The Return of Retief (22 page)

            "Retief,
hush! He's listening—see how he has his ear cocked."

            "Actually,"
Retief said, studying the puckered organ on the undercurve of the alien's bulk,
"I think you'll find that's more of a navel."

            "Correct,
my boy," said a mellow voice which seemed to issue from the general
direction of the dangling diplomat. "Pray excuse my impulsive and probably
unconventional act in retreating to this convenient perch. I'll be glad to
descend now, since Freddy seems upset about it.

            "But,
Mr. Minister, we heard you didn't speak Terran," Magnan wailed.
"That's why Ambassador Smallfrog has been communicating with you in
sign-language all week."

            "Indeed?
I assumed poor Freddy was merely vocally afflicted."

            Magnan
resumed his seat and picked at his shrimp cocktail, which consisted of a glass
goblet half full of ketchup, with half a dozen extra-large boiled shrimp
arranged about its rim. He glanced up and blinked as the alien Minister, once
again equipped with various arms and legs, all neatly fitted to the appropriate
sleeves and legs of his Terran-tailored satin finery, settled himself in his
seat.

            "Why,
Mr. Minister, you fair gave me a turn," Magnan exclaimed. "I didn't
even notice you climbing down. In which connection," he went on, "may
I inquire why Your Excellency found it expedient to take up a position on the
chandelier just at that time?"

            "Doubtless
bad protocol on my part, Ben," Foreign Minister D'Ong replied
apologetically, "but I was quite upset to find that a number of small
innocent creatures had crept into my pudding and expired there. Alas, how
melancholy."

            He
dabbed with his CDT-crested damask napkin at an eye-like organ from which a
large tear was welling.

            "Pudding?"
Magnan echoed. "But dessert hasn't been served yet."

            "He
means his shrimp cocktail," Retief pointed out quietly.

            Magnan
glanced at the glass cup half filled with red sauce that had been placed before
the alien.

            "I
don't quite ... er ... understand, Your Excellency," he murmured.
"Creatures? Do you suggest that you found ... ah ... some sort of vermin
in your cocktail?"

            "Not
at all, my dear Ben," D'Ong replied. "I simply noted that some
charming little fellows, resembling dear relations of my own, had crept over
the rim of my cup to steal a bit of the tasty red pudding, and had slipped and
fallen in and perished, poor little ones. How too, too sad."

            "Retief,
he apparently thinks the shrimp are sentient—perhaps household pets,"
Magnan whispered urgently. "Tell him."

            "Better
not," Retief said. "It might not be diplomatic to imply that his dear
relatives resemble a lower species."

            "To
be sure, to be sure," Magnan concurred.

            "By
the way, Mr. Minister," he went on, "how
did
you get down from
that chandelier? I was sitting right here, and it seemed as if one second you
were up there, and the next you were sitting in your place."

            "I
got down the same way I went up," the Grotian said, as he stared
mournfully at his cocktail cup. "I whoofled, of course."

            "How
exactly does one whoofle?" Magnan leaned forward to inquire.

            "First,
one must cinch up the sphlincters nice and tight," D'Ong said mildly.
"Then it's essential to take care not to cogitate on trivia— diplomacy,
for example. Having thus placed oneself in the proper spiritual frame of reference,
one simply concentrates on the desired destination and—whoofles."

            "Gosh,
sir, it sounds easy," Magnan gushed. "Retief, just think of staff
meetings—when you think you can't stand it another second—just tighten up the
old sphlincters, think of a comfy park bench—and you're off!"

            "Sounds
OK," Retief agreed.

            "I
can't wait to try," Magnan said.

            "You'll
never whoofle while thinking of staff meetings," D'Ong sighed. "And
beware of impulsive inclinations to twaffle with unsettling matters on the agenda."

            "Twaffle,
sir? What's that?" Magnan cried.

            A
pink-veined crustacean gave a leap from the rim of the Minister's cocktail
glass and flew across the white-linened table. Soon the other crustaceans in
the glass were twitching and leaping among the crystal and silver.

            "What
the devil's
this?"
the voice of Ambassador Smallfrog boomed out
abruptly.

            "Gracious,
that's his 4-c Bellow," Magnan whispered, looking anxiously at Retief.

            "Wrong,
Ben!" Smallfrog roared. "That was my 4-z, and I've heard tell I have
one of the finest 4-z's in the corps! Now," he proceeded more calmly,
"what's the meaning of this?"

            He
held up a wiggling fugitive from the cocktail glass.

            At
that moment, Magnan yelped and groped in his lap. He held up a duplicate of the
creature the Ambassador was displaying. "It just sort of sprang at
me," he blurted.

            "Serving
live shrimp at table!" Smallfrog boomed. "Possibly the chefs idea of
a capital jape."

            "Oh,
hardly, Mr. Ambassador," Retief said. "The shrimp are processed and
deep-frozen before being exported from Terra. Obviously the Minister—in
understandable shock at a specious resemblance—is merely twaffling."

            "I
appreciate your sympathy, Retief," D'Ong said. He indicated Retief's
untouched shrimp cocktail. "You say that the resemblance is specious. Do
you mean that the creatures in our puddings—?"

            "The
shrimp, as far as we know, are not sentient beings," Retief explained.
"They are, to the contrary, a source of delicious food."

