notion of firing on these high-spirited civilians?"
"I don't know from
their spirits, Mr. Ambassador," Underknuckle replied gamely, "but
they're out there yelling for a Terran diplomat, which I don't think they plan
to hang no medal on him, and it looks like they decided to rush the Marines on
the gate, so—well, you better start composing suitable letters of condolence to
the next of kin—not that you'd get to mail 'em before they knock down the door
here, and whack off our heads." He paused to unholster and check over his
ceremonial sidearm. Holding it aimed carelessly in the direction of the door,
he added: "I guess I can nail a couple of the blood-thirsty devils before
they get me, or you, that is, Boss."
"No one, Chet, is going
to 'get' anyone!" Shortfall spat, then jumped as yet another chunk of
rubble impacted on the table before him, leaving a nasty gash in the urethane
finish. "We are, after all, gendemen," His Ex resumed firmly, "a
diplomatic mission, not a commando; let us consider calmly—" he broke off
with a yelp as a detonation rang the building like a cracked bell.
"Colonel!" he
moaned. "Do you actually think they'd ah, 'whack off our heads,' is, I
believe, the unfortunate expression you employed ...?"
"Might stake us out and
pour sweet-tar on us and let fire-weevils clean the meat off our bones,"
the colonel suggested. "I read up on this place in a Usually Deplorable
Source," he added.
"That confounded
Isolationist rag again, I suppose," Shortfall mourned. "See here,
Chester," he continued. "I am not entertaining proposals for a theme
for a blackout at the Benefit tonight! I am attempting dispassionately to
assess the nature of any hazard with which we may be faced!"
"Sure, I know all that
stuff, Yer Ex," the colonel reassured his chief. "But how am I spose
to know what these infernal savages are gonna do next?"
"It is precisely your
responsibility, Chet," Shortfall intoned heavily, "to keep your superiors,
namely myself, informed well in advance as to the tactics the locals are most
likely to employ!"
"We ain't got no
crystal ball nor nothing, Mr. Ambassador," Colonel Underknuckle reminded
his Principal Officer. "But whatever they pull, it'll be what they think
will lose us the most face. They'll try to make us look like a bunch of
monkeys!"
"While I see no point
in casting unwarranted opprobium on innocent simians, Chester," Shortfall
objected withja somewhat mournful 610-d (Looka Me, I'm liberal!) expression.
"It is apparent that the unruly element among our hosts would indeed
desire to discredit Terra, no doubt at the instigation of an irresponsible
foreign power, in hope of influencing the devision of spheres of influence at
the upcoming Summit over on Lumbaga."
"Everybody knows the
Groaci got the fix in with the Sardonic Foreign Ministry," Chet riposted.
"Your sullen attitude,
Chet, ill befits a field-grade officer dreaming of stars on his
shoulder-tabs," Shortfall reminded his military advisor. "I suggest
you turn your attention to the devising of a viable strategy to oppose
precisely the Groaci strategy you cite."
"Sure," Nat
Sitzfleisch of the Econ Section spoke up as One Who'd Been Awaiting an
Opportunity to Weigh in on the Side of Enlightened Policy. "Sure, what we
gotta do, we gotta get the fix in our own selfs."
"Nat," Shortfall
said, almost kindly, "while it is self-apparent that the wisdom of Terran
counsel should receive due consideration by the Sardonic Council—"
"Hold it!" Herb
Lunchwell, Nat's second-in-command cut in. "That 'Terran counsel' and
'Sardonic Council' mixes me up. And right here in the
"I don't know from
their spirits, Mr. Ambassador," Underknuckle replied gamely, "but
they're out there yelling for a Terran diplomat, which I don't think they plan
to hang no medal on him, and it looks like they decided to rush the Marines on
the gate, so—well, you better start composing suitable letters of condolence to
the next of kin—not that you'd get to mail 'em before they knock down the door
here, and whack off our heads." He paused to unholster and check over his
ceremonial sidearm. Holding it aimed carelessly in the direction of the door,
he added: "I guess I can nail a couple of the blood-thirsty devils before
they get me, or you, that is, Boss."
"No one, Chet, is going
to 'get' anyone!" Shortfall spat, then jumped as yet another chunk of
rubble impacted on the table before him, leaving a nasty gash in the urethane
finish. "We are, after all, gendemen," His Ex resumed firmly, "a
diplomatic mission, not a commando; let us consider calmly—" he broke off
with a yelp as a detonation rang the building like a cracked bell.
"Colonel!" he
moaned. "Do you actually think they'd ah, 'whack off our heads,' is, I
believe, the unfortunate expression you employed ...?"
"Might stake us out and
pour sweet-tar on us and let fire-weevils clean the meat off our bones,"
the colonel suggested. "I read up on this place in a Usually Deplorable
Source," he added.
"That confounded
Isolationist rag again, I suppose," Shortfall mourned. "See here,
Chester," he continued. "I am not entertaining proposals for a theme
for a blackout at the Benefit tonight! I am attempting dispassionately to
assess the nature of any hazard with which we may be faced!"
"Sure, I know all that
stuff, Yer Ex," the colonel reassured his chief. "But how am I spose
to know what these infernal savages are gonna do next?"
"It is precisely your
responsibility, Chet," Shortfall intoned heavily, "to keep your superiors,
namely myself, informed well in advance as to the tactics the locals are most
likely to employ!"
"We ain't got no
crystal ball nor nothing, Mr. Ambassador," Colonel Underknuckle reminded
his Principal Officer. "But whatever they pull, it'll be what they think
will lose us the most face. They'll try to make us look like a bunch of
monkeys!"
"While I see no point
in casting unwarranted opprobium on innocent simians, Chester," Shortfall
objected withja somewhat mournful 610-d (Looka Me, I'm liberal!) expression.
"It is apparent that the unruly element among our hosts would indeed
desire to discredit Terra, no doubt at the instigation of an irresponsible
foreign power, in hope of influencing the devision of spheres of influence at
the upcoming Summit over on Lumbaga."
"Everybody knows the
Groaci got the fix in with the Sardonic Foreign Ministry," Chet riposted.
"Your sullen attitude,
Chet, ill befits a field-grade officer dreaming of stars on his
shoulder-tabs," Shortfall reminded his military advisor. "I suggest
you turn your attention to the devising of a viable strategy to oppose
precisely the Groaci strategy you cite."
"Sure," Nat
Sitzfleisch of the Econ Section spoke up as One Who'd Been Awaiting an
Opportunity to Weigh in on the Side of Enlightened Policy. "Sure, what we
gotta do, we gotta get the fix in our own selfs."
"Nat," Shortfall
said, almost kindly, "while it is self-apparent that the wisdom of Terran
counsel should receive due consideration by the Sardonic Council—"
"Hold it!" Herb
Lunchwell, Nat's second-in-command cut in. "That 'Terran counsel' and
'Sardonic Council' mixes me up. And right here in the
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