" . . . and it does appear that the police action by CDT Peace Enforcers on the planet Odiousita V is finally over," declared the voice of Desiree Goodeleigh. "These scenes from the streets of Glooberville, the Odiousitan capital, capture just a bit of the emotion and the drama of this tremendous, this unprecedented march for peace. . . ."
The wall screen showed a thronging horde of Bloggies, pressed arm-leg to arm-leg, packing the dirt street as they confronted a thin and nervous-looking line of CDT Peace Enforcers. Signs and banners bobbed and waved above the crowd, with slogans in Standard ranging from zoxxlfrogglwokk for bloggies to keep your tentacles out of our mud to just say i don't think so to the almost traditional terries, krll and groaci all go home. The crowd was chanting, their chorused voices like thunder:
"Hey! Hey! CDT!
All of us Bloggies just wanna be free!"
"I must say, these, er, Bloggies, as they call themselves, appear to have acquired civilized status with remarkable alacrity," Ambassador Crapwell said. "All of our reports here indicated they were mere clever animals, living in symbiosis with their jungles and swamps."
Retief leaned back in his chair and blew a stream of scented dopestick smoke at the high-vaulted ceiling of Ambassador Crapwell's sanctum sanctorum. "Indeed? We don't usually offer animals economic and social programs like PISH-TUSH and fast-food franchises."
"Nonsense, my boy," Crapwell said genially. "Such useful programs are proven incentives toward the development of true civilization. These, um, Bloggies appear to have developed in that regard with incredible speed, and without the benefit of CDT largess."
Ben Magnan looked from Crapwell to Retief. "I don't suppose you had anything to do with their evolutionary development, did you, Retief?"
"Who, me?" Retief spread his hands. "I do not believe that helping sentient species evolve is listed in the curriculum vitae of a Second Assistant Deputy Undersecretary, sir."
"I know it's not, damn it. I mean . . . oh, never mind."
"Don't worry, Ben," the Great Man said. "All seems to have worked out most satisfactorily. Your part in this covert operation shall not go unrewarded, I assure you."
"Thank you, sir!" Magnan beamed, then glanced at Retief. "Uh . . . but, to be perfectly honest, Retief did play an important role in this affair, under my overall direction, of course."
"To be sure, to be sure. I rescinded his expungement from the Corps and uprated the disciplinary action logged against him to a mere Official Reprimand at a level of Don't Do That Again in his service jacket, did I not? Now hush. I want to hear this."
"As GNN informed a watching Galaxy earlier this week in an exclusive report," Desiree was saying, "the Concordiat police action on Odiousita V came to an unexpected end when some millions of the Odiousitan natives suddenly began conducting peace demonstrations on an unprecedented scale. The Krll Empire, confronted by what some observers have called seriously bad public relations over their refusal to recognize the Odiousitans as a civilized species, began pulling out their forces. Flushed with this victory, the Odiousitans now are marching for the removal of both Concordiat and Groaci personnel, all offworlders, in fact."
"Such cheek!" Crapwell muttered. "Thinking they can expel us from their planet!"
"GNN has been granted an exclusive interview with President Zub-zloob, the newly elected leader of all of Odiousita V, and he's here with me right now. Mr. President! Thank you so much for granting us this interview."
"Not at all, Desiree, not at all." The camera focused on the bulky dark texture of a Bloggie. Three of his monacled eyes were visible, blinking in slow-paced succession. "My pleasure to have you here."
"President Zloob—"
"That's President Zub-zloob, Desiree, if you please."
"Ah, yes. Forgive me. President Zub-zloob . . . tell me, please, just what is it that Odiousita V is looking for as your world embarks on this new voyage of civilization?"
"First of all," he said firmly, "the name of our world is Zoxxlfrogglwokk. Not Odiousita V. Not Blmcht. Zoxxlfrogglwokk."
"Zoxxl . . . Zoxxlif . . ."
"You may call it 'Zoxx.'"
"Thank you, Mr. President."
"Don't mention it. A special dispensation for the verbally challenged. As for what it is Zoxxlfrogglwokk wants . . . that can be summed up in the expression 'freedom of choice.' While we appreciate the offers of both Terra and the Krll homeworld—and, indeed, of Groac as well—to enlighten us to the ways of galactic civilization, the fact remains that we Bloggies do possess a civilization of our own. Contrary to the opinions of some, the fact that we do not embrace spaceflight, fast food, or a standing military does not indicate a lack of civilized demeanor. While we by no means eschew the ideas and ideals of others, particularly in the realm of technology, we insist upon our right, as free beings, to have a say in what we adopt to our use, and what we refuse."
