced at Retief with a startled expression. “No,” he said. “Quite out of the question. See here, I’ll call you back. I have, er, callers at the moment.” He rang off. The police commissioner relaxed the auditory members which had been straining forward during the exchange.
“You still refuse to remand this one to my custody?” He pointed at Retief.
“Have you all gone mad?” Longspoon barked. “I’ll deal with Mr. Retief in my own way—”
“In that case . . .” Ziz turned to his retainer. “Put phase two into operation,” he snapped in Tribal. “Just sending the lad along to water the jelly flowers down at headquarters,” he added soothingly as Longspoon drew breath to protest. Xif wheeled across to the door, left silently. Ziz rolled to the lopsidedly hexagonal window, glanced out into the street.
“A pity Your Excellency didn’t see fit to assist the police in the maintenance of law and order,” he said, turning to Longspoon. “However, I shall take the disappointment philosophically . . .” He broke off, waving both posterior antennae. “Hark!” he said. “Do I scent a suspicious odor?”
Longspoon cleared his throat hurriedly. “My throat balm,” he said. “My physician insists . . .” He sniffed again. “Smoke!” He jumped to his feet. At that moment, a shrill bell jangled into strident life somewhere beyond the door.
“Flee for your lives!” Ziz keened. He shot to the door, flung it wide. A billow of black smoke bulged into the room. Longspoon dithered for a moment, then grabbed up a code book and the Classified Dispatch reel, tossed them into his desk-side safe, slammed it shut just as a pair of Voion charged into the room, hauling a heavy fire hose with a massive brass nozzle from which a weak stream of muddy water dribbled into the deep-pile carpeting. Ziz barked a command and pointed at Retief; the firemen dropped the hose—and were bowled aside as Ambassador Longspoon hurtled between them, his basketball-sized paunch jouncing under overlapping vests. Ziz spun, reached for Retief with a pair of horny grasping members; the Terran leaned aside, caught one of the Voion’s arms and jerked; Ziz went over with a crash.
Retief whirled to the window from which the commissioner had glanced a moment before, saw a crowd of crested and ornamented Voion police pressing toward the Embassy doors.
“Fast action,” he murmured. He stepped past the overturned firemen into the corridor; wide-eyed staff members were appearing from doors, batting at smoke clouds. Shouts and squeals sounded. Retief pushed through toward an open door from which dense yellowish clouds were pouring, layering out at chest height. He reached the far wall of the room, groped for and found an overturned typist’s chair, slammed it at the dim glow of a small triangular window. The colored glass fell outward with a musical tinkle. At once, the smoke—boiling from an overturned wastebasket, Retief saw—was swept toward the opening by a strong draft. He picked up the smoking wastebasket and contents, stepped into the lavatory and doused it with water; it died with a prolonged hiss. Retief lifted a small, soot-blackened plastic canister from the basket; a small wisp of smoke was still coiling from it; incised on its base were what appeared to be Groaci hieroglyphs.
Back in the hall, First Secretary Magnan appeared from a smoke cloud, coughing, eyes blurred.
“Retief! The service door’s jammed with people! We’re trapped!”
“Let’s try another route.” Retief started toward the front of the building, Magnan trailing.
“But—what about the others!”
“I predict the fire scare will give them excellent appetites for dinner.”
“Scare?”
“It seems to be just smoke bombs.”
“You mean—Retief! You didn’t—”
“No, but somebody did.” They reached the wide hall before the main Embassy entrance door, packed now with excited diplomats and semihysterical stenographers milling in the smoke, and swarms of Voion firemen, wheeling authoritatively through the press, shrilling the alarm. More Voion were struggling in the door to breast the tide of escape-bent Terrans.
“All personnel must evacuate the premises at once,” a cop with a bright red inlay across his ventral plates keened. “Collapse is imminent! The danger is frightful! Remember, you are all highly combustible . . . !”
“I don’t know what the game is, but we’d better have a fast look around.” Retief headed for a side corridor. A stout diplomat with four boneless chins flapped a hand at him.
“I say, young man, all these locals invading the Terrestrial Embassy—it’s irregular! Now, I want you to speak to Chief Sskt, and point out—”
“Sorry, Counselor Eggwalk; rush job.” Retief pushed past, forced his way through a shouting knot of entangled police and Terrans, rounded a curve in the corridor. A small door marked MAINTENANCE PERSONNEL ONLY caught his eye. It stood ajar; the lock, Retief noted, was broken.
“Mr. Magnan, if you see any volunteer firemen headed this way, give me a fast yell.”
“Retief! What are you—”
Magnan’s voice cut off as Retief slid through the door, went down a narrow ramp into the cool of a low-ceilinged cellar. There was a scurry of sound ahead; he ducked under insulated air ducts, saw a flicker of motion down a shadowy passage, heard the scrape of wheels scuffling on uneven pavement.