The revolution was over and peace
restored--naturally Retief expected the worst!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I
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 bulk-head.
"Thirteen's the point," the Power Section Chief called. "Ten he makes
it!"
"Oh ... Mr. Retief," a strained voice called. Retief looked up. A tall
thin youth in the black-trimmed gray 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 despatch. Retief took a chair, puffing
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. A popular workers' and
peasants' junta has taken over."
"Mr. Ambassador," Counsellor 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,"
Counsellor Magnan sighed.
"Unfortunately," Sternwheeler went on, "the entire affair has
apparently been carried off without recourse to violence, leaving the
Corps no excuse to move 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, the Weather Control station, the tide regulation complexes?"
"I'm more concerned at present with the status of the Mission! Will we
be welcomed by these peasants or peppered with buckshot?"
"You say that this is a popular junta, and that the former leaders have
fled into exile," Retief said. "May I ask the source?"
"The despatch cites a 'reliable Glavian source'."
"That's officialese for something cribbed from a broadcast news
tape. 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."
* * * * *
"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 Secretary said.
Sternwheeler stared at the paper, lips pursed. His face grew pink. He
slammed the paper on the table.
"Well, gentlemen! It appears our worst fears have been realized!
This is nothing less than a warning! A threat! We're advised to
divert course and bypass Glave entirely. It seems the GFE wants no
interference from meddling foreign exploiters, as they put it!"
Magnan rose. "If you'll excuse me Mr. Ambassador, I want to get off a
message to Sector HQ to hold my old job for me--"
"Sit down, you idiot!" Sternwheeler roared. "If you think I'm
consenting to have my career blighted--my first Ambassadorial post
whisked out from under me--the Corps made a fool of--"
"I'd like to take a look at that message," Retief said. It was passed
along to him. He read it.
"I don't believe this applies to us, Mr. Ambassador."
* * * * *
"What are you talking about? It's addressed to me by name!"
"It merely states that 'meddling foreign exploiters' are unwelcome.
Meddling foreigners we are, but we don't qualify as exploiters unless
we show a profit--and this appears to be shaping up as a particularly
profitless venture."
"What are you proposing, Mr. Retief?"
"That we proceed to make planetfall as scheduled, greet our welcoming
committee with wide diplomatic smiles, hint at largesse in the offing
and settle down to observe the lie of the land."
"Just what I was about to suggest," Magnan said.
"That might be dangerous," Sternwheeler said.
"That's why I didn't suggest it," Magnan said.
"Still it's essential that we learn more of the situation than can be
gleaned from official broadcasts," Sternwheeler mused. "Now, while I
can't justify risking the entire Mission, it might be advisable to
dispatch a delegation to sound out the new regime."
"I'd like to volunteer," Magnan said, rising.
"Of course, the delegates may be murdered--"
"--but unfortunately, I'm under treatment at the moment." Magnan sat
down.
"--which will place us in an excellent position, propaganda-wise.
"What a pity I can't go," the Military Attache said. "But my place is
with my troops."
"The only troops you've got are the Assistant Attache and your
secretary," Magnan pointed out.
"Say, I'd like to be down there in the thick of things," the Political
Officer said. He assumed a grave expression. "But of course I'll be
needed here, to interpret results."
"I appreciate your attitude, gentlemen," Sternwheeler said, studying
the ceiling. "But I'm afraid I must limit the privilege of volunteering
for this hazardous duty to those officers of more robust physique,
under forty years of age--"
"Tsk. I'm forty-one," Magnan said.
"--and with a reputation for adaptability." His glance moved along the
table.
"Do you mind if I run along now, Mr. Ambassador?" Retief said. "It's
time for my insulin shot."
Sternwheeler's mouth dropped open.
"Just kidding," Retief said. "I'll go. But I have one request, Mr.
Ambassador: no further communication with the ground until I give the
all-clear."