Blast you, Retief! Your violent ways
are the disgrace of Earth's diplomatic
corps--but your salty jokes are worse!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1963.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I
Consul-General Magnan gingerly fingered the heavily rubber-banded sheaf
of dog-eared documents. "I haven't rushed into precipitate action on
this claim, Retief," he said. "The Consulate has grave responsibilities
here in the Belt. One must weigh all aspects of the situation,
consider the ramifications. What consequences would arise from a grant
of minerals rights on the planetoid to this claimant?"
"The claim looked all right to me," Retief said. "Seventeen copies with
attachments. Why not process it? You've had it on your desk for a week."
Magnan's eyebrows went up. "You've a personal interest in this claim,
Retief?"
"Every day you wait is costing them money. That hulk they use for an
ore-carrier is in a parking orbit piling up demurrage."
"I see you've become emotionally involved in the affairs of a group
of obscure miners. You haven't yet learned the true diplomat's
happy faculty of non-identification with specifics--or should I say
identification with non-specifics?"
"They're not a wealthy outfit, you know. In fact, I understand this
claim is their sole asset--unless you want to count the ore-carrier."
"The Consulate is not concerned with the internal financial problems of
the Sam's Last Chance Number Nine Mining Company."
"Careful," Retief said. "You almost identified yourself with a specific
that time."
"Hardly, my dear Retief," Magnan said blandly. "The implication is
mightier than the affidavit. You should study the records of the
giants of galactic diplomacy: Crodfoller, Passwyn, Spradley, Nitworth,
Sternwheeler, Rumpwhistle. The roll-call of those names rings like the
majestic tread of ... of...."
"Dinosaurs?" Retief suggested.
"An apt simile," Magnan nodded. "Those mighty figures, those armored
hides--"
"Those tiny brains--"
Magnan smiled sadly. "I see you're indulging your penchant for
distorted facetiae. Perhaps one day you'll learn their true worth."
"I already have my suspicions."
The intercom chimed. Miss Gumble's features appeared on the desk screen.
"Mr. Leatherwell to see you, Mr. Magnan. He has no appointment--"
Magnan's eyebrows went up. "Send Mr. Leatherwell right in." He looked
at Retief. "I had no idea Leatherwell was planning a call. I wonder
what he's after?" Magnan looked anxious. "He's an important figure in
Belt minerals circles. It's important to avoid arousing antagonism,
while maintaining non-commitment. You may as well stay. You might pick
up some valuable pointers technique-wise."
* * * * *
The door swung wide. Leatherwell strode into the room, his massive
paunch buckled into fashionable vests of turquoise velvet and hung with
the latest in fluorescent watch charms. He extended a large palm and
pumped Magnan's flaccid arm vigorously.
"Ah, there, Mr. Consul-General. Good of you to receive me." He wiped
his hand absently on his thigh, eyeing Retief questioningly.
"Mr. Retief, my Vice-Consul and Minerals Officer," Magnan said. "Do
take a chair, Mr. Leatherwell. In what capacity can I serve today?"
"I am here, gentlemen," Leatherwell said, putting an immense yellow
briefcase on Magnan's desk and settling himself in a power rocker,
"on behalf of my company, General Minerals. General Minerals has long
been aware, gentlemen, of the austere conditions obtaining here in
the Belt, to which public servants like yourselves are subjected."
Leatherwell bobbed with the pitch of the rocker, smiling complacently
at Magnan. "General Minerals is more than a great industrial combine.
It is an organization with a heart." Leatherwell reached for his breast
pocket, missed, tried again. "How do you turn this damned thing off?"
he growled.
Magnan half-rose, peering over Leatherwell's briefcase. "The switch
just there--on the arm."
The executive fumbled. There was a _click_, and the chair subsided with
a sigh of compressed air.
"That's better." Leatherwell drew out a long slip of blue paper.
"To alleviate the boredom and brighten the lives of that hardy group
of Terrestrials laboring here on Ceres to bring free enterprise to
the Belt, General Minerals is presenting to the Consulate--on their
behalf--one hundred thousand credits for the construction of a Joy
Center, to be equipped with the latest and finest in recreational
equipment, including a Gourmet Model C banquet synthesizer, a
forty-foot sublimation chamber, a five thousand tape library--with a
number of choice items unobtainable in Boston--a twenty-foot Tri-D tank
and other amenities too numerous to mention." Leatherwell leaned back,
beaming expectantly.
"Why, Mr. Leatherwell. We're overwhelmed, of course." Magnan smiled
dazedly past the briefcase. "But I wonder if it's quite proper...."
"The gift is to the people, Mr. Consul. You merely accept on their
behalf."
"I wonder if General Minerals realizes that the hardy Terrestrials
laboring on Ceres are limited to the Consular staff?" Retief said. "And
the staff consists of Mr. Magnan, Miss Gumble and myself."
"Mr. Leatherwell is hardly interested in these details, Retief,"
Magnan cut in. "A public-spirited offer indeed, sir. As Terrestrial
Consul--and on behalf of all Terrestrials here in the Belt--I accept
with a humble awareness of--"
"Now, there was one other little matter." Leatherwell leaned forward
to open the briefcase, glancing over Magnan's littered desktop. He
extracted a bundle of papers, dropped them on the desk, then drew out a
heavy document and passed it across to Magnan.
"Just a routine claim. I'd like to see it rushed through, as we have in
mind some loading operations in the vicinity next week."
"Certainly Mr. Leatherwell."