The Return of Retief Read Online Free PDF Page B

from Missions throughout Tip Sector who, with the professionalism
of long experience, busied themselves competing for advantageous seats at the
long table, with its mathematically precisely positioned long yellow pads and
needle-sharp number two pencils at each place.
     
                "The
principle, Marvin," senior Cultural Attache Underthurst advised a young
General Services Officer, "is to pick a spot close enough to the head of
the table to be able to catch the eye of the chairman when you need to, but not
close enough to put you directly in his line of vision, if he's looking for
somebody to ream."
     
                "Gosh,
thanks, Mr. Underthrust," Marvin Lackluster said, and neatly hooked a
chair rung with his foot just in time to preempt it from occupancy by an
over-weight Counselor from the legation at Moosejaw.
     
                "At
the same time, Marvin," his mentor whispered, taking the adjacent place,
"one mustn't be thoughtless of matters of protocol; after all, the Moosejaw
Cadre may be making out your ER some day."
     
                "Gee
whiz, sir," the lad replied. "I didn't realize just coming in and
sitting down would be so technical. We didn't learn anything about this part at
the short course back at the Department."
     
                "Hist!
Here he comes!" Hy Felix's nasal whisper cut across the hubbub from the
lookout post he had taken up at the door. At once, silence reigned, as glassy
smiles—"Not too frivolous-looking, mind you, Marvin," Underthrust
warned —were adjusted in readiness to greet the chairman. Instead, a reedy
Admin type came in, and cleared his throat. The profound, attentive silence
grew even more profound.
     
                "Gentlemen;
you too, Hy," the advance man began, pausing for the academic laugh, while
Felix took his seat.
     
                "Gentlemen,
as an index of the gravity of today's meeting," the Admin type went on,
"no less a personage than Temporary Acting Deputy Undersecretary
Crodfoller himself will chair the proceedings."
     
                "Well,
it's better'n George, the janitor," Elmer Proudfoot, an Assistant
Political Officer, said in the too-loud tone that had so often delayed his
career development.
     
                "I
heard that, Elmer!" the hoarse voice of the janitor came from the back of
the room. Before Elmer could phrase a rejoinder absolving himself of prejudice
against custodial personnel, the door swung wide and Undersecretary Crodfoller
entered, going directly to his upholstered chair at the head of the table as
all hands rose; he replied to the chorus of effusive greeting with a grunt. As
he settled himself, his deceptively bland gaze ran along the rows of faces: he
summoned his advance man with a jab of a plump thumb.
     
                "Clarence,"
his glutinous voice sounded clearly, "I thought I told you to weed out the
trash first."
     
                "Gee,
sir, I was just going to, when you arrived so punctually." Clarence
consulted his watch. "Actually, Mr. Temp—er, Act—, er, Depitty
Undersecretary, sir," he said boldly. "Your Excellency is twelve
seconds early."
     
                "Precisely,"
Crodfoller pronounced the word as if confirming proof of his infallibility.
"Now, down to business, gentlemen." He waved away the hovering
Clarence, picked up a pristine pencil, and began drawing interlocking
rectangles on his pad.
     
                "Any
suggestions from the floor before we begin?" he inquired in a tone which
discouraged response. "What about you, Morris?" His little eyes
glinted at Ambassador Sidesaddle, who writhed for a moment before rising,
having assumed an expression of Astonishment at an Unwarranted Challenge
(15-B).
     
                "Whom,
I, sir?" he inquired in an ingratiating tone quite at variance with that
with which he was accustomed to address his staff. "I?" he repeated.
"Why,