"My God," Crapwell said. "He's a reactionary. Maybe . . . maybe even a Republican."
"I wouldn't go that far, Mr. Ambassador," Retief said. "I think you'll find they are quite reasonable and easy to work with, provided you respect their boundaries."
"Touchy, eh? A bit like the Krll, I suppose."
"You could say that. I wouldn't, but you could say that."
" . . . and we do appreciate the offers of assistance in the technological and sociological arenas from all outside parties," Zub-zloob continued, "but we really must insist on being permitted to learn, to experience things for ourselves. That, after all, is the essence of true growth."
"If I didn't know better," Magnan said giving Retief a hard look, "I'd say he'd been carefully coached."
"Eh?" Crapwell said. "Nonsense, m'boy. I can see that I, that is, that we were seriously in error about the Odiousitans. It's clear this is a highly civilized being, even if he does look like a very large starfish. Why, that almost sounds like a Harvard accent. Or maybe Oxford. I wonder if he attended school on Earth?"
"I think the Bloggies are simply very quick studies, Mr. Ambassador," Retief said.
"To be sure, to be sure. For an indigenous species heretofore confined to jungle, swamp, and the rude amenities of mud huts, they have at the very least learned to wield the power of the news media. Impressive."
"I especially like the signs and banners all in neatly lettered Standard," Magnan observed. "It gives their spontaneous demonstration a dash of political savvy."
"I gather they have signs in Krll and Groaci as well," Retief said. "Ms. Goodeleigh informs me they've arranged to do multiple broadcasts in those languages, just to be sure everyone gets the word."
"But what about defense, Mr. President?" Goodeleigh was saying on-screen. "Zoxx has no army of its own, no navy, no military of any kind. How will you defend your planet against those who might see your world as an opportunity for conquest?"
"I assure you, Desiree, the Brown Mushroom will be conferring closely with the Mauve House on matters of planetary security and of mutual interest. I've been advised that a CDT monitor station, in a quarter-million-mile orbit, would be sufficient to alert the relevant authorities . . . and the news media, for that matter. I believe Zoxxlfrogglwokk will be safe enough, especially when we have trade treaties in effect with the Concordiat."
"Trade, Mr. President? What does Zoxx have to trade?"
"Mud, Desiree. Primarily mud."
"I . . . don't understand, Mr. President. Mud?"
"It seems that Zoxxlfrogglwokkan swamp mud is rich in sulfur, as well as numerous trace elements and minerals and odoriferous organics. I am advised that Terries will pay a great deal in order to acquire such a substance for application to their outer integuments . . . something about eliminating wrinkles and other external symptoms of aging, though I don't profess to understand the details. A major cosmetics firm on Aldo Cerise has already made a most generous offer for hundred-ton lots. . . ."
"I definitely see your manipulatory member in this, Retief," Magnan said severely. "How else could this fellow acquire such a grasp of Terran economic theory?"
"Well, I placed some calls after I got back last week," Retief admitted, "and I talked to the marketing department at the Aldo Cerise branch of Nova Cosmetics. I didn't even have to pull any strings. They're genuinely excited about this. One estimate I heard suggests this could be a billion-guck business within five Standard years. The revenue generated, while modest by galactic standards, should serve to bootstrap their fledgling economy into the twenty-seventh century and let them maintain control over their own destiny."
Crapwell clapped his hands and rubbed them together vigorously. "Excellent, m'boy! Well done! This suggests ample opportunities here for me, er, that is, for the Corps Diplomatique to score an impressive coup, careerwise. A trade mission . . . trade treaties and agreements . . . a Terry mercantile enclave . . . industrialization . . . Yes! The Bloggies will have their fast-food franchises after all!"
"I wouldn't count on that, sir," Retief said. "They are very firm on their desire to protect their own culture and way of life."
"As I said. Reactionaries. Still, given time . . . and a proper and careful management of the situation, public-relationswise, and we should be able to pull quite a nice plum out of this particular pie. Tonight's gala affair here at the Embassy should begin to pave the way toward that much-to-be-desired gastronomical outcome."
"That's certainly better than an undesired gastronomical outcome," Retief observed. "Although there are medicines for that sort of thing."
