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point out, not
open to intrusion by foreign diplomatic personnel!"
     
                "A low blow, Ben!" Ambassador Shinth
of the Groaci Embassy charged. "After the amicable, nay, cordial relations
you and I have established over the decades, it's hardly a friendly gesture to
consign me now to the category of a mere 'foreign diplomat', with only the
emoluments of that unfavored status. Why, there's plenty here for all! I have
contacts in the Cluster which will absorb the greater part of the flink-hide
exports, to say nothing of the constant requirement for sturdy terroid
breeding-stock for serfs in areas under Groacian hegemony! You may continue to
handle procurement; I shall guarantee prompt and profitable— highly
profitable—marketing! The scrawny alien diplomat emerged into the dim greenish
light afforded by the glare strip.
     
                Suddenly the light became brighter: the emergency
glow patches automatically activated by the presence of too many bodies in the
forbidden area.
     
                "The glow patches!" Magnan yelped.
"They've activated!"
     
                "And a good thing, too," Shinth
hissed. "In total darkness, we'd have little chance of restraining your
suspects from slipping away to the emergency escape route via the concealed
hatch in the southwest corner."
     
                "You don't understand!" Magnan wailed.
"The automatics have doubtless set off the alarm in the Chancery, the
Residence, and the Marine barracks. His Ex and Sergeant Muldoon, too, will be
upon us in the instant. We'll be caught red-handed! What are we to do?"
     
                "Let's just explain, Ben," Shinth
proposed. "That we were alert enough to detect the presence of
interlopers, and have laid the rascals by the heels."
     
                "That's OK for Jim and me," Magnan
replied. "But what about you? What is the Groaci AE and MP doing
here at this hour?"
     
                "An appointment, Ben," Shinth replied
urbanely, executing a little jig to glance at the timepiece strapped to his left
knee. "The rascal is late, as usual."
     
                "What rascal is that, Mr. Ambassador?"
Magnan asked eagerly.
     
                Shinth waved the query away. "Ben! I'm
surprised at you! Attempting to snoop in Groacian Embassy affairs!"
     
            "Yes, but—"
Magnan offered.
     
                Retief took a firm grip on Shinth's skinny neck.
"Inasmuch as the Groaci Embassy is conducting its affairs on Terry
property," he suggested, "I think the question is a legitimate one.
Spill it, Mr. Ambassador."
     
                "It's Miss Meuhl, Sammy's secretary,"
Shinth squeaked. "The Usually Reliable Source you've doubtless seen cited
in my dispatches you've sneaked a look at."
     
                "I thought that was George, the janitor—I
mean custodian," Magnan gobbled. "But Miss Meuhl! Heavens! She has
access to—"
     
                "Lucky she's so homely and shrewish,"
Retief put in, "or there'd be no secrets at all."
     
                "True," Magnan murmured. "One
must look on the bright side. But His Ex will be furious when he finds
out!"
     
                "Sammy is always furious, Ben,"
Shinth contributed. "So it makes little difference. In fact, if you set it
up just right, you could milk this disclosure for points."
     
                " 'Points'?" Magnan echoed. "Do
you imagine I'm interested in mere points when my—our lives are in
jeopardy?"
     
                "Sure, Ben," the sophisticated Groaci
replied. "There's always tomorrow, and we'll be working for points as
usual."
     
                "Not if I perish here, miserably, among the
scum of Bloorian society!"
     
                "I am hardly to be lumped as 'Bloorian
society'," Shinth protested.
     
            "Very well, the scum
of Groaci