He was sitting at his desk the next morning, ignoring lights, with his Kenya-farm brochures spread out before him, but he was not looking at them. Dr. Ftaeml and he had gone out together and done the town after they got the kids safely married-and Mr. Kiku was feeling it somewhat, in a pleasant, relaxed manner. Even though his head buzzed and his coordination was poor, his stomach was not troubling him. He felt fine.
He was trying fuzzily to sum up the affair in his mind. All this fuss, all this grief, because some fool spaceman more than a century ago didn’t have sense enough not to tamper with native life until protocol had been worked out. Oh my people, my people!
On second thought, he told himself not to point the finger of scorn; he might be looking in a mirror.
There was something that good old Ftaeml had said last night. . . something. . . now what was it he had said? Something which, at the time, convinced Kiku that the Hroshii never had had any weapons capable of seriously damaging Earth. Of course a Rargyllian would not lie, not professionally. . . but would one skate around the truth in order to conclude successfully a negotiation which seemed about to fail?
Well, since it had all been settled without violence he could only wonder. Just as well, perhaps.
Besides, the next heathens to show up might not be bluffing. That would not be good.
Mildred’s voice came to him. “Mr. Kiku, the Randavian delegation is waiting.”
“Tell them I’m molting!”
“Sir?”
“Never mind. Tell them I’ll be right in. East conference room.”
He sighed, decided to treat himself to just one pill, then got up and headed for the door, ready to stick his finger in another hole in the dike. Chinese obligation, be thought; once you take it on you can’t drop it.
But he still felt cheerful and sang a snatch of the only song he knew all the way through: “. . . this story has no moral, this story has no end. This story only goes to show that there ain’t no good in men.”
In the meantime, out at the space port, the new Secretary for Spatial Affairs was seeing off the noble Hroshii. Her Imperial Highness, the Infanta of that race, 213th of her line, heiress to the matriarchy of the Seven Suns, future ruler over nine billion of her own kind, and lately nicknamed “The Lummox” contentedly took her pair of pets aboard the imperial yacht.