"Ah, quite." Crapwell looked up at Desiree Goodeleigh's twelve-foot-high face on the wall screen. "Screen off!" he said, and the screen went blank. "That interview was recorded four days ago, gentlemen. I have been informed that Ms. Goodeleigh and her crew have arrived on B'rukley and will be at the festivities tonight. I needn't remind you that my, ah, that is, our image is of paramount importance. Now that we actually have favorable news coverage of our activities here, we don't want to do or say anything that might jeopardize our standing with Sector HQ. Am I clear?"
"Perfectly, sir," Magnan said.
Crapwell steepled his fingers, elbows on his desk. "In fact, the reception tonight could put this mission in a very favorable light indeed, considering the fact that we have managed—through unorthodox means, to be sure—to bring together all of the involved parties of this recent unpleasantness. It should be a truly momentous occasion. Think of it! The Krll delegation in polished, formal dress armor. A delegation from Zoxx, adorned in their quaint, traditional, ceremonial mud dress. And the B'ruklians—the Krll's ancient nemeses—with brightly painted ornamental designs on their scales. Not to mention both the Groaci and a number of deputations from the resident student population, including ACHE, SMERCH, and the PEAS Corps. A most remarkable diplomatic coup, if I might say so, and one facilitated by this mission!"
"With all of those folks in one room," Retief said, "it will definitely be a memorable occasion."
"Exactly. And I'm glad to see you have a proper appreciation for the gravity of this occasion, Retief. This will be the first in what I hope will be a virtually endless round of peace and chumship negotiations. The extra appropriations in our budgetary allotment from Sector alone should . . . well, that's quite another matter." Crapwell busied himself for a moment transferring several sheets of paper from a stack on the left side of his desk to another pile on the right. "Gentlemen, I needn't add that Groac's putative involvement in this affair is to be downplayed. Seriously downplayed. As in it never happened. We have no proof that they were officially involved in either drug trafficking or in enslaving human students to work on their, ah, xenobotanological research station. To put undue emphasis on that indiscretion on their part would further stress already delicate relations between Groac and Earth to no good effect. In any case, any adverse publicity the university here suffered because of, um, recent events could well hurt the image of this mission and would negatively impact upon our budget, to say nothing of my, er, our careers."
"Not to mention," Magnan added, "the involvement of one of our own in the affair."
"Who, Retief?"
"No, sir. I was referring to Colonel Marwonger."
"Ah. Yes. That, of course, is something else that never happened. We will not mention his unfortunate . . . breakdown. So far as anyone else knows, he took early retirement."
"Only because you didn't need a scapegoat," Retief observed.
"Why, not at all! It's simply that we need to cover up . . . or rather, I should say, it's not necessary to confuse the news media at this delicate juncture with what is essentially a nonevent. Drug smuggling taints everyone who comes in contact with it."
"You know, sir, that legalizing the shipment of joyweed between Zoxx and B'rukley would sharply reduce the involvement of criminal elements in the trade."
"Retief!" Magnan looked horrified, a very passable 84-G, Retief judged. "Surely you can't countenance illegal activities of that nature!"
"If they legalized it, it wouldn't be an illegal activity," Retief pointed out agreeably. "It's legal on B'rukley, and it's a dietary staple on Zoxxlfrogglwokk. Making shipping the stuff illegal just guarantees that GOSH—and opportunists like the Groaci—are going to take advantage of it and make themselves rich."
"But transporting it on space lanes is illegal, Retief. And the fact that lacing joyweed with sodium pentothal turns it into a powerful, will-sapping hypnotic that transforms innocent Terry children into obedient zombies makes it all the more dangerous! I shouldn't be surprised to see a Galaxy-wide ban on the hellish stuff."
"Forgive me, Mr. Magnan," Retief said easily. "Perhaps I was tainted."
"It is not for us to question established interplanetary law, Retief," Crapwell said severely. "It's enough that those students have returned to High Gnashberry, and that none appear to be any the worse for their, um, unfortunate temporary condition."
"It was an unfortunate condition," Magnan said, rubbing his brow at the memory. "I thought joyweed wasn't supposed to give you a hangover. I had a headache for three days after that, uh, party."
"Er, yes," Crapwell said, shuffling some papers back from the right pile to the left. "And the less said about that, the better! Do I make myself quite clear?"
"Yes, sir!" Magnan said.
"Retief?"
"Most clear, sir."
