"My
shoes!" he yelped. "Magnan, you idiot, get me out of this mud at
once!"
Coughing,
the newcomers sloshed across to the vehicle, mounted the rude ladder, stared
with dismay at the mud-coated benches.
"Hold
tight," Magnan called with an attempt at gaiety. "Weil have to hurry
to get you in out of the weather. Don't be alarmed. We should get through with
no more than a few mud burns, and maybe the old firebug bite."
At
the wheel, he gunned the car in a wide circle, inadvertently sending a sheet of
mud sluicing over the polished stern of the vessel and the crisp whites of the
crewmen peering from the lock. There were shrill cries as the passengers went
reeling to form an untidy heap at the rear of the car. Of the visitors, only
Inspector Rainsinger remained on his feet, gripping the upright that supported
the sheet-metal awning.
"You'll
soon catch on," Magnan called over his shoulder. "Gracious, you already
look like old veterans, and you've only been here ten minutes!"
Magnan steered the car across the
soft, black half-inch mud of the plaza, pulled up before an entry where a
paunchy, splay-footed little humanoid with a flattened skull and a loose,
liver-colored hide leaned on a combination broom-rake, humming to himself.
"Drive
on, Mr. Magnan," Rainsinger barked." We can tour the slum areas
later, after my staff and I have had an opportunity to freshen up a bit."
"But—but
this is the consulate," Magnan explained with a glassy smile.
Rainsinger
stared with a darkening expression at the scorched, chipped and discolored
facade, banked with drifted muck from which tufts of greenery sprouted.
"This
is the new building, completed only ninety standard days ago at a cost of
one hundred thousand credits of Corps funds?"
"Ah,
that's right, sir." Magnan climbed down from his seat.
Rainsinger
looked down at the sea of oleaginous black mud in which the car rested
hub-deep. "I'm supposed to walk through that?" he demanded.
"Retief
could carry you," Magnan proposed brightly.
Rainsinger
shot him a sharp look. "If there's any carrying to be done, I'll do
it." He stepped down, followed by his staff, squelched through the
ankle-deep mud that coated the ornamental tile steps. As they passed, Magnan
beckoned to the native sweeper.
"See
here, Freddy, let's see a little more spit and polish," he whispered.
"Don't just knock those mud-puppy nests down; sweep the extra mud into
neat little piles or something. We don't want our visitors to imagine we've
grown slovenly, you know. And you'd better dig out the entrance to the snack
bar and squirt a little more deodorant around; the stench-fungus is getting the
upper hand again."
"Mud
smooth nice my up messing are fellows these, Magnan Mister, hey!" the
local protested in his scratchy voice.
"It's
all right, Freddy," Magnan soothed. "Ah ... headquarters from shots
big, they're," he added in an undertone.
Inside,
Rainsinger stared about incredulously at the runners of vine poking in through
shattered windows, the dried and caked mud through which footpaths led to the
grand staircase, itself well nigh buried under a luxuriant growth of coiling
green weed. He started as a sharp-nosed rat scurried into view, scuttled away
into the shelter of a pile of brush heaped carelessly beside the balustrade.
"Shall
we have a look at the chancery wing?" he inquired in ominous tones.
"Say,
where do we eat lunch?" the portly attache looked around curiously.
"Maybe
we'd better not go up just yet ..." Magnan broke off as a cascade of brown
water came surging down from the landing above, bearing with it a flotsam of
papers, twigs, vigorously swimming small animals and other odds and ends. The
stream struck the floor, sluiced its way across to the exit and poured out into
the street, eliciting a loud cry from Freddy.
"Conception
esthetic whole my up loused they've!" his voice was hoarse with
indignation. "On going what's?"
"Unplugged
drains those got I, Magnan Mister Oh!" a cheery Slunthan voice called from
above.
"Hmmm.
Unfortunate timing," Magnan said. "But at least it scoured a path for
us." He led the way up the stairs and along a corridor, the walls of which
were obscured by a ragged growth of vines, through which discolored wallpaper
was visible. He ducked under a festoon of creepers undulating in a doorway,
waved the team members into his spacious office. Rainsinger stopped dead as his
eye fell on the mud-clotted weeds layering the floor, the slab of rough ironwood
spanning two upended oil drums serving as a desk, the clustered stems crowding
the glassless windows.
There
was a moment of profound silence. Then:
"Gentlemen!"
The trade mission chief's voice had something of the quality of a volcano
preparing to erupt. "During my career I've encountered slackness,
inefficiency and disorder at many a station. A little dust on the filing
cabinets, a few dope-stick burns in the upholstery, gum wrappers in the
John—even some minor discrepancies in the voucher files—all these are normal
concomitants of life at a remote post. But this!" His voice rose.
"This model town, built with CDT funds as a gift to the Slunchan people
less than six months ago—a perfect example of civic design produced by the most
skillful Deep Think teams on the departmental payroll! Look at it! A blighted
area! A pest hole! And the consulate general itself! Two inches of mud in the
main lounge! Broken drains flooding the halls! Rats, mice and vermin swarming
in every nook and cranny! Weeds sprouting in the corridors! Broken glass!
