Retief - Retief of the CDT Part 13

"What, stay here, surrounded by these mobile, moldy monstrosities?" s.h.i.+lth, who had returned silently, hissed. "Never! I demand repatriation!"

Retief caught Magnan's eye as Pennyfool turned to soothe the Groaci.

"What is it, Retief? Can't you see I'm at a critical point, careerwise?"

"I have a suggestion," Retief said.

As Magnan rejoined Pennyfool, s.h.i.+lth was still hissing imprecations.

"Master, what say I prune this fellow a bit," Albert proposed. "He seems to have sprouted too many eyes."

"Not unless he says another word," Magnan said. He turned to Pennyfool with a thoughtful look. "I say, sir, suppose I should come up with a scheme which will insure your confirmation, and which will at the same time reflect favorably on the Terran image: you know, the kindly, selfless, helping-hand sort of thing...?"

"Yes, yes?"

"I daresay, once established here, you'd want to surround yourself with a staff widely versed in local problems-"

"Naturally. There are plenty of reliable team men available doing Underground research work in subterranean libraries back at Sector. Get on with it, Magnan."

"I want the Counselors.h.i.+p," Magnan said crisply.

"You, number two man in my Emba.s.sy? Ridiculous! I'd have to jump you over the heads of men with vast experience under their belts!"

"Most of my experience has been at a somewhat higher level," Magnan said loftily. "No Counselors.h.i.+p, no scheme."

"What's this, Magnan, blackmail?" Pennyfool gasped.

"Precisely," Magnan said.

Pennyfool opened his mouth to yell, then closed it and nodded.

"Magnan, it's apparent you're more familiar with the techniques of diplomacy than I suspected. I accept. Now, just what do you have in mind...?"

5.

"It's a bit unusual," Amba.s.sador Pennyfool said complacently, glancing out the window of his freshly refurbished office on the top floor of a newly excavated tower of green anodized aluminum serving as CDT Chancery. "But on the other hand, its uniqueness offers a certain challenge."

"Gracious yes," Counselor Magnan said, nodding. "The first Terran envoy to present credentials to a mechanical Head of State."

"I don't know," the Military Attache said darkly. "Freeing these inanimate objects and letting them set up in business for themselves may create a dangerous precedent. What if cybernetic military equipment, for example, should start getting ideas about pensions and promotions?"

"And office machines," the Budget and Fiscal Officer said worriedly. "If my bookkeeping computers took it into their transistors to start agitating for civil rights, I shudder to contemplate the consequences in terms of, say, late paychecks."

"I'm already having trouble with my Motor Pool picking up liberal ideas," the Admin Officer wagged his head, frowning. "I've had to enact strict rules against fraternization with the natives."

There was a musical chime from the desk screen. The square-cornered sense-organ panel of Planetary President Albert Sand-in-the-gears appeared.

"Ah, there, Pennyfool," the robotic Chief of State said in a tone as genial as his vocal equipment would allow, "I hoped I'd find you in. I was just ringing up to ask whether you'd care to join me on the links this afternoon for a few holes of ballistic golf."

"I'm sorry, Mr. President," the Terran said shortly. "A game in which one is required to score eight holes-in-one out of ten from a tee seven miles from the green is not my strong suit."

"Of course. I keep forgetting you're not equipped with telescopic sights. A pity." The President sighed, a sound like tearing steel. "It was difficult enough grasping the idea of the superiority of my inferiors; trying to behave as equals is even more trying-no offense intended, of course."

"Mr. President-who's that sitting behind you?" Pennyfool asked sharply.

"Ah, forgive me. This is Special Trade Representative s.h.i.+lth, of Groac. His government has sent him along to a.s.sist in getting the Verdigrian economy rolling."

"How long has he been here?"

"Long enough to demonstrate my indispensability." s.h.i.+lth leaned forward to leer at the Terrans. "I've already concluded trade agreements with a number of hard-currency markets for export of Verdigrian antiquities-"

"You didn't!" Pennyfool gasped.

"Oh, have no fear; they're not the real thing." s.h.i.+lth waggled an eye at Magnan, who pretended not to notice. "Tho' we let it be noised about that they're all bootleg national treasures."

"Oh, I see. Reproductions." Pennyfool grunted. "Just so you don't s.h.i.+p any irreplaceable objects d'art off-planet."

"We won't. We require them as patterns for the matter duplicators."

"Eh?"

"The locals are digging them out by the truckload; they sort them, discard the rejects-broken pots and the like-then scrub up the choice items and send them along to the duplication centers. We already have a dozen plants in full swing. Our ceramic fingering k.n.o.bs are already a sensation with the cultured set. In a year. Verdigris will be known as the antique capital of the Eastern Arm."

"Matter duplicators? You're flooding the Galaxy with bogus antiques?"

"Bogus? They're identical with the real thing, to the last molecule."

"Hah! The genuine articles are priceless examples of Verdigrian art; the copies are just so much junk!"

"But, my dear Pennyfool-if one can't distinguish a masterpiece from a piece of junk...?"

"I can detect the genuine at a glance!"

"Show me," the Groaci said, and whipped out a pair of seemingly identical shapes of lumpy blue-glazed clay the size and approximate shape of stunted rutabagas.

"...but, unfortunately, I have something in my eye." Pennyfool subsided, poking at the offending organ.

"A pity. I would have enjoyed a demonstration of your expertise," s.h.i.+lth cooed.

"Well, gentlemen, that tears it," the Amba.s.sador said to his staff after the screen had blanked. "After all my delicate maneuvering to secure self-determination for these unfortunate relics of a bygone age, and to place the CDT in a position of paternal influence vis-a-vis their emergent nation, the infernal Groaci have stolen a march on us again. Fake antiques, indeed!"

"Goodness, I see what you mean, Mr. Amba.s.sador," Magnan said sympathetically. "Why didn't we think of doing that?"

6.