"Good. Neither the media nor Mrs. Crapwell would understand the, ah, delicate nature of the situation during the Krll invasion or the fact that I was actually doing my best to calm members of the student body during the emergency."
"Two student bodies, as I recall, sir. And very nice ones at that."
"That will be enough, Retief," Crapwell growled, giving him a withering 411-C. "Between the smoke from your little conflagration at the spaceport and the haze hanging over the entire city for the duration of that weeklong peace demonstration, things were quite beyond my control. But certain, ah, parties would not be sympathetic to the difficult situation in which I found myself."
Magnan nodded vigorously. "Nicely said, sir."
"Thank you, Ben. I needn't remind you, Retief, that your so-called covert mission to Odiousita V never really happened. True, you have been restored to your former station and responsibilities, and your expungement from the Corps rescinded, but you are still on probation, as it were. One ill-considered word on your part, and I might reconsider my generosity."
Retief smiled at the not so veiled threat. "You needn't worry on that account, Mr. Ambassador. I now have a very good working relationship with Ms. Goodeleigh. I don't think she'll be running any more ambush-journalism interviews on embassy staff members. In fact, her future reporting on CDT efforts toward bringing about a peaceful settlement here in the Shamballa Cluster promises to be most flattering . . . in an unbiased way, of course."
"What I want to know," Magnan said, "is why those dreadful Krll caved in so easily at the end. Why, they had B'rukley by its figurative throat!"
"The Krll were already terrified of us," Retief said. "Kreplach told me at one point that the whole race had experienced what he called 'the Great Awakening' when they realized that their old scary-fairy tales about Krll-eating ogres in their remote past were true. That fear put them on the road to technology and spaceflight, but they never managed to confront it or really deal with it. Their unconscious defensive strategy was to pump themselves up, see themselves as the masters of the Galaxy, and stride around in high-tech hardware that made them feel invincible and too big to eat.
"Then they found the ogres, alive and well and living here on B'rukley. Worse, the ogres were friends with other races—us, especially—who ate meat. Who might eat them."
"Yes, but they fought us on Odiousita—er—Zoxx," Crapwell pointed out. "And quite effectively, I might add."
"As long as they could hide behind their technology," Retief pointed out, "they could soldier on, hold up despite their fear, and even use that fear to mold them into an efficient fighting force. Each victory would further convince them of their superiority to all other beings, but each defeat would stir those deeply hidden fears that they could never quite confront. It became a vicious cycle, getting worse and worse, until Mr. Magnan here found the way to end the war."
"What?" Magnan looked startled. "Me? End the war? Good heavens! What did I do?"
Retief reached inside his jacket and extracted one of the leaflets identical to the ones he'd seen on Zoxx. He handed it to Crapwell.
The Ambassador glanced through the text. "So?"
"Notice the looping animation on the center fold, sir? The Krll in battle armor lounging next to a hot tub."
"Yes, yes. What is it he's doing?"
"Eating lobster," Retief said. "At least I assume that's what the animator intended. As near as I can tell, he appears to be pulling a lobster tail out of the shell with a little fork and dipping it in drawn butter . . . over and over and over again."
Magnan turned pale. "Good gracious! Then . . . then we were implying that the Krll are cannibals?"
"I doubt that they saw it that way. Not consciously, at any rate. But the message that they would be eaten is clearly there. The hot tub—like a big pot of hot water?—and the mention of pools at their choice of temperature was a nice touch. Even better, though, was the way at least one batch of leaflets was delivered."
"I'll need to speak sharply with Joe, in the art department," Magnan said weakly. "Clearly he was making unwarranted assumptions about Krll biology."
"Didn't you sign off on those brochures, sir?" Retief asked.
"No! I mean, well, my secretary might have. I mean, it was purely routine . . ."
"Never mind, Ben," Crapwell said. "All's well, and like that. You say this brochure ended the war, Retief?"
"It helped. It probably spurred on Kreplach to launch his invasion of B'rukley. At least it forced him to move up his timetable a bit. And by the time they got here, his troops must have been absolutely terrified, facing their worst possible nightmare. Discipline and training held them together, but then they started losing all of their big walkers to the joyweed smoke. And when they saw what happened to their leader, they lost it."
"Why?" Magnan asked. "What happened to their leader? You fought him, I know, and I need to talk with you later, Retief, about your predilection for finding such—er—physical solutions to diplomatic problems. I know he surrendered when you won, but, even so . . ."
