The Return of Retief (23 page)

            "To—to
furfle? Goodness, D'Ong," Magnan asked, "how does one furfle?"

            "First,
one has to be dead. Quite dead, you understand, Ben. Indisputably beyond the
quaffling stage."

            "And
quaffling is—?"

            "Very
useful." D'Ong's glance went to the tea bag he had laid neatly in his
saucer. "But let us not linger over poor Auntie. Freddy has asked what
would sweeten the treaty deal. How about a gift of a magic drink pouch for
every Grotian household?"

            "Ah—well—one
moment, Minister," Ambassador Smallfrog said, drawing back to consult with
Magnan. "Ben, do we have—?"

            "Not
at the Embassy, sir," Magnan said apologetically. "It's true that
traditional ethnic groups and historical societies cultivate the use of
tea-bags, but—" He paused. "The Ladies Auxiliary might
possibly—"

            "Magnan!"
Smallfrog reproved in a low voice. "Would you imply that His Excellency
has taste in common with the Ladies Auxiliary?"

            "He
may hold ladies in high esteem, sir. Not that I'm saying you don't, sir. I
mean—"

            "You
certainly wouldn't accuse a superior of undiplomatic prejudice, I hope,"
Smallfrog muttered.

            D'Ong
drained his cup, wrapped the tea-bag neatly in a small scarf, put it among the
folds of his scarlet robe, and rose from his chair.

            "A
pleasurable lunch, Retief," he said, "but now poor Freddy and Ben
have withdrawn to think again, and I'm late for my appointment with Groaci
Ambassador Shiss."

            Retief
rose, also. "I'll escort you to the door, Your Excellency. Don't let the
Groaci impose on your good nature. On behalf of Terra I can assure you the tea
is in the bag."

            Ambassador
Smallfrog and his First Consul struggled hastily to their feet and bade adieu
to the Foreign Minister, who left the room under Retief's escort.

            "I
don't need to tell you, Ben, this is a critical moment for Terry-Grote
relations," Smallfrog said, dropping into his chair. "Lying as it
does, squarely athwart the lanes of expansion of Terran Manifest Destiny,
Grote—though a trivial world in itself—can pose an awkward problem should
Groaci influence become dominant here.

            "But
before expanding on that theme," he went on, "I must ask you, Ben, if
you saw what
I
saw a moment ago. Or am I hallucinating?"

            "Hallucinating,
sir? Oh, hardly that, sir. All you've had to drink is a cup of hot water."

            "Skip
all that, Ben. Did you see what that fellow
did?
Brewed four cups of
hearty tea from a single used tea-bag. By gad, sir,
there's
a trick that
will cinch the Deputy Under-Secretary slot for me if I can report how it's
done. That is to say, an apparent suspension of natural law such as this must
surely be looked into!"

            "Right,"
Magnan agreed suavely, "and I imagine it would be a feather in the cap of
the officer who is able to bring the information to you. I'd better hurry off
at once."

            "Sit
down, Magnan. I fear you don't fully appreciate the gravity of the matter I've
entrusted to you. See to it you don't let the secret of the tea-bag slip from
our grasp. Procure tea-bags and see what D'Ong does to them. If you succeed in
this mission, tea-bagwise, there may be laurels in the offing for you
yet."

            "But,
sir, procuring the tea-bags will take time. We must foil the Groaci Shiss right
now. Do you suppose—?" Magnan hesitated.

            "Never
start a speculation you can't finish," Smallfrog advised, "especially
to a superior. Well, what do I suppose?"

            "Would
D'Ong accept coffee cachets as a temporary substitute? Until we obtain the tea,
I mean."

            Smallfrog
frowned. "Regular or decaf?"

            "I
could procure a sample of each from the kitchen, sir, and intercept D'Ong
before he reaches the Groaci Embassy."

            As
Magnan hastened to the kitchen, Retief returned from the front door. Ambassador
Smallfrog said, "Retief! Has D'Ong departed already? We must have him
back!"

            "Shall
I go after him, Ambassador?" Retief asked.

            "Yes—that
is, no, Retief. Magnan is earning merit points. Ah, here he is," he added,
as Magnan returned. "Regular and decaf?"

            "One
in each pocket, sir!"

            Magnan
hurried through the Embassy hall and emerged on the front terrace. The broad
avenue, curving away under the shady boughs of the imported heo trees, was
deserted.

            The
big Marine sergeant at the Embassy gate snapped to present arms.

            "At
ease, Jim," Magnan said testily. "Didn't Foreign Minister D'Ong go
out just now?"

            "Yessir—and
nossir. Funny thing." Jim grounded his power gun, abandoning the attempt
to maintain the Position of a Soldier. "For a second I didn't get it. Saw
him come ankling down the steps and along the walk. D'Ong's a nice guy—usually
stops to chat a minute, you know— but this time he did some kind of tricky
sidestep and jumped right out of sight.

            "I
figured maybe he'd wobbled into the bushes. These local pseudopods sometimes
get unsteady on their extrusions. But I checked, and nope— nobody there except
Mr. Prutty from the Econ Section smooching his neat little secretary, Miss
Rumpwell. That's some duty, Mr. Magnan," he said indignantly. "While
I've got to stand watch here, four-on, eight-off, this clown gets ten times my
pay for keeping the help harmoniously adjusted to life at a hardship
post—leastways that's what he told me. I invited Miss Rumpwell out three times
and got a chill-off that'd give an Eskimo frost-bite, and then she goes for
that crummy civilian—no offense, Mr. Magnan."

