Retief at Large by Keith Laumer

a trifle snappishly. "As
well as hauling away wagon-loads of merchandise from shops the owners of which
appeared to be absent."
     
                "Ah,
yes, impulse buying. Hardly consonant with domestic thrift. But enough of this
delightful gossip, Mr. Minister. The matter I wished to discuss with you ..."
Fiss gave the Minister a glowing account of his peaceful takeover, citing
chapter and verse each time the astounded diplomat attempted to rumble a
protest.
     
                "And,
of course," he finished, "I wished to acquaint your Excellency with
the facts before permitting you to be subjected to ill-advised counsel by
hotheads."
     
                "B-but,
great heavens, Drone-master—"
     
                "Planetary
Coordinator Pro Tem ," Fiss interjected smoothly.
"Now, I shall, of course, be happy to inspect your credentials at once in
order to regularize relations between the Corps and my government."
     
                "My
credentials? But I've presented my credentials to Mr. Rillikuk of the Foreign
Office!"
     
                "This
is hardly the time to reminisce over vanished regimes, Mr. Minister. Now—"
Fiss leaned forward confidentially—"you and I are, if I may employ the
term, men of the world. Not for us the fruitless expense of emotional energy
over the fait accompli, eh? As for myself, I am most eager to show you
around my offices in the finest of the towers of my capital."
     
                "Towers?
Capital?"
     
                "The
attractive edifices just beyond the swampy area where the local wildlife are
now disporting themselves," Fiss explained. "I have assigned—"
     
                "You've
violated the native Sanctum Sanctorum?" Barnshingle gasped.
     
                "An
unfortunate choice of words," Fiss hissed.
     
                "Would
you have me establish my ministries here in this warren of huts?"
     
                "The
Yalcans—" Barnshingle said weakly.
     
                "The
name of the planet is now Grudlu," Fiss stated. "In honor of Grud,
the patron Muse of practicality."
     
                "Look
here, Fiss! Are you asking me to turn my back on the Yalcans and recognize you
as the de jure government here? Simply on the basis of this absurd
legalistic rationalization of yours?"
     
                "With
the exception of a number of slanted adjectives, very succinctly put,"
Fiss whispered.
     
                "Why
in the world would I do a dastardly thing like that?" Barnshingle
demanded.
     
                "Why,
good for him," Miss Braswell breathed behind Retief.
     
                "Ah,
yes, terms," Fiss said comfortably. "First, your mission would, of
course, be raised at once to Embassy level, at Grudlun insistence, with
yourself requested by name as Ambassador, naturally. Secondly, I have in mind
certain local commercial properties which might make a valuable addition to
your portfolio. I can let you in at investor's prices. The entire transaction
to be conducted with the utmost discretion, of course, so as not to arouse
comment among the coarse-minded. Then, of course, you'll wish to select a
handsome penthouse for yourself in one of my more exclusive towers ..."
     
                "Penthouse?
Ambassador? Portfolio?" Barnshingle babbled.
     
                "I
marvel at the patience your Excellency has displayed in tolerating the thinly
veiled insult implied in your assignment to grubby quarters in this
kennel," Fiss commented. "Why a person could disappear in this maze
of old crockery and never be heard from again."
     
                "Disappear?"
Barnshingle croaked. "And wha— what if I refuse?"
     
                "Refuse?
Please, Mr. Minister—or more properly, Mr. Ambassador—why release the fowl of
fancy to flutter among such morbid trees of