LITMIR.BIZ

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on, scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell on top of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, flopped in terror, then went limp.

      Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard. Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and moved gingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assisted him into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily, adjusted the volume.

      “There is much to be said for the old system,” he said. “What a burden one’s sportsmanship places on one at times.”

      “Great sport, wasn’t it?” said Retief. “Now, I know you’ll be eager to continue. If you’ll just wait while I run back and fetch some of our gougerforms—”

      “May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms!” Hoshick bellowed. “You’ve given me such a sprong-ache as I’ll remember each spawning-time for a year.”

      “Speaking of hide-ticks,” said Retief, “we’ve developed a biterform—”

      “Enough!” Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on his hide. “Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I had hoped….” He broke off, drew a rasping breath. “I had hoped, Retief,” he said, speaking sadly now, “to find a new land here where I might plan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a crop of paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. But my spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerforms without end. I am shamed before you….”

      “To tell you the truth, I’m old-fashioned myself. I’d rather watch the action from a distance too.”

      “But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude.”

      “My spawn-fellows aren’t here. And besides, didn’t I mention it? No one who’s really in the know would think of engaging in competition by mere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling the sand, raising lichens—things like that—”

      “That on which we dined but now,” said Hoshick, “and from which the wine is made.”

      “The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition. Now, if you’d like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we’ll promise to stick to the oases and vegetables.”

      Hoshick curled his back in attention. “Retief, you’re quite serious? You would leave all the fair sand hills to us?”

      “The whole works, Hoshick. I’ll take the oases.”

      Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. “Once again you have outdone me, Retief,” he cried. “This time, in generosity.”

      “We’ll talk over the details later. I’m sure we can establish a set of rules that will satisfy all parties. Now I’ve got to get back. I think some of the gougerforms are waiting to see me.”

      IV

      It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreed on with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stood up.

      “There you are,” he said. “We been wonderin’ whether to go out after you.”

      Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out a raw-boned hand. “Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, I thought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT.”

      Bert came up behind Lemuel. “How do you know he ain’t, Lemuel?” he said. “Maybe he—”

      Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. “Next cotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse’n that.”

      “Tell me,” said Retief. “How are you boys fixed for wine?”

      “Wine? Mister, we been livin’ on stump water for a year now. ’Dobe’s fatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker.”

      “Try this.” Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork, sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel.

      “Mister, where’d you get that?”

      “The Flap-jacks make it. Here’s another question for you: Would you concede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peace guarantee?”

      At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief. “We’ll make any reasonable deal,” he said. “I guess they got as much right here as we have. I think we’d agree to a fifty-fifty split. That’d give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side.”

      “What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them the desert?”

      Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. “Keep talkin’, mister,” he said. “I think you got yourself a deal.”

      * * * *

      Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper.

      “Sit down, Retief,” he said absently. “I thought you were over on Pueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert.”

      “I’m back.”

      Passwyn eyed him sharply. “Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speak up. Don’t expect me to request any military assistance, no matter how things are….”

      Retief passed a bundle of documents across the desk. “Here’s the Treaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact declaration and a trade agreement.”

      “Eh?” Passwyn picked up the papers, riffled through them. He leaned back in his chair, beamed.

      “Well, Retief. Expeditiously handled.” He stopped, blinked at Retief. “You seem to have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you’ve been conducting yourself as befits a member of the Embassy staff.”

      “I attended a sporting event,” Retief said. “One of the players got a little excited.”

      “Well…it’s one of the hazards of the profession. One must pretend an interest in such matters.” Passwyn rose, extended a hand. “You’ve done well, my boy. Let this teach you the value of following instructions to the letter.”

      Outside, by the hall incinerator drop, Retief paused long enough to take from his briefcase a large buff envelope, still sealed, and drop it in the slot.

AIDE MEMOIRE

      Originally published in Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.

      I

      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheet of parchment and looked grave.

      “This aide memoire,” he said, “was just handed to me by the Cultural Attache. It’s the third on the subject this week. It refers to the matter of sponsorship of Youth groups—”

      “Some youths,” Retief said. “Average age, seventy-five.”

      “The Fustians are a long-lived people,” Magnan snapped. “These matters are relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—”

      “That’s right. He’ll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.”

      “Precisely the problem,” Magnan said. “But the Youth Movement is the important news in today’s political situation here on Fust. And sponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of the Terrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of the mission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cement relations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future. You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.”

      “I’m not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing their rumbles,” Retief said. “Now, if you have a proposal for a pest control group—”

      “To the Fustians this is no jesting matter,” Magnan cut in. “This group—” he glanced at the paper—“known

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