Diplomat at Arms Read Online Free PDF Page A

Well?”
    “There isn’t any. The Qornt were there all the while.
Underground.”
    “Underground? Doing what?”
    “Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch.”
    Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood
talking to a tall man in a pilot’s coverall.
    “I’ll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—your
recruiting scheme, Retief,” Magnan said. “Suppose you run into the city to
assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.”
    “I’ll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?”
    Magnan raised his eyebrows. “You’re remarkably compliant
today, Retief. I’ll arrange transportation—”
    “Don’t bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was
the pilot who ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.”
    Magnan nodded curtly.
    “I’ll
be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief,” the pilot said. He
moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye. “An uncouth sort, I
fancied. I trust you’re not consorting with his kind
socially . . .”
    “I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Retief said. “We just want to
go over a few figures together.”
     

NATIVE INTELLIGENCE
    “For
all their professional detachment from emotional involvement in petty local
issues, tough-minded CDT envoys have ever opened their hearts to long-suffering
peoples striving to cast off the yoke of economic oppression. At Glave,
Ambassador Sternwheeler’s dedicated group selflessly offered their services,
assisting the newly unshackled populace in savoring the first fruits of
freedom . . .”
     
    —Vol. IV, Reel 71, 492 AE (AD 2953)
     
    Retief
turned back the gold-encrusted scarlet cuff of the mess jacket of a First
Secretary and Consul, gathered in the three eight-sided black dice, shook them
by his right ear, and sent them rattling across the floor to rebound from the
bulkhead.
    “Thirteen’s the point,” the Power Section Chief called. “Ten
he makes it!”
    “Oh . . . Mr. Retief.” A tall thin youth
in the black-trimmed grey of a Third Secretary flapped a sheet of paper from
the edge of the circle surrounding the game. “The Ambassador’s compliments,
sir, and will you join him and the staff in the conference room at
once . . .”
    Retief
rose and dusted his knees. “That’s all for now, boys,” he said. “I’ll take the
rest of your money later.” He followed the junior diplomat from the ward room,
along the bare corridors of the crew level, past the glare panel reading
NOTICE—FIRST CLASS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT, through the chandeliered and draped
ballroom and along a stretch of soundless carpet to a heavy door bearing a
placard with the legend CONFERENCE IN SESSION.
    “Ambassador Sternwheeler seemed quite upset, Mr. Retief,” the
messenger said.
    “He usually is, Pete,” Retief took a cigar from his breast
pocket. “Got a light?”
    The Third Secretary produced a permatch. “I don’t know why
you smoke those things instead of dope-sticks, Mr. Retief,” he said. “The
Ambassador hates the smell.”
    Retief nodded. “I only smoke this kind at conferences; it
makes for shorter sessions.” He stepped into the room. Ambassador Sternwheeler
eyed him down the length of the conference table.
    “Ah, Mr. Retief honors us with his presence. Do be seated,
Retief.” He fingered a yellow Departmental dispatch. Retief took a chair,
puffed out a dense cloud of smoke.
    “As I have been explaining to the remainder of my staff for
the past quarter hour,” Sternwheeler rumbled, “I’ve been the recipient of
important intelligence.” He blinked at Retief expectantly. Retief raised his
eyebrows in polite inquiry.
    “It seems,” Sternwheeler went on, “that there has been a
change in regime on Glave. A week ago, the government which invited the
dispatch of this mission—and to which we’re accredited—was overthrown. The
former ruling class has fled into exile, and a popular workers’ and peasants’
junta has taken over.”
    “Mr.