Vanished furnishings! Vandalism! Dereliction of duty! Destruction of Corps
property! And withal— no berp-nuts!"
With
an effort he pulled his voice back into the lower registers and directed a
chilling gaze at Magnan.
"Sir,
as of this moment you may consider yourself suspended, relieved of duty and
under close house arrest! Under emergency powers vested in me under Article
Nine, Section Four, Title Two of Corps Regulations, I'm taking personal
command!"
"But—but,
sir!" Magnan protested. "I haven't yet had time to settle in, as it
were. The mud crabs ate the furniture; and the conditions here—the mud tides
and the cinder storms, and the shortage of local labor and ... and ..."
"Say,
I was wondering—how about a sandwich," the fat attache put in.
"No
excuses!" Rainsinger bellowed. "We built the town to point these
benighted natives the way to higher living standards and an increased
consumption of Terry-manufactured goods! A fine example you've set, sir! But
I'll do what I can in the eleventh hour to retrieve the situation!"
He
whirled on his staff.
"Blockchip,
you'll take a detail and attend to the broken plumbing. Horace—" he
addressed the stout attache— "you'll see to shovelling out the mud from
the ground floor. Poindexter will seal off the upper floors and fumigate. As
for you, Mr. Magnan—I'm suspending your arrest long enough for you to round up
an adequate labor force to unload the cargo I brought in." He looked at
his old-fashioned strap watch.
"I'll
expect to see this building spotless by sundown, in time for a reception to be
held this evening at eight o'clock sharp. Full formal attire, including clean
fingernails! I'll show these natives how civilized Terrans live—and inspire the
wish to emulate us!"
"Ah—there
might be a little trouble about the local labor," Magnan spoke up.
"The Slunchans have rigid taboos against working on weekdays."
"This
is Sunday!"
"How
true, sir. Unfortunately, they don't work on Sundays, either."
"Offer
them double wages!"
"They
don't use money."
"Then
offer them what they want!"
"All
they want is for us to go away."
"Mr.
Magnan." Rainsinger cut him off with an ominous tone. "I suggest you
discontinue your obstructionism at once, or the word 'insubordination' will be
cropping up in my report, along with a number of other terms non-conducive to
rapid advancement in the service!" He broke off to grab up a bound volume
of Corps regulations from the improvised desk and hurl it at an inquisitive
vine rat which poked its snout above the window sill.
"Oh,
I wouldn't do that, sir," Magnan blurted. "In about five hours—"
"Save
your advice!" Rainsinger roared. "I'm in charge here now! You may
make yourself useful by ringing up the Slunchan Foreign Minister and making me
an appointment. I'll show you how to handle these locals! In an hour I'll have
him begging for Terran imports!"
"Ah,
about lunch," the stout attache began.
"I'll
have him here in a jiffy," Magnan said. He stepped to the door. "Oh,
Freddy," he called. A moment later a Slunchan appeared in the doorway.
"It
is what; boss, yeah?" the local looked around the office. "Mat floor
a for sneakweed the using, effect snazzy a that's, say!" he exclaimed.
"Mr.
Rainsinger, may I present—" Magnan started.
"Here,
isn't this the fellow who was raking mud at the front door as we came in?"
Rainsinger demanded.
"Yes,
indeed. Of course Freddy is just filling in for the regular man. As I was
saying, may I present Sir Frederik Gumbubu, K.G.E., L. deC., N.G.S., Slunchan
Minister of Foreign Affairs."
"A
Foreign Minister? A part-time janitor?" Rainsinger took the proffered hand
gingerly.
"Know
you, do to ministering foreign my got I've," the Slunchan said
defensively. "Janitor time full a be to me expect couldn't you, all after,
well." He rolled a ball of dried mud between his fingers, lined up on a
framed photo of the sector undersecretary and scored a bull's-eye.
"Mr.
Magnan, I stand astounded at your ingenuity," Rainsinger said in a voice
like broken crockery. "Not content with failing in your mission while
violating every regulation in the book, you invent a unique offense by
demeaning an official of a friendly foreign power to the performance of menial
tasks in your own Consulate!"
"But,
sir! Freddy's one of the few locals with a taste for Pepsi. And the only way he
can get it," he added behind his hand, "is to work here. I pay him
off with a case a week."
"Get
somebody else!"
"Job
my me lose to trying you are—hey?" Freddy broke in.
"I
can't!" Magnan wailed. "Scout's honor, sir— they won't work!"
"Union
labor the with beef a for looking you're maybe," Freddy said. "Action
fast you promise can I, member sole and president the be to happen I as and!"
"Look
here, ah, Sir Frederik." Rainsinger faced the foreign minister. "I'm
sure we can work out a mutually agreeable arrangement. You round up and send
along about a hundred good workers, and I'll see to it that Slunch is given
full Most Favored Nation status in the new Trade Agreement I'm about to
propose."
"It
do can't, nope," the Slunchan said shortly.