Galactic Diplomat (2 page)

“I
mean to say, you’re of the same basic stock—descended from a common ancestor,
perhaps.”

“We are all Pud’s creatures.”

“What are the differences between you and them?”

“Why, the Qornt are argumentative, boastful, lacking in
appreciation for the finer things of life. One dreads to contemplate descending
to their level.”

“Do you know anything about a Note passed to the Terrestrial
Ambassador at Smørbrød?”

The beak twitched. “Smørbrød? I know of no place called
Smørbrød.”

“The outer planet of this system.”

“Oh, yes; we call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of
creatures had established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note
to such matters.”

“We’re wasting time, Retief,” Magnan said. “We must truss
these chaps up, hurry back to the boat, and make our escape. You heard what
they said—”

“Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the
boats are?” Retief asked.

“At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. A large number; the Qornt are
making ready for one of their adventures.”

“That would be the invasion of Smørbrød,” Magnan said. “And
unless we hurry, Retief, we’re likely to be caught there with the last of the
evacuees—”

“How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon?”

“Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty.”

“Fifteen or twenty what?” Magnan looked perplexed.

“Fifteen or twenty Qornt.”

“You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual
Qornt in all?”

Another whistle. “Not at all. I was referring to the local
Qornt only. There are more at the other Centers, of course.”

“And the Qornt are responsible for the
Ultimatum—unilaterally?”

“I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you
know. And interplanetary relations are rather a hobby of theirs.”

Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head.
He spoke to his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants.

“What did he say?”

“Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my
idea to gather you as specimens.”

“You should have known better than to tackle that
fierce-looking creature,” Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan.

“How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial?” Retief
asked.

“Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects.”

“It’s quite charming, really,” Magnan said. “Such a quaint,
archaic accent.”

“Suppose we went down to Tarroon,” Retief asked. “What kind
of reception would we get?”

“That
depends. I wouldn’t recommend interfering with the Gwil or the Rheuk; it’s
their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busy mating—such a tedious
business—and of course the Qornt are tied up with their ceremonial feasting.
I’m afraid no one will take any notice of you.”

“Do you mean to say,” Magnan demanded, “that these ferocious
Qornt, who have issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—who
openly avow their intention to invade a Terrestrial-occupied world—would ignore
Terrestrials in their midst?”

“If at all possible.”

Retief got to his feet.

“I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It’s up to us to go
down and attract a little attention.”

“I’m
not at all sure we’re going about this in the right way,” Magnan puffed,
trotting at Retief’s side. “These fellows Zubb and Slun—oh, they seem affable
enough—but how can we be sure we’re not being led into a trap?”

“We can’t.”

Magnan stopped short. “Let’s go back.”

“All right,” Retief said. “Of course, there may be an
ambush—”

Magnan moved off. “Let’s keep going.”

The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a great
brush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of the mound, halted
at a rectangular opening cut into the slope.

“You can find your way easily enough from here,” he said.
“You’ll excuse us, I hope—”

“Nonsense, Slun!” Zubb pushed forward. “I’ll escort our
guests to Qornt Hall.” He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered
back.

“I don’t like it, Retief,” Magnan whispered. “Those fellows
are plotting mischief.”

“Threaten them with violence, Mr. Magnan. They’re scared of
you.”

“That’s true—but the drubbing they received was
well-deserved. I’m a patient man, but there are occasions—”

“Come along, please,” Zubb called. “Another ten minutes’
walk—”

“See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow,”
Magnan announced. “We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview your
military leaders regarding the Ultimatum!”

“Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the
village.”

“This is Tarroon?”

“A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love
it.”

“No wonder we didn’t observe their works from the air,”
Magnan muttered. “Camouflaged.” He moved hesitantly through the opening.

The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped
down steeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch,
ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with what
appeared to be primitive incandescent panels.

“Few signs of an advanced technology here,” Magnan whispered.
“These creatures must devote all their talents to war-like enterprise.”

Ahead,
Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible,
a sustained high-pitched screeching. “Softly, now. We approach
Qornt Hall. They can be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting.”

“When will the feast be over?” Magnan called hoarsely.

“In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say,
they’ve scheduled an invasion for next month.”

“Look here, Zubb.” Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien.
“How is it that these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of this
sort without reference to the wishes of the majority—”

“Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine.”

“A handful of hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in
war?”

“Oh, they don’t embroil the planet in war. It’s merely a
Qornt enterprise. We Verpp ignore such goings-on.”

“Retief, this is fantastic! I’ve heard of iron-fisted
military cliques before, but this is madness!”

