add just the teeniest hint of Agonizing Reappraisal?"
Biteworse nodded approvingly. "Yes—an element of the
traditional might be quite in order."
A moment later the screen cleared to reveal a figure
lolling in an easy chair, splendidly clad in an iridescent Bromo Seltzer blue
tunic, open over an exposed framework of leathery-looking ribs from which gaily
be-jeweled medals dangled in rows. From the braided collar, around which a
leather strap was slung supporting a pair of heavy Japanese-made binoculars, a
stout neck extended, adorned along its length with varicolored patches
representing auditory, olfactory, and radar organs, as well as a number of
other senses the nature of which was still unclear to Terran physiologists. At
the tip of the stem, a trio of heavy-lidded eyes stared piercingly at the
diplomats.
"General Barf!" Biteworse exclaimed. "But I
was calling the Premier! How—what—"
"Evening, Hector," the general said briskly.
"I made it a point to seize the Secretariat first, this trip." He
brought his vocalizing organ up on the end of its tentacle to place it near the
audio pick-up. "I've been meaning to give you a ring, but I'll be damned
if I could remember how to operate this thing."
"General," Biteworse cut in sharply, "I've
grown accustomed to a certain amount of glass breakage during these, ah, readjustment
periods, but—"
"I warned you against flimsy construction," the
general countered. "And I assure you, I'm always careful to keep that sort
of thing at a minimum. After all, there's no telling who'll be using the
facilities next, eh?"
"... but this is an entirely new category of
outrage!" Biteworse bored on. "I've just been bombed and strafed by
one of your aircraft! The scoundrel practically flew into the room! It's a
miracle I survived!"
"Now, Hector, you know there are no such things as
miracles," the Blortian officer chuckled easily. "There's a perfectly
natural explanation of your survival, even if it does seem a bit unreasonable
at first glance."
"This is no time to haggle over metaphysics!"
Biteworse shook a finger at the screen. "I demand an immediate apology,
plus assurances that nothing of the sort will occur again until after my
transfer!"
"Sorry, Hector," the general said calmly.
"I'm afraid I can't guarantee that a few wild rounds won't be coming your
way during the course of the night. This isn't a mere commando operation this
time; now that I've secured my beachhead, I'm ready to launch my full-scale
Spring Offensive for the recovery of our glorious homeland. Jump-off will be in
approximately eight hours from now; so if you'd care to synchronize
chronometers—"
"An all-out offensive? Aimed at this area?"
"You have a fantastic grasp of tactics," Barf
said admiringly. "I intend to occupy the North Continent first, after
which I'll roll up the Gloian Divisions like carpets in all directions!"
"But—my Chancery is situated squarely in the center
of the capital! You'll be carrying your assault directly across the Embassy
grounds!"
"Well, Hector, I seem to recall it was you who
selected the site for your quarters—"
"I asked for neutral ground!" Biteworse
shrilled. "I was assigned the most fought-over patch on the planet!"
"What could be more neutral than no-man's-land?"
General Barf inquired in a reasonable tone.
"Gracious," Magnan whispered to Retief.
"Barf sounds as though he may be harboring some devious motivation behind
that open countenance."
"Maybe he has a few techniques of his own,"
Retief suggested. "This might be his version of the Number Twenty-three
Leashed Power gambit, with a side order of Imminent Spontaneous Rioting."
"Heavens, do you suppose ...? But he hasn't had time
to learn the finer nuances; he's only been in the business for a matter of
months."
"Perhaps it's just a natural aptitude for
diplomacy."
"That's possible; I've observed the intuitive fashion
in which he distinguishes the bonded whiskey at cocktail parties."
"... immediate cessation of
Biteworse nodded approvingly. "Yes—an element of the
traditional might be quite in order."
A moment later the screen cleared to reveal a figure
lolling in an easy chair, splendidly clad in an iridescent Bromo Seltzer blue
tunic, open over an exposed framework of leathery-looking ribs from which gaily
be-jeweled medals dangled in rows. From the braided collar, around which a
leather strap was slung supporting a pair of heavy Japanese-made binoculars, a
stout neck extended, adorned along its length with varicolored patches
representing auditory, olfactory, and radar organs, as well as a number of
other senses the nature of which was still unclear to Terran physiologists. At
the tip of the stem, a trio of heavy-lidded eyes stared piercingly at the
diplomats.
"General Barf!" Biteworse exclaimed. "But I
was calling the Premier! How—what—"
"Evening, Hector," the general said briskly.
"I made it a point to seize the Secretariat first, this trip." He
brought his vocalizing organ up on the end of its tentacle to place it near the
audio pick-up. "I've been meaning to give you a ring, but I'll be damned
if I could remember how to operate this thing."
"General," Biteworse cut in sharply, "I've
grown accustomed to a certain amount of glass breakage during these, ah, readjustment
periods, but—"
"I warned you against flimsy construction," the
general countered. "And I assure you, I'm always careful to keep that sort
of thing at a minimum. After all, there's no telling who'll be using the
facilities next, eh?"
"... but this is an entirely new category of
outrage!" Biteworse bored on. "I've just been bombed and strafed by
one of your aircraft! The scoundrel practically flew into the room! It's a
miracle I survived!"
"Now, Hector, you know there are no such things as
miracles," the Blortian officer chuckled easily. "There's a perfectly
natural explanation of your survival, even if it does seem a bit unreasonable
at first glance."
"This is no time to haggle over metaphysics!"
Biteworse shook a finger at the screen. "I demand an immediate apology,
plus assurances that nothing of the sort will occur again until after my
transfer!"
"Sorry, Hector," the general said calmly.
"I'm afraid I can't guarantee that a few wild rounds won't be coming your
way during the course of the night. This isn't a mere commando operation this
time; now that I've secured my beachhead, I'm ready to launch my full-scale
Spring Offensive for the recovery of our glorious homeland. Jump-off will be in
approximately eight hours from now; so if you'd care to synchronize
chronometers—"
"An all-out offensive? Aimed at this area?"
"You have a fantastic grasp of tactics," Barf
said admiringly. "I intend to occupy the North Continent first, after
which I'll roll up the Gloian Divisions like carpets in all directions!"
"But—my Chancery is situated squarely in the center
of the capital! You'll be carrying your assault directly across the Embassy
grounds!"
"Well, Hector, I seem to recall it was you who
selected the site for your quarters—"
"I asked for neutral ground!" Biteworse
shrilled. "I was assigned the most fought-over patch on the planet!"
"What could be more neutral than no-man's-land?"
General Barf inquired in a reasonable tone.
"Gracious," Magnan whispered to Retief.
"Barf sounds as though he may be harboring some devious motivation behind
that open countenance."
"Maybe he has a few techniques of his own,"
Retief suggested. "This might be his version of the Number Twenty-three
Leashed Power gambit, with a side order of Imminent Spontaneous Rioting."
"Heavens, do you suppose ...? But he hasn't had time
to learn the finer nuances; he's only been in the business for a matter of
months."
"Perhaps it's just a natural aptitude for
diplomacy."
"That's possible; I've observed the intuitive fashion
in which he distinguishes the bonded whiskey at cocktail parties."
"... immediate cessation of
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