Diplomat at Arms (23 page)

            "What's
the meaning of this?" the Gloian yelled. "Who are you! How ..."
he broke off. "Hey, aren't you What's-his-name, from the Terry
Embassy?"

            "Correct,"
Retief nodded. "I congratulate Your Excellency on your acute memory."

            "What's
the idea of this piece of unparalleled audacity?" the Gloian leader
barked. "Don't you know there's a war on? I was in the middle of leading a
victorious air assault on those Blortian blue-bellies—"

            "Really?
I had the impression your squadrons were several miles to the north, tangling
with an impressive armada of Blortian bombers and what seemed to be a pretty
active fighter cover."

            "Well,
naturally I have to stand off at a reasonable distance in order to get the Big
Picture," Lib Glip explained. "That still doesn't tell me why a Terry
diplomat had the unvarnished gall to interfere with my movements! I've got a
good mind to blast you full of holes and leave the explanations to my Chief of
Propaganda!"

            "I
wouldn't," Retief suggested. "This little thing in my hand is a
tight-beam blaster—not that there's any need for such implements among friendly
associates."

            "Armed
diplomacy?" Lib Glip choked. "I've never heard of such a thing!"

            "Oh,
I'm off duty," Retief said. "This is just a personal call. There's' a
little favor I'd like to ask of you."

            "A
... favor? What is it?"

            "I'd
like a ride in your airplane."

            "You
mean you forced me to the ground just to ... to ..."

            "Right.
And there's not much time, so I think we'd better be going."

            "I've
heard of airplane fanciers, but this is fantastic! Still, now that you're here,
I may as well point out to you she has a sixteen-cylinder V-head mill, swinging
a twenty-four lamination sword-wood prop, synchronized 9mm lead-spitters, twin
spotlights, low-pressure tires, foam-rubber seats, real instruments—no idiot
lights—and a ten-coat hand-rubbed lacquer job. Sharp, eh? And wait till you see
the built-in bar."

            "A
magnificent craft, Your Excellency," Retief admired the machine.
"I'll take the rear cockpit and tell you which way to steer."

            "You'll
tell me—"

            "I
have the blaster, remember?"

            Lib Glip
grunted and climbed into his seat. Retief , strapped in behind him. The Premier
started up, taxied to the far end of the field, gunned the engine, and lifted
off into the tracer-streaked sky.

            "That's
him," Retief pointed to a lone vehicle perched on a hilltop above a lively
fire-fight, clearly visible now against a landscape bathed in the bluish light
of the newly risen crescent of Plushnik I, the lower curve of which was at the
horizon, the upper almost at Zenith.

            "See
here, this is dangerous," Lib Glip called over the whine of air thrumming
the rigging wires as the plane glided down in a wide spiral. "That car
packs plenty of firepower, and—" he broke off and banked sharply as vivid
flashes of blue light stuttered suddenly from below. The brilliant light of
Plushnik I glinted from the armored car's elevated guns as they tracked the
descending craft.

            "Put
a short burst across his bow," Retief said. "But be careful not to
damage him."

            "Why,
that's Barfs personal car!" the Gloian burst out. "I can't fire on
him, or he might—that is, we have a sort of gentleman's agreement—"

            "Better
do it," Retief said, watching the stream of tracers from below arc closer
as Barf found the range. "Apparently he feels that at this range, the
agreement's not in effect."

            Lib Glip
angled the nose of the craft toward the car, and activated the twin
lead-spitters. A row of. pockmarks appeared in the turf close beside the car as
the plane shot low over it, "That'll teach him to shoot without
looking," Lib Glip commented.

            "Circle
back and land," Retief called. The Premier grumbled but complied. The
plane came to a halt a hundred feet from the armored car which turned to pin
the craft down in the beams of its headlights. Lib Glip rose, holding both
hands overhead, and jumped down.

            "I
hope you realize what you're doing," he said bitterly. "Forcing me to
place myself in the hands of this barbarian is flagrant interference in
Plushniki internal affairs! So here, if he's been crooked enough to offer you a
bribe, I give you my word as a statesman that I'm crookeder. I'll up his
offer—"

            "Now,
now, Your Excellency, this is merely a friendly get-together. Let's go over and
relieve the general's curiosity before he decides to clear his guns
again."

            As
Retief and the Gloian came up, a hatch opened at the top of the heavy car and
the ocular stalk of the Blortian generalissimo emerged cautiously. The three
eyes looked over the situation; then the medal-hung chest of the officer
appeared.

            "Here,
what's all this shooting?" he inquired in an irritated tone. "Is that
you, Glip? Come out to arrange surrender terms, I suppose. Could have gotten
yourself hurt—"

            "Surrender
my maternal great-aunt Bunny!" the Gloian shrilled. "I was abducted
by armed force and brought here at gunpoint!"

            "Eh?"
Barf peered at Retief. "I thought you'd brought Retief along as an
impartial witness to the very liberal amnesty terms I'm prepared to
offer—"

            "Gentlemen,
if you'll suspend hostilities for just a moment or two," Retief put in,
"I believe I can explain the purpose of this meeting. I confess the
delivery of invitations may have been a trifle informal, but when you hear the
news, I'm sure you'll agree it was well worth the effort."

            "What
news?" both combatants echoed.

            Retief
drew a heavy, fan-shaped paper from an inner pocket. "The war news,"
he said crisply. "I happened to be rummaging through some old papers, and
came across a full account of the story behind the present conflict. I'm going
to give it to the press first thing in the morning, but I felt you gentlemen
should get the word first, so that you can realign your war aims
accordingly."

            "Realign?"
Barf said cautiously.

            "Story?"
Lib Glip queried.

