Retief - Retief of the CDT Part 21

"Why, ah, who, me?" s.h.i.+nth remonstrated weakly.

"So!" Grossblunder bellowed, his face purpling to a shade which aroused a murmur of admiring comment from the Squalian bearers gathering to observe the byplay.

"Why, however did those paperclips get into my pocket?" s.h.i.+nth wondered aloud, but without conviction.

"Ha!" Grossblunder roared. "So that's what you were after, eh? I should have known!"

"Bah!" s.h.i.+nth responded with a show of spirit. "What matter a few modest souvenirs in the light of the depredations of-"

"Few? You call sixty-seven gross a few?"

s.h.i.+nth looked startled. "How did you-that is to say, I deny-"

"Save your denials, s.h.i.+nth!" Grossblunder drowned the Groaci out. "I intend to prosecute-"

"I came here to speak of grand larceny!" s.h.i.+nth cut in, attempting to regain the initiative. "Breaking and entering! a.s.sault and battery!"

"Decided to make a clean breast of it, eh?" Grossblunder boomed. "That will be in your favor at the trial."

"Sir," Magnan whispered urgently, "in view of Amba.s.sador s.h.i.+nth's magnanimous blunder-I mean gesture-earlier in the evening, don't you think it might be possible to overlook this undeniable evidence of red-handed theft? We could charge the paperclips up to representational expenses, along with the liquor."

"It was his doing!" s.h.i.+nth pointed past Magnan at Retief.

"You must be confused," Grossblunder said in surprise. "That's just the fellow who carries my briefcase. Magnan is the officer in charge of the investigation. His hara.s.sment got to you, eh, s.h.i.+nth? Conscience found you out at last. Well, as Magnan suggests, I suppose I could be lenient just this once. But that's one you owe me..." Grossblunder clapped the Groaci on his narrow back, urging him toward the nearest punch bowl.

"Heavens," Magnan breathed to Retief, "what a stroke of luck! But I'm astonished s.h.i.+nth could have been so incautious as to bring his loot along to the reception."

"He didn't," Retief said. "I planted it on him."

"Retief! You didn't!"

"Afraid so, Mr. Magnan."

"But-in that case, the paperclip thefts are still unsolved-and His Groacian Excellency is being unjustly blamed!"

"Not exactly; I found the sixty-seven gross stashed in his office, concealed under a flowerbox full of jelly blossoms."

"Good lord!" Magnan took out a scented tissue and mopped at his temples. "Imagine having to lie, cheat, and steal just to do a little good in the world. There are times when I think the diplomatic life is almost too much for me."

"Funny thing," Retief said, easing a Bacchus brandy from a pa.s.sing tray. "There are times when to me it seems hardly enough."

Internal Affair

1.

"The Terran Amba.s.sador to Quahogg," said the Undersecretary solemnly, "has disappeared."

Career Minister Magnan, seated opposite his chief across the wide, gold-plated Category 2-b VIP desk, c.o.c.ked his narrow head in a look of alert incomprehension.

"For a moment, sir," he said, "I thought you said the Terran Amba.s.sador had, ha-ha, disappeared."

"Of course I said he's disappeared," the Undersecretary barked. "Vanished. Dropped from sight!"

"But that's impossible," Magnan said reasonably.

"Are you calling me a liar, or an idiot, you idiot?" the senior bureaucrat roared.

"Mr. Magnan is merely expressing his astonishment, Mr. Undersecretary," First Secretary Retief said in a calming tone. "Perhaps if you'd give us a little more background it would help lower his credulity threshold."

"What background? Amba.s.sador Wrothwax was dispatched a week ago at the head of a small mission accredited to the Supreme Fulguration of Quahogg. The party reported landing on bare rock in a violent whirlwind, finding no signs of the local culture, no vegetation, not even a building, or the ruins of one. They took shelter in a cave, after being threatened by immense meat-eating worms. At that point Wrothwax's absence was noted. Frankly, we're mystified as to what went awry." The Undersecretary looked challengingly at Magnan.

"Gracious-" Magnan put a finger to his cheek. "You don't suppose the Quaswine-?"

"Quahoggians, if you don't mind, Magnan! No, out of the question. His Supremacy was most cordial during our chats via telelink, though a trifle shy. Never showed his face, possibly underestimating our sophistication, imagining we might find his alien appearance off-putting. He welcomed the establishment of diplomatic relations, gave us landing coordinates, a.s.sured us he was laying on a gala welcoming celebration." The Undersecretary handed over a rather blurry color photo of a vast, baroquely ornamented chamber apparently upholstered in pink satin.

"The audience chamber in His Supremacy's palace; splendid, eh, in a barbaric fas.h.i.+on? We lifted the image from the TL screen."

"Stunning," Magnan gasped. "Just look at all those swags!"

"Any exterior shots?" Retief inquired.

"It appears climatic peculiarities render open-air photography somewhat impractical on Quahogg."

"What does His Supremacy have to say about our man's disappearance?" Magnan wondered aloud.

"Unfortunately, our communications link is temporarily off the air, due to atmospheric disturbances. However, my guess is that the mission missed their landing point and came to rest in a patch of desert rather than the magnificent city pictured there."

"Well, I'm sure we'll all miss His Excellency," Magnan said, looking politely grieved. "I trust the remainder of the party escaped unharmed. Gracious, it must have been quite a harrowing experience for them."

"It still is," the Undersecretary said grimly. "According to their last transmission, before we lost contact, they're still holed up in the cave, subsisting on their representation rations."

"Six days on domestic champagne and mummified hors d'oeuvres?" Magnan shuddered.

"These are the hazards a diplomat faces in the field," the Undersecretary said sternly.

"The loss of Amba.s.sador Wrothwax is a grave blow to the Corps," Magnan said. "I wonder who could possibly fill his slot in the Table of Organization...?" He pinched his lower lip and gazed ceilingward.

"Actually, Magnan, your name has been mentioned."

"What, me, sir? To be promoted to Career Amba.s.sador? Why, I really don't deserve-"

"That's what we thought. That's why we're merely naming you as Charge d'Affaires, until Wrothwax is found."

"Charge?" Magnan s.h.i.+fted in his chair. "At Quahogg? My feeling, sir, is why send good men after bad-not that I mean to imply anything, of course-"

"Someone has to go in there and find Wrothwax, Magnan! We can't just drop an Amba.s.sador from the records as if he were so much broken crockery!"