CHAPTER : I

They started giving me the business as soon as I came through the doorrninto the Secretary's outer office.rnrnThere was Ethel K'wang-Li, the Secretary's receptionist, at her desk.rnThere was Courtlant Staynes, the assistant secretary to thernUndersecretary for Economic Penetration, and Norman Gazarin, fromrnProtocol, and Toby Lawder, from Humanoid Peoples' Affairs, and RaoulrnChavier, and Hans Mannteufel, and Olga Reznik.rnrnIt was a wonder there weren't more of them watching the condemned man'srnmarch to the gibbet: the word that the Secretary had called me in mustrnhave gotten all over the Department since the offices had opened.rnrn"Ah, Mr. Machiavelli, I presume," Ethel kicked off.rnrn"Machiavelli, Junior." Olga picked up the ball. "At least, that's thernway he signs it."rnrn"God's gift to the Consular Service, and the Consular Service's gift tornPolicy Planning," Gazarin added.rnrn"Take it easy, folks. These Hooligan Diplomats would as soon shoot yournas look at you," Mannteufel warned.rnrn"Be sure and tell the Secretary that your friends all want importantrnposts in the Galactic Empire." Olga again.rnrn"Well, I'm glad some of you could read it," I fired back. "Maybe even arnfew of you understood what it was all about."rnrn"Don't worry, Silk," Gazarin told me. "Secretary Ghopal understands whatrnit was all about. All too well, you'll find."rnrnA buzzer sounded gently on Ethel K'wang-Li's desk. She snatched up thernhandphone and whispered into it. A deathly silence filled the room whilernshe listened, whispered some more, then hung it up.rnrnThey were all staring at me.rnrn"Secretary Ghopal is ready to see Mr. Stephen Silk," she said. "Thisrnway, please."rnrnAs I started across the room, Staynes began drumming on the top of therndesk with his fingers, the slow reiterated rhythm to which a man marchesrnto a military execution.rnrn"A cigarette?" Lawder inquired tonelessly. "A glass of rum?"rnrnrnThere were three men in the Secretary of State's private office. GhopalrnSingh, the Secretary, dark-faced, gray-haired, slender and elegant,rnmeeting me halfway to his desk. Another slender man, in black, with arnsilver-threaded, black neck-scarf: Rudolf Klüng, the Secretary of thernDepartment of Aggression.rnrnAnd a huge, gross-bodied man with a fat baby-face and opaque black eyes.rnrnWhen I saw him, I really began to get frightened.rnrnThe fat man was Natalenko, the Security Coördinator.rnrn"Good morning, Mister Silk," Secretary Ghopal greeted me, his handrnextended. "Gentlemen, Mr. Stephen Silk, about whom we were speaking.rnThis way, Mr. Silk, if you please."rnrnThere was a low coffee-table at the rear of the office, and four easyrnchairs around it. On the round brass table-top were cups and saucers, arncoffee urn, cigarettes--and a copy of the current issue of the _GalacticrnStatesmen's Journal_, open at an article entitled _Probable FuturernCourses of Solar League Diplomacy_, by somebody who had signed himselfrnMachiavelli, Jr.rnrnI was beginning to wish that the pseudonymous Machiavelli, Jr. had neverrnbeen born, or, at least, had stayed on Theta Virgo IV and been arnwineberry planter as his father had wanted him to be.rnrnAs I sat down and accepted a cup of coffee, I avoided looking at thernperiodical. They were probably going to hang it around my neck beforernthey shoved me out of the airlock.rnrn"Mr. Silk is, as you know, in our Consular Service," Ghopal was sayingrnto the others. "Back on Luna on rotation, doing something in Mr.rnHalvord's section. He is the gentleman who did such a splendid job forrnus on Assha--Gamma Norma III.rnrn"And, as he has just demonstrated," he added, gesturing toward thern_Statesman's Journal_ on the Benares-work table, "he is a student bothrnof the diplomacy of the past and the implications of our presentrnpolicies."rnrn"A bit frank," Klüng commented dubiously.rnrn"But judicious," Natalenko squeaked, in the high eunuchoid voice thatrncame so incongruously from his bulk. "He aired his singularly accuraternpredictions in a periodical that doesn't have a circulation of more thanrna thousand copies outside his own department. And I don't think thernpublic's semantic reactions to the terminology of imperialism is as badrnas you imagine. They seem quite satisfied, now, with the change in therntitle of your department, from Defense to Aggression."rnrn"Well, we've gone into that, gentlemen," Ghopal said. "If the articlernreally makes trouble for us, we can always disavow it. There's norncensorship of the _Journal_. And Mr. Silk won't be around to draw firernon us."rnrn_Here it comes_, I thought.rnrn"That sounds pretty ominous, doesn't it, Mr. Silk?" Natalenko titteredrnhappily, like a ten-year-old who has just found a new beetle to pull thernlegs out of.rnrn"It's really not as bad as it sounds, Mr. Silk," Ghopal hastened tornreassure me. "We are going to have to banish you for a while, but Irndaresay that won't be so bad. The social life here on Luna has probablyrnbegun to pall, anyhow. So we're sending you to Capella IV."rnrn"Capella IV," I repeated, trying to remember something about it. Capellarnwas a GO-type, like Sol; that wouldn't be so bad.rnrn"New Texas," Klüng helped me out.rnrn_Oh, God, no!