I know.
Remember I've been in journalism a while. Back in Caney, even, we run ads for
new breeds of amphibious Plymouth Rocks and fancy hummingbird-ostrich hybrids
'suitable for Frontier conditions'."
"That's
neither here nor there, Hy," Crodfoller dismissed the protest. "As
for you, Ben, I'm surprised at such intemperate utterances from a proven
bureaucrat of your experience."
"Maybe
Hy's bitch ain't here nor there," the alien put in, in his squeaky voice.
"But I'm here, and I wanna be there, so what are you boys going to
do about a little repatriation with apologies, for openers?"
"Why,
Captain," Crodfoller replied soothingly (19-r), "I shall of course
set wheels in motion at awakened until the situation is resolved. Oh, by the
way," he added, "his minion Goop is estivating in the scout-boat.
Farewell, gentlemen. Keep the old CDT flag flying."
4
It
was hardly a CDT socio-economic audit period later that Undersecretary
Crodfoller summoned Magnan to the Presence. After curtly ordering his underling
to be seated, the Undersecretary fixed the mild-mannered Consul and First
Secretary with a steely look.
"See
here, Ben," he barked. "What's gone wrong at General Services?
There's a foul-up in our Goodies for Undesirables program. I have a stack of
complaints an inch thick, from Missions in Tip Space mostly, regarding
non-receipt of vital emergency supplies. Space Arm swears convoys have been
getting through on schedule. The foul-up is clearly here at Sector! What are
you doing about it?"
"Me,
sir?" Magnan cried in a voice with a tendency to slip into a falsetto.
"Gracious, Mr. Dep—er, Assis—er, Acting Undersecretary, why ask me? Why,
I'm on the Groaci Desk, as your Excellency is aware."
"Urn,"
Crodfoller grunted, a monosyllable well known to his subordinates in the Corps,
and commonly translated: "I'm not interested in excuses: better come up
with something useful if you expect to salvage your career, such as it is.
"I
seem to recall," the Undersecretary went on with the ponderous insistence
of a glacial advance, "that you once mentioned that you and this fellow
Retief are cronies."
"Not
cronies, sir," Magnan objected. "Chums, possibly, or associates,
perhaps. That is, we've shared assignments to a number of the most dismal
hardship posts in the sector. Not my doing, of course: doubtless Personnel can
explain it."
"I'm
not conferring with Personnel at the moment, Ben," Crodfoller pointed out
coldly. "I'm interviewing you. Ergo, it is you I shall have to depend upon
for any answers that are to be forthcoming."
"But—but,
sir, what sort of snafu am I supposed to answer for?" Magnan queried in
bewilderment.
"In
place of sorely needed rubber stamps, red tape, and blank forms, our
beleaguered frontier posts are receiving personal armament kits! How are our
hard-working bureaucrats to keep their paperwork flowing smoothly in the face
of alien invasion without the most basic of supplies?"
"Well,
sir," Magnan mused. "Maybe they could sort of spring a little April
Fool surprise on the worms when they come swaggering in—"
"Worms,
Mr. Magnan, or, ah, Ree troops, that is, do not swagger. I remember that Fump
fellow; it was all the beggar could do to stand erect! And as for April Fool's
Day, Ben: your file is up for review by the Promo Board soon, is it not?"
"Sure,
sir, but it wasn't I who shipped guns in place of gummed labels, PAPA gear
instead of paper; it was Retief."
"Do
you realize, Ben," Crodfoller thundered, a shade more kindly, Magnan
estimated hopefully, "that while passing
Remember I've been in journalism a while. Back in Caney, even, we run ads for
new breeds of amphibious Plymouth Rocks and fancy hummingbird-ostrich hybrids
'suitable for Frontier conditions'."
"That's
neither here nor there, Hy," Crodfoller dismissed the protest. "As
for you, Ben, I'm surprised at such intemperate utterances from a proven
bureaucrat of your experience."
"Maybe
Hy's bitch ain't here nor there," the alien put in, in his squeaky voice.
"But I'm here, and I wanna be there, so what are you boys going to
do about a little repatriation with apologies, for openers?"
"Why,
Captain," Crodfoller replied soothingly (19-r), "I shall of course
set wheels in motion at awakened until the situation is resolved. Oh, by the
way," he added, "his minion Goop is estivating in the scout-boat.
Farewell, gentlemen. Keep the old CDT flag flying."
4
It
was hardly a CDT socio-economic audit period later that Undersecretary
Crodfoller summoned Magnan to the Presence. After curtly ordering his underling
to be seated, the Undersecretary fixed the mild-mannered Consul and First
Secretary with a steely look.
"See
here, Ben," he barked. "What's gone wrong at General Services?
There's a foul-up in our Goodies for Undesirables program. I have a stack of
complaints an inch thick, from Missions in Tip Space mostly, regarding
non-receipt of vital emergency supplies. Space Arm swears convoys have been
getting through on schedule. The foul-up is clearly here at Sector! What are
you doing about it?"
"Me,
sir?" Magnan cried in a voice with a tendency to slip into a falsetto.
"Gracious, Mr. Dep—er, Assis—er, Acting Undersecretary, why ask me? Why,
I'm on the Groaci Desk, as your Excellency is aware."
"Urn,"
Crodfoller grunted, a monosyllable well known to his subordinates in the Corps,
and commonly translated: "I'm not interested in excuses: better come up
with something useful if you expect to salvage your career, such as it is.
"I
seem to recall," the Undersecretary went on with the ponderous insistence
of a glacial advance, "that you once mentioned that you and this fellow
Retief are cronies."
"Not
cronies, sir," Magnan objected. "Chums, possibly, or associates,
perhaps. That is, we've shared assignments to a number of the most dismal
hardship posts in the sector. Not my doing, of course: doubtless Personnel can
explain it."
"I'm
not conferring with Personnel at the moment, Ben," Crodfoller pointed out
coldly. "I'm interviewing you. Ergo, it is you I shall have to depend upon
for any answers that are to be forthcoming."
"But—but,
sir, what sort of snafu am I supposed to answer for?" Magnan queried in
bewilderment.
"In
place of sorely needed rubber stamps, red tape, and blank forms, our
beleaguered frontier posts are receiving personal armament kits! How are our
hard-working bureaucrats to keep their paperwork flowing smoothly in the face
of alien invasion without the most basic of supplies?"
"Well,
sir," Magnan mused. "Maybe they could sort of spring a little April
Fool surprise on the worms when they come swaggering in—"
"Worms,
Mr. Magnan, or, ah, Ree troops, that is, do not swagger. I remember that Fump
fellow; it was all the beggar could do to stand erect! And as for April Fool's
Day, Ben: your file is up for review by the Promo Board soon, is it not?"
"Sure,
sir, but it wasn't I who shipped guns in place of gummed labels, PAPA gear
instead of paper; it was Retief."
"Do
you realize, Ben," Crodfoller thundered, a shade more kindly, Magnan
estimated hopefully, "that while passing
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