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Ambassador,” Counselor Magnan broke in, rising; “I’d
like to be the first—” he glanced around the table—“or one of the first,
anyway—to welcome the new government of Glave into the family of planetary
ruling bodies—”
    “Sit down, Magnan!” Sternwheeler snapped. “Of course the
Corps always recognizes de facto sovereignty. The problem is merely one
of acquainting ourselves with the policies of this new group—a sort of
blue-collar coalition, it seems. In what position that leaves this Embassy I
don’t yet know.”
    “I suppose this means we’ll spend the next month in a parking
orbit,” Counselor Magnan sighed.
    “Unfortunately,”
Sternwheeler went on, “the entire affair has apparently been carried off
without recourse to violence, leaving the Corps no excuse to step in—that is,
it appears our assistance in restoring order will not be required.”
    “Glave was one of the old Contract Worlds,” Retief said.
“What’s become of the Planetary Manager General and the technical staff?—And
how do the peasants and workers plan to operate the atmospheric purification
system, and weather control station, and the tide-regulation complexes?”
    “I’m more concerned at present with the status of the
Mission. Will we be welcomed by these peasants and workers, or peppered with
buckshot?”
    “You say that this is a popular junta, and that the former
leaders have fled into exile,” someone said. “May I ask the source of this
information, Mr. Ambassador?”
    “The dispatch cites a ‘reliable Glavian source.’”
    “That’s officialese for something cribbed from a broadcast
news tape,” Retief commented. “Presumably the Glavian news services are in the
hands of the revolution. In that case—”
    “Yes, yes, there is the possibility that the issue is yet in
doubt; of course, we’ll have to exercise caution in making our approach; it
wouldn’t do to make overtures to the wrong side.”
    “Oh, I think we need have no fear on that score,” the Chief
of the Political Section spoke up. “I know these entrenched cliques; once
challenged by an aroused populace, they scuttle for safety—with large balances
safely tucked away in neutral banks.”
    “I’d like to go on record,” Magnan piped, “as registering my
deep gratification at this fulfillment of popular aspirations—”
    “The most popular aspiration I know of is to live high off
someone else’s effort,” Retief said. “I don’t know of anyone outside the Corps
who’s managed it.”
    “I’d like to propose that immediate arrangements be made for
a technical mission,” Magnan said. “It’s my experience that one of the most
pressing needs of newly established democracies is—”
    “Is someone to tell them how to run what they’ve stolen after
they’ve kicked out the legitimate owners,” Retief suggested.
    The Political Officer blinked at Retief. “Are you implying
approval of technocratic totalitarianism?”
    “I won’t know,” Retief said, “until I look that up in a
dictionary.”
    “Gentlemen!”
Sternwheeler bellowed. “I’m awaiting your constructive suggestions—not an
exchange of political views. We’ll arrive off Glave in less than six hours. I
should like before that time to have developed some notion regarding to whom I
shall expect to offer my credentials!”
    There was a discreet tap at the door; it opened and the young
Third Secretary poked his head in.
    “Mr. Ambassador, I have a reply to your message—just received
from Glave. It’s signed by the Steward of the GFE, and I thought you’d want to
see it at once . . .”
    “Yes, of course; let me have it.”
    “What’s the GFE?” someone asked.
    “It’s the revolutionary group,” the messenger said, passing
the message over.
    “GFE? GFE? What do the letters signify?”
    “Glorious Fun Eternally,” Retief suggested. “Or possibly
Goodies For Everybody.”
    “I believe that’s ‘Glavian Free Electorate’,” the Third