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classified comm gear into a
hostile world under duty-free entry as 'office supplies' is a time-honored
custom, to smuggle in small arms instead could not only jeopardize this
convenient polite fiction, at which all sides wink, but could suggest to the
Ree that our expressed desire for peace at a reasonable discount is a mere
ruse!"
     
                "I
guess so, sir," Magnan conceded. "But I'm sure Retief didn't mean any
harm—"
     
                "Since
the fellow was undoubtedly instrumental in the fiasco," Crodfoller
intoned. "It is only meet that he should be given the opportunity to undo
the mischief. Accordingly, I am assigning him as Special Envoy to the Ree
Legation at Goldblatt's World, one of those which were the victim not only of
Ree aggression, but of Retief's mismanagement of requisitions! I am informed
that no less a Ree dignitary than Chief Intimidator of Insolent Upstarts Slive
himself is Chief of Mission there; our man will treat directly with Slive, to
convince His Excellency that the CDT is indeed a pacific service, dedicated to
cementing cordial relations with all our friends we haven't met yet."
     
                "That
seems a rather dirty detail, Mr. Undersecretary," Magnan protested mildly.
     
                "Indeed,
Ben? Rather, it is an instance of unsurpassed magnanimity. Let me tell you a
story, Ben, concerning an ancestor of mine, General Lord Crodfoller, in command
of the Twenty-third Foot at Gheewallah; in Inja, don't you know. According to
family tradition, it was during a hot exchange with a well-organized besieging
force of hill tribesmen that a young subaltern broke under fire and fled the
field. Disgraced, he skulked in his tent, shunned by the Officer's Mess, and
thus doomed to slow starvation. Magnanimously, General Lord Crodfoller summoned
the unfortunate fellow, and handed him a dispatch for his subordinate across
the valley. All the young fellow had to do to redeem himself was mount and ride
across the battlefield in the face of the enemy. Instead, he went to his tent
and shot himself. Sad ending, that. I don't suppose Retief is the suicidal
type?"
     
                "Oh,
no, sir. At least, I don't think—" Magnan stammered.
     
                "You'll
find out when you inform him," Crodfoller said shortly.
     
                "M-me,
sir?" Magnan said, appalled.
     
                "Yes,
better the news comes from a colleague. Of course, the assignment has gone
through channels and all that. You, Magnan, are the last to know. Or rather,
the next to last. Go and enlighten Retief."
     
                Magnan
sighed and tottered away.
     
    -
     

Chapter Two
     
1
     
                Jerry,
the barman at the VIP snack bar, paused after placing a bumper of bacchus black
before Retief, and plied his bar-rag vigorously on a nonexistent ring on the
polished vermilion heowood.
     
                "Say,
Mr. Retief," he blurted at last, "I want to give you my sympathy on
your new assignment; hope I'm not getting out of line."
     
                "There's
no line waiting to congratulate me, Jerry," Retief reassured the
mixologist. "By the way, what new assignment is that?"
     
                "Oh,
didn't you hear?" Jerry responded. "All the scuttlebutt has it the
Secretary picked you to go out to try and calm down old CIIU Slive, the Ree big
shot. I wouldn't want to put my neck into a noose like that, even for a
three-grade bump, which I don't guess you'll get."
     
                "If
the boys in the latrine know all this, the news ought to be filtering down to
First Secretary level pretty soon," Retief commented.
     
                He
took his Bacchus black and sauntered toward the kidney-shaped keowood booths.
VIP's  of all shapes and sexes were cozying up in strategic huddles on the
soft, bisque-colored cushions. Pale lanterns hung from the dark,