            "I
assume, of course, that you gentlemen are aware of the facts of history?"
Retief paused, paper in hand.

            "Why,
ah, as a matter of fact—" Barf said.

            "I
don't believe I actually, er ..." the Gloian Premier harrumphed.

            "But
of course, we Blort don't need to delve into the past to find cause for the
present crusade for the restoration of the national honor," Barf pointed
out.

            "Gloy
has plenty of up-to-date reasons for her determination to drive the invaders
from the fair soil of her home planet," Lib Glip snorted.

            "Of
course—but this will inspire the troops," Retief pointed out. "Imagine
how morale will zoom, Mr. Premier," he addressed the Gloian, "when it
becomes known that the original Blortians were a group of government employees
from Old Plushnik, en route to the new settlements here on Plushnik I and
II."

            "Government
employees, eh?" Barf frowned. "I suppose they were high-ranking civil
servants, that sort of thing?"

            "No,"
Retief demurred. "As a matter of fact, they were prison guards, with a
rank of GB 19."

            "Prison
guards? GB 19?" Barf growled. "Why, that was the lowest rank in the
entire Old Plushniki government payroll!"

            "Certainly
there can be no charge of snobbery there," Retief said in tones of warm
congratulation.

            A
choking sound issued from Lib Glip's speaking aperture. "Pardon my
mirth," he gasped. "But after all the tripe we've heard—eek-eek—about
the glorious past of Blort ..."

            "And
that brings us to the Gloians," Retief put in smoothly. "They, it
appears, were traveling on the same vessel at the time of the outbreak—or
should I say break-out?"

            "Same
vessel?"

            Retief
nodded. "After all, the guards had to have something to guard."

            "You
mean ...?"

            "That's
right," Retief said cheerfully. "The Gloian founding fathers were a
consignment of criminals sentenced to transportation for life."

            General
Barf uttered a loud screech of amusement and slapped himself on the thigh.

            "I
don't know why I didn't guess that intuitively!" he chortled. "How
right you were, Retief, to dig out this charming intelligence!"

            "See
here!" Lib Glip shrilled. "You can't publish defamatory information
of that sort! I'll take it to court—"

            "And
give the whole Galaxy a good laugh over the breakfast trough," Barf
agreed. "A capital suggestion, my dear Glip!"

            "Anyway,
I don't believe it! It's a tissue of lies! A bunch of malarkey! A dirty, lousy
falsehood and a base canard!"

            "Look
for yourself." Retief offered the documents.

            Lib Glip
fingered the heavy parchment, peered at the complicated characters.

            "It
seems to be printed in Old Plushnik," he grumbled. "I'm afraid I
never went in for dead languages."

            "General?"
Retief handed over the papers. Barf glanced at them and handed them back, still
chuckling. "No, sorry, I'll have to take your word for it—and I do."

            "Fine,
then," Retief said. "There's just one other little point. You
gentlemen have been invading and counterinvading now for upward of two
centuries. Naturally, in that length of time the records have grown a trifle
confused. However, I believe both sides are in agreement that the original home
planets have changed hands, and that the Blortians are occupying Gloy territory
while the Gloians have taken over the original Blort world."

            Both
belligerents nodded, one smiling, one glumly.

            *That's
nearly correct," Retief said, "with just one minor correction. It
isn't the planets that have changed hands; it's the identities of the
participants in the war."

            "Eh?"

            "What
did you say?"

            "It's
true, gentlemen," Retief said solemnly. "You, and your troops,
General, are descendants of the original Gloians; and your people," he
inclined his head to the Gloian Premier, "inherit the mantle of
Blortship."

           
"But this is ghastly," General Barf groaned.
"I've devoted half a lifetime to instilling a correct attitude toward Gloians
in my chaps. How can I face them now!"

            "Me,
a Blort?" Lib Glip shuddered. "Still," he said as if to himself,
"we
were
the guards, not the prisoners. I suppose on the whole
we'll be able to console ourselves with the thought that we aren't
representatives of the criminal class—"

            "Criminal
class!" Barf snorted. "By Pud, sir, I'd rather trace my descent from
an honest victim of the venal lackeys of a totalitarian-regime than to claim
kinship with a pack of hireling turnkeys!"

            "Lackeys,
eh? I suppose that's what a pack of butter-fingered pickpockets would think of
a decent servant of law and order!"

            "Now,
gentlemen, I'm sure these trifling differences can be settled peaceably—"

            "Ah-hah,
so
that's
it!" Barf crowed. "You've dug the family skeletons
out of the closet in the mistaken belief it would force us to suspend
hostilities!"

            "By
no means, General," Retief said blandly. "Naturally, you'll want to
exchange supplies of propaganda leaflets and go right on with the crusade. But
of course you'll have to swap planets, too."

            "How's
that?"

            "Certainly.
The CDT can't stand by and see the entire populations of two worlds condemned
to live on in exile on a foreign planet. I'm sure I can arrange for a fleet of
Corps transports to handle the transfer of population—"

            "Just
a minute," Lib Glip cut in. "You mean you're going to repatriate all
us, er, Blortians to Plushnik I, and give Plushnik II to these rascally, ah,
Gloians?"

            "Minus
the slanted adjectives, a very succinct statement of affairs."

            "Now,
just a minute," Barf put in. "You don't expect me to actually settle
down on this dust-ball full time, do you? With my sinus condition?"

            "Me,
live in the midst of
that
swamp?" Lib Glip hooked a thumb skyward
at the fully risen disk of the gibbous planet, where rivers and mountains,
continents and seas gleamed cheerfully, reflecting the rays of the distant sun.
"Why, my asthma would kill me in three weeks! That's why I've always stuck
to lightning raids instead of long, drawn-out operations!"