            He
grasped the tail of a shrimp in his glass, dipped the shrimp into the sauce,
and took a savoring bite.

            "Hm.
It does look good," D'Ong acknowledged. "Perhaps a teensy
morsel—"

            "Take
the Ambassador's portion," Retief offered, sliding the glass across the
tablecloth. "Protocol forbade him to start eating before you did."

            As
Retief and D'Ong dipped and munched the tasty shrimp, Ambassador Smallfrog and
Magnan drew their chairs together at the opposite corner of the table.

            "Are
you thinking what I'm thinking?" the Ambassador muttered. "When D'Ong
whoofles, he—ah—"

            "Teleports?"
Magnan ventured.

            "And
when he twaffles, he—ah—"

            "Is
applying telekinesis?"

            "Exactly,
Magnan," the Ambassador said. "You have achieved the difficult
maneuver of Deduction Under Pressure, Reg. K72. Congratulations. Extrasensory
skills!" he whispered further, with rapture. "Terra
must
secure
the Most Favored Planet treaty with Grote. We never suspected they had
such—"

            He
broke off, and his face became anxious. "Do you suppose those five-eyed,
weak-kneed, deceptive little scoundrels, the Groaci, are aware of this
extraordinary talent? Is that why their Ambassador Shiss is pushing D'Ong for a
Groaci treaty?"

            D'Ong,
having ingested the Ambassador's shrimp, asked Retief curiously, "Why have
your superior officers withdrawn from us into that mumbling?"

            "Terran
higher echelon diplomats can't eat and think at the same time," Retief
explained.

            "How
similar the species are!" D'Ong agreed.

            The
shrimp was succeeded by
boeuf awe champignons
and raspberry trifle. As
the waiter cleared the table, Ambassador Smallfrog moved his chair back to its
original position, and began.

            "To
resume our discussion of the mutually beneficial interplanet trade treaty,
Minister D'Ong, is there any little thing you'd like to request from
Terra?"

            "Right
now, Freddy, old boy," D'Ong said, "I could use a quaff of that magic
drink from ancient Terra."

            The
three Terran diplomats exchanged questioning glances. Ambassador Smallfrog
suggested, "A Bacchus black? A daiquiri sting? A nip of brandy?"

            "If
I might request a pot of hot water," D'Ong said diffidently. "I think
I can offer a demonstration."

            Magnan
called back the waiter and issued the order.

            "Hot
water? Hmph," Smallfrog snorted. "Since when do diplomats imbibe
water, hot or other-wise?

            "Gracious,"
Magnan murmured behind his hand to Retief. "All this fuss over what was
intended to be a cosy little tete-a-tete, to make some mileage with the Grotes
before that sneaky little Ambassador Shiss has a chance to start toadying up to
poor dear D'Ong. And Ambassador Smallfrog is never at his best when faced with
the unexpected. I suggest we slip out and keep an eye on the Groaci Embassy.
Perhaps Shiss is behind the foolish rumor that Terrans can do magic with hot
water."

            Retief
gestured him to silence.

            The
waiter loomed, pot in hand.

            "Just
put it down, my man," the Grotian Foreign Minister said quietly.
"Leave four cups."

            The
waiter obeyed and withdrew.

            Magnan
lifted the lid of the handsome Yalcan teapot and peeked inside. He sniffed.
"Hot water, just as His Excellency specified."

            "So.
Hot water to top off a lunch of jumping shrimp and puzzling issues,"
Smallfrog remarked with false joviality.

            "Ah,
sir, as to the rather unusual events—" Magnan started, only to be cut off
by a peremptory Ambassadorial gesture.

            "Never
explain, Magnan. Unless I order you to, of course. With your friends it isn't
necessary, and with your superiors it doesn't work. An interesting entry in
your form 163-9, Ben—'this officer has an unusual sense of humor.' Perhaps it
won't seem
too
bad when the Promotion Board is mulling it over. Shall I
pour?" He lifted the pot. "Hot water, Mr. Minister?"

            D'Ong
eagerly offered his cup for filling. He groped in a satin pocket with a
seven-fingered hand and brought out a small filter-paper packet, limp and
stained, with a short length of string attached. Calmly he dipped it into his
cup, the contents of which immediately turned a rich amber.

            He
withdrew the bag and with a courteous nod, dunked it into Smallfrog's cup. Then
in turn, into Magnan's and Retief's, dyeing each the same deep color.

            Smallfrog
hesitated, lifted his cup, and sipped carefully. A somewhat forced smile
contorted his meaty features. "Gad, sir," he said. "Orange
Pekoe, my—er—favorite. Ann Page, too, if my memory serves me right."

            Magnan
tried his. It was tea, no doubt of it.

            "A
delightful brew," D'Ong said. "A souvenir of my great-aunt R'Oot's
visit to Terra a few centuries ago. I keep it for sentimental reasons. And as a
matter of taste, of course.

            "Poor
auntie passed away last week," D'Ong went on, "leaving me a few hundred
million in gold squiggs and green stamps. Decent old girl. I remember when she
used to dandle me on a knee she extruded just for the purpose. Alas, I won't be
seeing her again, unless she decides to furfle—and I don't see why she
should."