“Come softly, now . . .” Zubb beckoned, moving
toward a bend in the yellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward. The
corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast oval chamber,
high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung with tattered banners,
scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossed spears, patinaed hauberks,
pitted radiation armor, corroded power rifles, the immense mummified heads of
horned and fanged animals. Great guttering torches in wall brackets and in
stands along
the length of the long table
shed a smoky light that refle
cted from the mirror polish of the red
granite floor, gleamed
on polished silver
bowls and paper-thin glass, shone jewel-red
and gold through dark
bottles—and cast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls who loomed
in their places at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired,
great-eyed—trotted briskly, bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in
groups of three strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced in
intricately-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each of the
magnificently draped, belted, feathered, and bejeweled Qornt carried on a
shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow.

“A most interesting display of barbaric splendor,” Magnan
breathed. “Now we’d better be getting back—”

“Ah, a moment,” Zubb said. “Observe the Qorn—the tallest of
the feasters—he with the headdress of crimson, purple, silver and pink—”

“Twelve feet if he’s an inch,” Magnan estimated. “And now we
really must hurry along—”

“That one is chief among these rowdies. I’m sure you’ll want
a word with him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those from the
other Centers as well.”

“What kind of vessels? Warships?”

“Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with?”

“I don’t suppose,” Magnan said casually, “that you’d know the
type, tonnage, armament, and manning of these vessels? And how many units
comprise the fleet? And where they’re based at present?”

“They’re
fully automated twenty-thousand ton all-purpose dreadnoughts. They mount a
variety of weapons—the Qornt are fond of that sort of thing—and each of the
Qornt has his own, of course. They’re virtually identical, except for the personal
touches each individual has given his ship.”

“Great Heavens, Retief!” Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. “It
sounds as though these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a
set of toy sailboats!”

Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting
hall. “I can see that their votes would carry all the necessary weight.”

“And, now, an interview with the Qorn himself,” Zubb
shrilled. “If you’ll kindly step along, gentlemen . . .”

“That won’t be necessary,” Magnan said hastily. “I’ve decided
to refer the entire matter to a committee—”

“After having come so far,” Zubb said, “it would be a pity to
miss having a cozy chat . . .”

There was a pause.

“Ah . . . Retief,” Magnan said. “Zubb has
just presented a most compelling argument . . .”

Retief turned. Zubb stood, gripping an ornately decorated
power pistol in one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed
at Magnan’s chest.

“I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb,” Retief
commented.

“See here, Zubb; we’re diplomats—” Magnan started.

“Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy.”

“By
no means,” Zubb whistled. “I much prefer to observe the frenzy of the Qornt
when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpp have been assaulted and
kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there’s anything that annoys the Qornt,
it’s Qornt-like behavior in others. Now, step along, please.”

“Rest assured, this will be reported—”

“I doubt it.”

“You’ll
face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion—”

“Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have?”

“Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot.”
Retief stepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure at the
head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat, staring. An
inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past, followed by Magnan
and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the table faded.

Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb
stepped forward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back his chair—a
low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief, moving his head to
bring first one great round eye, then the other, to bear. There were small blue
veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushy hair, springing out in a giant halo
around the greyish, porous-skinned face, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with
tufts of chartreuse fuzz surrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes.
The tall headdress of scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and
a loop of pink pearls had slipped down above one eye.

Zubb finished his speech, fell silent, breathing hard.

Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched.

“Not bad,” Retief said admiringly. “Maybe we could get up a
match between you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You’ve got the volume on him,
but he could spot you points on timber.”

“So,” Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. “You come from Guzzum,
eh? Or Smørbrød, as I think you call it. What is it you’re after? More time? A
compromise? Negotiations? Peace?” He slammed a bony hand against the table.
“The answer is NO!”

Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant.
“Chain him, then . . .” he indicated Magnan. His eyes went to
Retief. “This one’s bigger; you’d best chain him, too.”

“Why, your Excellency—” Magnan started, stepping forward.

“Stay back!” Qorn hooted. “Stand over there where I can keep
an eye on you.”

“Your Excellency, I’m empowered—”

“Not here, you’re not!” Qorn trumpeted. “Want peace, do you?
Well, I don’t want peace! I’ve had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries!
I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory!” He turned to look down the table. “How
about it fellows? It’s war to the knife, eh?”

There was a momentary silence.

“I guess so,” grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue with
flame-colored plumes.

Qorn’s eyes bulged. He half rose. “We’ve been all over this!”
he bassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. “I thought
I’d made my point . . .”