_ I thought.rnrn"It happens that we need somebody of your sort on that planet, Mr.rnSilk," Ghopal said. "Some of the trouble is in my department and some ofrnit is in Mr. Klüng's; for that reason, perhaps it would be better ifrnCoördinator Natalenko explained it to you."rnrn"You know, I assume, our chief interest in New Texas?" Natalenko asked.rnrn"I had some of it for breakfast, sir," I replied. "Supercow."rnrnNatalenko tittered again. "Yes, New Texas is the butcher shop of therngalaxy. In more ways than one, I'm afraid you'll find. They justrnbutchered one of our people there a short while ago. Our Ambassador, inrnfact."rnrnThat would be Silas Cumshaw, and this was the first I'd heard about it.rnrnI asked when it had happened.rnrn"A couple of months ago. We just heard about it last evening, when thernnews came in on a freighter from there. Which serves to point uprnsomething you stressed in your article--the difficulties of trying tornrun a centralized democratic government on a galactic scale. But we havernanother interest, which may be even more urgent than our need for NewrnTexan meat. You've heard, of course, of the z'Srauff."rnrnThat was a statement, not a question; Natalenko wasn't trying to insultrnme. I knew who the z'Srauff were; I'd run into them, here and there. Onernof the extra-solar intelligent humanoid races, who seemed to have beenrnevolved from canine or canine-like ancestors, instead of primates. Mostrnof them could speak Basic English, but I never saw one who would admitrnto understanding more of our language than the 850-word Basicrnvocabulary. They occupied a half-dozen planets in a small star-clusterrnabout forty light-years beyond the Capella system. They had developedrnnormal-space reaction-drive ships before we came into contact withrnthem, and they had quickly picked up the hyperspace-drive from us backrnin those days when the Solar League was still playing Missionaries ofrnProgress and trying to run a galaxy-wide Point-Four program.rnrnIn the past century, it had become almost impossible for anybody to getrninto their star-group, although z'Srauff ships were orbiting in on everyrnplanet that the League had settled or controlled. There were z'Srauffrntraders and small merchants all over the galaxy, and you almost neverrnsaw one of them without a camera. Their little meteor-mining boats wererneverywhere, and all of them carried more of the most modern radar andrnastrogational equipment than a meteor-miner's lifetime earnings wouldrnpay for.rnrnI also knew that they were one of the chief causes of ulcers andrnpremature gray hair at the League capital on Luna. I'd done a littlernreading on pre-spaceflight Terran history; I had been impressed by thernparallel between the present situation and one which had culminated, twornand a half centuries before, on the morning of 7 December, 1941.rnrn"What," Natalenko inquired, "do you think Machiavelli, Junior would dornabout the z'Srauff?"rnrn"We have a Department of Aggression," I replied. "Its mottoes are, 'Stoprntrouble before it starts,' and, 'If we have to fight, let's do it on thernother fellow's real estate.' But this situation is just a little toorndelicate for literal application of those principles. An unprovokedrnattack on the z'Srauff would set every other non-human race in therngalaxy against us.... Would an attack by the z'Srauff on New Texasrnconstitute just provocation?"rnrn"It might. New Texas is an independent planet. Its people arerndescendants of emigrants from Terra who wanted to get away from the rulernof the Solar League. We've been trying for half a century to persuadernthe New Texan government to join the League. We need their planet, forrnboth strategic and commercial reasons. With the z'Srauff for neighbors,rnthey need us as much at least as we need them. The problem is to makernthem understand that."rnrnI nodded again. "And an attack by the z'Srauff would do that, too, sir,"rnI said.rnrnNatalenko tittered again. "You see, gentlemen! Our Mr. Silk picks thingsrnup very handily, doesn't he?" He turned to Secretary of State Ghopal."You take it from there," he invited.rnrnGhopal Singh smiled benignly. "Well, that's it, Stephen," he said. "Wernneed a man on New Texas who can get things done. Three things, to bernexact.rnrn"First, find out why poor Mr. Cumshaw was murdered, and what can be donernabout it to maintain our prestige without alienating the New Texans.rnrn"Second, bring the government and people of New Texas to a realizationrnthat they need the Solar League as much as we need them.rnrn"And, third, forestall or expose the plans for the z'Srauff invasion ofrnNew Texas."rnrn_Is that all, now?_ I thought. _He doesn't want a diplomat; he wants arnmagician._rnrn"And what," I asked, "will my official position be on New Texas, sir? Orrnwill I have one, of any sort?"rnrn"Oh, yes, indeed, Mr. Silk. Your official position will be that ofrnAmbassador Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary. That, I believe, isrnthe only vacancy which exists in the Diplomatic Service on that planet."rnrnAt Dumbarton Oaks Diplomatic Academy, they haze the freshmen by makingrnthem sit on a one-legged stool and balance a teacup and saucer on onernknee while the upper classmen pelt them with ping-pong balls. Whoeverrninvented that and the other similar forms of hazing was one of the greatrngeniuses of the Service. So I sipped my coffee, set down the cup, took arnpuff from my cigarette, then said:rnrn"I am indeed deeply honored, Mr. Secretary. I trust I needn't go intornany assurances that I will do everything possible to justify your trustrnin me."rnrn"I believe he will, Mr. Secretary," Natalenko piped, in a manner thatrnchilled my blood.rnrn"Yes, I believe so," Ghopal Singh said. "Now, Mr. Ambassador, there's arnliner in orbit two thousand miles off Luna, which has been held fromrnblasting off for the last eight hours, waiting for you. Don't botherrnpacking more than a few things; you can get everything you'll needrnaboard, or at New Austin, the planetary capital. We have a man whomrnCoördinator Natalenko has secured for us, a native New Texan, HoddyrnRingo by name. He'll act as your personal secretary. He's aboard thernship now. You'll have to hurry, I'm afraid.... Well, _bon voyage_, Mr.rnAmbassador."