Galactic Diplomat Read Online Free Page A

become
Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosize into Verpp—”
    “You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-mannered naturalists—will
become warmongers like Qorn?”
    “Very likely; ‘the milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qornt,’
as the old saying goes.”
    “What do Qornt turn into?” Retief asked.
    “Hmmmm. That’s a good question. So far, none have survived
Qornthood.”
    “Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways?” Magnan
asked. “What about taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance—”
    “Don’t mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It’s great
sport to sit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashing
off to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. But we prefer
a nice numerical advantage. Now, this business of tackling you Terrestrials
over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea what your strength was—”
    “But now that’s all off, of course,” Magnan chirped. “Now
that we’ve had diplomatic relations and all—”
    “Oh,
by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days; after all, we’re Qornt; we have
to satisfy our drive to action.”
    “But
Mr. Retief is your leader, now. He won’t let you . . .”
    “Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack Day comes. And even
if he orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the other
Centers—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the invasion is definitely
on.”
    “Why don’t you go invade somebody else?” Magnan suggested.
“Now, I could name some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of
course.”
    “Hold everything,” Retief said. “I think we’ve got the basis
of a deal here . . .”
     
    At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt,
Retief and Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDT
Sector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged, flying an
Ambassadorial flag below a plain white banner.
    “Curious,” Magnan commented. “I wonder what the significance
of the white ensign might be?”
    Retief
raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrements, a rasp of Qornt
boots. Retief looked back along the line. The high white sun flashed on bright
silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes, ceremonial swords, the polished
butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather.
    “A brave show indeed,” Magnan commented approvingly. “I
confess the idea has merit—”
    The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two
fat-tired wheels, tyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomat
stepped out.
    “Why, Ambassador Nitworth,” Magnan glowed. “This is very kind
of you—”
    “Keep cool, Magnan,” Nitworth said in a strained voice.
“We’ll attempt to get you out of this . . .” He stepped past
Magnan’s outstretched hand and looked hesitantly at the ramrod-straight line of
Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond at the eighty-five tall Qornt
dreadnoughts.
    “Good afternoon, sir . . . ah, Your
Excellency,” Nitworth said, blinking up at the leading Qornt. “You are
Commander of the Strike Force, I assume?”
    “Nope,” the Qornt said shortly.
    “I . . . ah . . . wish
to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuate the Headquarters,” Nitworth
plowed on.
    “Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said. “This—”
    “Don’t panic, Retief. I’ll attempt to secure your release,”
Nitworth hissed over his shoulder. “Now—”
    “You will address our leader with more respect!” the tall
Qornt hooted, eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up.
    “Oh, yes indeed, sir . . . Your
Excellency . . . Commander. Now, about the invasion—”
    “Mr. Secretary,” Magnan tugged at Nitworth’s sleeve.
    “In heaven’s name, permit me to negotiate in peace!” Nitworth
snapped. He rearranged his features. “Now, Your Excellency, we’ve arranged to
evacuate Smørbrød, of course, just as you requested—”
    “Requested?”