"The effect was purely psychological, and I must admit I didn't think about how it looked to them at the time. But Kreplach's troops—the organic ones, at any rate—saw me peel open his armor suit, reach in, and, in effect, pull him out of his shell. . . ."
The others were silent for a long moment. "I . . . see . . ." Crapwell said at last. "Well, we needn't place too fine a point on the matter. Sector HQ might take a dim view of psyops of this nature. Uncalled-for brutality, don't you know, which could give civilized warfare—police actions, that is—a bad name. But my report will put a different spin on—I mean—it will emphasize the positive aspects of psychological operations in limited military engagements carried out via the distribution of leaflets in a comprehensive strategy of applied psychological warfare. They, um, needn't know the details."
"That certainly seems like sound thinking, sir," Magnan said. He looked at Retief. "I've noticed that it pays to be a little vague, reportwise, in affairs in which Retief takes a hand."
The intercom on Crapwell's desk buzzed. "What is it, Griselda?"
"Sir, you wanted me to inform you when the guests started arriving."
"So?"
"Sir, the guests have started arriving."
"Ah! Capital!" He looked up at the two younger men. "Well, gentlemen. Are we ready?"
"As ready as we ever can be for combat," Retief said, standing and tugging straight the hem of his jacket, maroon and gold, demiformal, hours 2 to 5 pm, for use during.
"Now, now," Crapwell said, giving the layered ranks of chrome lapels on his own jacket a final buffing with his cuff. "Formal receptions of this sort test the true mettle of the polished diplomat. A true forging in fire! Not to mention an educational experience for the diplomatic novice. Watch how I conduct myself, gentlemen, and learn!"
"He's right," Retief observed several hours later. "This is educational."
Ambassador Crapwell was engaged in animated conversation with the High Lord Rugelach, the chief of the Krll delegates to the B'rukley peace conference. He had one arm familiarly over the shoulders of the delegate's armored suit and kept patting his brightly polished torso.
The haze of smoke in the grand reception hall was already fairly thick. A number of the students had produced their own hand-rolled joints, and, of course, in the spirit of camaraderie, they were sharing with any who wanted some. The Krll, Retief decided, must all be on internal life support for the evening, or they would have passed out by now.
"They really need to get the ventilation system going in here," Magnan observed. "I'm starting to feel a bit . . . well, odd myself."
"Try these," Retief said, handing him a small packet containing two BreatheSafe™ nose filters. "And be careful not to breathe through your mouth."
"Ah. Good thinking. I hadn't really expected the younger guests to bring their own, ah, entertainment."
"Neither did they, evidently," Retief said, nodding toward a pair of junior Groaci staffers surreptitiously ducking down beneath a large, cloth-draped table of snacks and hors d'oeuvres. "This could be a very interesting evening."
"Hello, Jame."
Retief and Magnan turned to face Desiree Goodeleigh, radiant in a clinging gold Minoan-style gown.
"As I was saying," Retief said. He smiled and bowed. "You look ravishing, Desiree."
She dimpled and gave a slight curtsy. "Why, thank you, sir!"
"That's . . . ah . . . a lovely dress you're . . . um . . . almost wearing . . ." Magnan stammered.
"Thank you, Ben. I figured I'd have some competition here tonight with all the sweet young things from college. A girl tries to look her best, you know."
"No one here could possibly compete with you, my dear," Retief told her.
"That's good, because I was hoping to get another interview with you later. A private interview?"
"That could be arranged," Retief said. "So long as the cameras are off and there's no ambush involved."
She raised her right hand. "Scout's honor! I've been finding a much better public response to human-interest stories. Like those poor Bloggies, trying to be recognized as a civilized species while preserving their own way of life. It's so inspiring!"
"I don't think you need to worry about them," Retief told her. "They're very smart, and they're fast learners. I think they'll do just fine."
"I hope you're right."
"Ah, there you are!" a breathy whisper exclaimed. "Retief, my darling!"
"Hello, Shtliff," Retief said, turning. "How's the drug-smuggling business?"
"Ah! Ah!" Shtliff waggled an unsteady finger. "We promised we wouldn't mention certain, um, unfortunate recent misunderstandings."
"Quite right. My mistake. So, is Snish here tonight?"
Shtliff's eyes looked away at various corners of the room. "Regrettably, no. Sergeant Snish has been . . . reassigned."
"Sergeant Snish?"