            "None
taken, Jimmy. But to return to Foreign Minister D'Ong—"

            "It
was screwy, Mr. Magnan. He sort of emerged, like. And the next I saw of him he
was outside the gate, moving right along. But I swear he never passed me."

            "Perhaps
you dozed for a moment."

            "Not
me, Mr. Magnan. It don't add up. But come to think of it, I saw that crummy
Groaci Fith hanging around across the street. Had a little pink parasol, made
him look like a five-eyed Madam Butterfly. Maybe he had something to do with
it, huh?"

            "Probably
routine surveillance. I suggest you forget the matter, Sergeant," Magnan
said stiffly. "No point in blowing it up into an interplanetary
issue."

            "OK,
but I'm gonna keep a sharp eye on the next local comes in here."

            "Quite
right, my boy. Now I must be off. By the way, if Foreign Minister D'Ong should
reappear in the next few minutes, just detain him in a casual way until I get
back."

            "I'll
see what I can do. You don't want me to arrest anybody, I guess."

            "Gracious,
no, Jimmy. Arrest? Whatever for?"

            Magnan
walked through the great wrought-iron gate and hurried away along Embassy Row.
He went past the high board fence which concealed the deep mut-pit housing the
Yulcan Consulate General, the placid pond under which lay the Rockamorran
Legation, and the haughty, classic facade of the Sulinorean Mission to Grote.

            Next,
there was a broad vacant lot with a "For Loan" sign almost invisible
among the pitzle-weeds, then the low, unprepossessing structure of the Jaque
Chancery. Beyond it, impregnable behind a high stone wall, the Groaci Embassy
resembled an Assyrian maximum-security prison as visualized by the Galactic
Teleview Theater.

            Magnan
slowed to a casual saunter, veering close to the plate-steel gate to dart a
quick glance through the 4-inch keyhole.

            "Hi,
Ben," a breathy voice called from behind the gate. "Anything I can do
for you?"

            Magnan
executed a two-step, registering astonishment.

            "That
709 Back-and-Fill of yours needs work, Ben," the same faint voice
commented. "What brings a Terry First Secretary, on foot already, to the
gates of the Groacian Mission on such a warm afternoon?"

            "Just
passing by, Fith," Magnan replied in a tone of Casual Indifference.

            "Don't
waste a 301 Indifference on me, Ben,"

            Fith
suggested. "If you expect to get a glimpse of nefarious doings right out
in the driveway, forget it. Ambassador Shiss is too old a campaigner. He's got
a special nefarious-stuff room for that kind of caper. Not that us peace-loving
Groaci go in for skullduggery, you understand."

            "Of
course, of course, Fith. It couldn't have been you the Marine Guard saw lurking
outside our Embassy. But what in the world are you, a company grade officer,
doing pulling two-on and four-off?"

            "Well,
Ben, frankly, His Excellency has had it in for me ever since he caught me
climbing into a tub of hot sand with the Lady Trish last Wednesday, when the
old goof was supposed to be safely off watching a game of flat-ball over at the
Inertian Consulate.

            "All
perfectly innocent, of course," he added. "Her ladyship just asked me
to check the temperature of her bath for her, to be sure she wouldn't get any
damage to the ziff-nodes from that high, infra-red radiation, you know."

            "But,
of course, Fith—we're both beings-of-the-world," Magnan said tolerantly.
"Er—by the way—Foreign Minister D'Ong arrived here a few minutes ago,
didn't he?"

            "Nope.
I'm keeping four or five eyes out for him. Supposed to be here any time now.
You don't happen to see an official limousine coming with the poor boob in it,
do you?"

            "No,"
said a soft voice behind Magnan, "but here's the poor boob in
person."

            Magnan
whirled around. D'Ong stood at his elbow, robed now in green satin and silver
braid, and with a serene expression on his rather lumpy features.

            "Your
Excellency!" Magnan gasped. "I wondered where you—I mean, obviously
you went home to change your attire."

            "New
appointment, fresh robe. You Terrans are so drab," D'Ong said critically.

            "We
weren't always—drab, I mean," Magnan apologized. "In ancient times we
wore cloaks and doublets and garters and such. Nowadays the fancy robes are
worn by the Ladies Auxiliary— no offense, Excellency."

            "None
taken. More power to the girls," D'Ong said cheerily. "But what are
you doing here, Ben? I hardly expected the pleasure so soon."

            "Well,
that's diplomacy, Your Excellency. One keeps running into the same people—like
Fith here—just beyond the gate, that is," Magnan said in a warning tone.
"Fith was Consular Officer at Slunch when I was a mere Third Secretary.
And then later, at Furtheron, we both served on the Chumship Team, arbitrating
the Civil War. That's where I got this gash on the arm."

            Magnan
turned his cuff to expose a crescent-shaped scar.

            "Nasty,"
D'Ong commented. "Got that in the War, did you?"

            "No,
at the conference table. Between us, Mr. Minister," he continued in a
whisper, "while Fith, like all Groaci, can be a charming fellow, he has a
tendency to bite when crossed."