agree to a limited provisional preliminary symbolic partial cease-fire
covering left-handed bloop guns of calibre .25 and below!"
"I'm aware of the status of the peace talks!"
Bite-worse cut him off. The peppery diplomat emerged, rose and dusted off the
knees of his pink- and green-striped satin knee-breeches, regulation early
afternoon semi-informal dress for top three graders of the Corps
Diplomatique Terrestrienne on duty on prenuclear worlds.
"Well, I suppose we must make the best of it."
He glared at his advisors as they followed his lead, ranging themselves at the
table around the shattered remains of the chandelier as the chatter and rumble
of gunfire continued outside. "Gentlemen, in the nine months since this
Mission was accredited here on Plushnik II, we've seen the capital change hands
four times. Under such conditions, the shrewdest diplomacy is powerless to
bring to fruition our schemes for the pacification of the system. Nevertheless,
today's despatch from Sector indicates that unless observable results are
produced prior to the upcoming visit of the Inspectors, a drastic reassessment
of the personnel requirements may result—and I'm sure you know what that
means!"
"Ummm. We'll all be fired." Magnan brightened at
a thought. "Unless, perhaps, Your Excellency points out that after all, as
Chief of Mission, you're the one"—he paused as he noted the expression on
the Biteworse features—"the one who suffered most," he finished
weakly.
"I need not remind you," the Ambassador bored on
relentlessly, "that alibis fail to impress visiting inspection teams!
Results, gentlemen! Those are what count! Now, what proposals do I hear for new
approaches to the problem of ending this fratricidal war which even now
..."
The ambassadorial tones were drowned by the deep-throated
snarl of a rapidly approaching internal-combustion engine. Glancing out the
window, Retief saw a bright blue twin-winged aircraft corning in from the
northwest at treetop level, outlined against the sky-filling disk of the
planet's sister world, Plushnik I. The late-afternoon sun glinted from the
craft's polished wooden propellor blades; its cowl-mounted machine guns
sparkled as they hosed a stream of tracers into the street below.
"Take cover!" the Military Attache barked and
dived for the table. At the last instant, the fighter plane banked sharply up,
executed a flashy slow roll and shot out of sight behind the chipped tile dome
of the Temple of Erudition across the park.
. "This is too much!" Biteworse shrilled from
his position behind a bullet-riddled filing cabinet. "That was an open,
overt attack on the Chancery! A flagrant violation of interplanetary law!"
"Actually, I think he was after a Gloian armored
column in the park," Retief said. "All we got was the overkill."
"Inasmuch as you happen to be standing up, Mr.
Retief," Biteworse called, "I'll thank you to put a call through on
the hot line to Lib Glip at the Secretariat. I'll lodge a protest that will
make his caudal cilia stand on end!"
Retief pressed buttons on the compact CDT issue field rig
which had been installed to link the Embassy to the local governmental offices.
Behind him, Ambassador Biteworse addressed the staff:
"Now, while it's necessary to impress on the Premier
the impropriety of shooting up a Terran Mission, we must hold something in
reserve for future atrocities. I think we'll play the scene using a modified
Formula Nine image: Kindly Indulgence tinged with Latent Firmness, which may at
any moment crystallize into Reluctant Admonition, with appropriate overtones of
Gracious Condescension."
"How would you feel about a dash of Potential
Impatience, with maybe just a touch of Appropriate Reprisals?" the
Military Attache suggested.
"We don't want to antagonize anyone with premature
sabre-rattling, Colonel," Biteworse frowned a rebuke.
"Hmmm." Magnan pulled at his lower lip. "A
masterful approach as you've outlined it, Your Excellency. But I wonder if we
mightn't
covering left-handed bloop guns of calibre .25 and below!"
"I'm aware of the status of the peace talks!"
Bite-worse cut him off. The peppery diplomat emerged, rose and dusted off the
knees of his pink- and green-striped satin knee-breeches, regulation early
afternoon semi-informal dress for top three graders of the Corps
Diplomatique Terrestrienne on duty on prenuclear worlds.
"Well, I suppose we must make the best of it."
He glared at his advisors as they followed his lead, ranging themselves at the
table around the shattered remains of the chandelier as the chatter and rumble
of gunfire continued outside. "Gentlemen, in the nine months since this
Mission was accredited here on Plushnik II, we've seen the capital change hands
four times. Under such conditions, the shrewdest diplomacy is powerless to
bring to fruition our schemes for the pacification of the system. Nevertheless,
today's despatch from Sector indicates that unless observable results are
produced prior to the upcoming visit of the Inspectors, a drastic reassessment
of the personnel requirements may result—and I'm sure you know what that
means!"
"Ummm. We'll all be fired." Magnan brightened at
a thought. "Unless, perhaps, Your Excellency points out that after all, as
Chief of Mission, you're the one"—he paused as he noted the expression on
the Biteworse features—"the one who suffered most," he finished
weakly.
"I need not remind you," the Ambassador bored on
relentlessly, "that alibis fail to impress visiting inspection teams!
Results, gentlemen! Those are what count! Now, what proposals do I hear for new
approaches to the problem of ending this fratricidal war which even now
..."
The ambassadorial tones were drowned by the deep-throated
snarl of a rapidly approaching internal-combustion engine. Glancing out the
window, Retief saw a bright blue twin-winged aircraft corning in from the
northwest at treetop level, outlined against the sky-filling disk of the
planet's sister world, Plushnik I. The late-afternoon sun glinted from the
craft's polished wooden propellor blades; its cowl-mounted machine guns
sparkled as they hosed a stream of tracers into the street below.
"Take cover!" the Military Attache barked and
dived for the table. At the last instant, the fighter plane banked sharply up,
executed a flashy slow roll and shot out of sight behind the chipped tile dome
of the Temple of Erudition across the park.
. "This is too much!" Biteworse shrilled from
his position behind a bullet-riddled filing cabinet. "That was an open,
overt attack on the Chancery! A flagrant violation of interplanetary law!"
"Actually, I think he was after a Gloian armored
column in the park," Retief said. "All we got was the overkill."
"Inasmuch as you happen to be standing up, Mr.
Retief," Biteworse called, "I'll thank you to put a call through on
the hot line to Lib Glip at the Secretariat. I'll lodge a protest that will
make his caudal cilia stand on end!"
Retief pressed buttons on the compact CDT issue field rig
which had been installed to link the Embassy to the local governmental offices.
Behind him, Ambassador Biteworse addressed the staff:
"Now, while it's necessary to impress on the Premier
the impropriety of shooting up a Terran Mission, we must hold something in
reserve for future atrocities. I think we'll play the scene using a modified
Formula Nine image: Kindly Indulgence tinged with Latent Firmness, which may at
any moment crystallize into Reluctant Admonition, with appropriate overtones of
Gracious Condescension."
"How would you feel about a dash of Potential
Impatience, with maybe just a touch of Appropriate Reprisals?" the
Military Attache suggested.
"We don't want to antagonize anyone with premature
sabre-rattling, Colonel," Biteworse frowned a rebuke.
"Hmmm." Magnan pulled at his lower lip. "A
masterful approach as you've outlined it, Your Excellency. But I wonder if we
mightn't
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