"There are some within the military hierarchy who tend to regard the failure of a certain . . . operation as his fault. The Groaci Directorate of Military Agriculture feels he should have been quicker to realize that certain . . . faunae required the incident ultraviolet radiation of their homeworld for proper growth."
"The local stuff was still pretty potent, wouldn't you agree."
"Ah . . . ahem. Perhaps too potent. And with . . . shall we say . . . unpredictable physiological results." Shtliff critically examined the spatulate tips of the fingers of his right hand. "In any case, Snish is in charge of an automated weather station on Frigidia VII as we speak."
"Pity. I guess he won't have much in the way of hot sand tubs there."
"Indeed. But my dear Retief, there are so many more pleasant things to discuss, you and I."
Retief slipped an arm around Desiree's waist. "Actually, Shtliff, tonight I'm spoken for."
"Ah. I see." Four of Shtliff's five eyes drooped sadly. The fifth regarded him closely. "A pity . . ."
"My goodness," Desiree said as the Groaci shambled off. "I didn't realize you were so . . . adventurous."
"I'm not. Groaci get a bit . . . amorous under the influence of joyweed. They tend to lose their inhibitions and any pickiness they might have had regarding the age, sex, or species of a potential partner."
"Oh!"
"Excuse me a moment, Desiree." He walked a few steps to the buffet table, where a small stack of neatly printed menus detailed the evening's courses. He picked one up, studied it a moment, then returned to Magnan and Desiree.
"What's the matter, Retief?" Magnan asked. "Trouble?"
"I'm afraid so." He handed the menu to Magnan, who scanned it.
"So? The aged garbage listed as the entrée for the Krll is quite correct. I gather the embassy kitchen staff imported a supply of the very best gourmet garbage from Yill. They've spared no expense."
"I can see that. Did you notice what they're serving the humans?"
"Jumbo shrimp cocktail . . . surf and turf . . . yes. So?"
Retief waited for five heartbeats. Magnan's eyebrows crawled up his forehead, and he went very pale. "Oh. My. Merciful. Heavens."
"Having either shrimp or lobster on the menu is not exactly a good way to launch cordial Krll-Terry relations."
"Yes! Yes! How could this have happened?"
"Frankly, I suspect our Groaci collegues. Even our revered Ambassador couldn't be this dense. I don't think."
"Yes, well . . . that can be sorted out later. Right now we've got to do something or war could break out all over again! But what?"
"I need to get to the kitchen," Retief said, "and have them pull a quick substitution."
"There's a McWendyking's Arbycastleburgers down the street," Magnan suggested. "I could call in an order to go."
"That will have to do." Retief glanced at his fingerwatch. "But in the meantime, we need to delay dinner for a bit. It's almost time to change into formal evening duds and go to the dining room."
"Delay. Yes." Magnan's eyes looked a bit glassy. "How?"
"I have an idea. Wait here."
He walked across the carpet to join Shtliff and two other Groaci standing close to a group of human students near the buffet table, blissfully inhaling the secondhand smoke, their eyestalks quivering with increasing urgency.
"To excuse me, honored sirs," Retief said in whispered Groaci. "To crave a moment of your time."
"To wonder if you might have changed your mind, dear soft one," Shtliff said, his eyestalks perking a bit at Retief's advance.
"To regret to be under vow and unable to requite your affection, Shtliff," Retief replied. "But . . . to realize it would be remiss of me not to tell you of a colleague's genuine desire, even, dare I say it, lust for those of the nobler species of Groac."
"To speak, Retief! To not keep us in suspense as the biological pressures build!"
"To see Ambassador Crapwell over there, with the Krll emissary? To have heard him not long ago remark with deep wistfulness on the limpid beauty of Groaci optical organs and manipulatory members."
"Ahhh." All three Groaci regarded the Ambassador a moment. Crapwell had not begun the serious drinking yet, but the smoke obviously was beginning to affect him. He was still leaning heavily on the High Lord Rugelach as he gesticulated broadly in conversation over some point of protocol. "To be sure, dear Retief?"
"To be sure. To know Ambassador Crapwell is shy, but with some gentle persuasiveness, even such social barriers are to be conquered. . . ."
"Hot damn!" Shtliff said in Standard, and all three hurried toward Crapwell and the Krll.
Retief watched a moment, then turned and walked briskly for the kitchen.
There were times when one needed to create one small disaster in order to forestall something worse.