roles in the preservation of domestic
tranquility on many a far-flung world. At Fust, Ambassador Magnan forged to
the van in the exercise of the technique ...
Vol VII, reel 43. 487 A. E. (AD
2948)
Across
the table from
Retief, Ambassador Magnan, rustling a stiff sheet of parchment, looked grave.
"This aide memoire," he
said, "was just handed to me by the Cultural Attaché. 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 replied. "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, to cement relations with this emergent power group: the leaders of the
future. You, Retief, as Counselor, 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 as the Sexual, Cultural and Athletic Recreational Society,
or SCARS, for short, has been awaiting sponsorship for a matter of weeks
now."
"Meaning they want someone to
buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipment, and anything else they need to plot
against the peace in style," Retief said.
"If we don't act promptly, the
Groaci embassy may well anticipate us. They're very active here."
"That's an idea," said
Retief, "let 'em. After a while they'll be broke—instead of us."
"Nonsense. The group requires
a sponsor. I can't actually order you to step forward. However . . ."
Magnan let the sentence hang in the air. Retief raised one eyebrow.
"For a minute there," he
said, "I thought you were going to make a positive statement."
Magnan leaned back, lacing his
fingers over his stomach. "I don't think you'll find a diplomat of my
experience doing anything so naive," he said.
"I like the adult
Fustians," said Retief. "Too bad they have to lug half a ton of horn
around on their backs. I wonder if surgery—"
"Great heavens, Retief,"
Magnan spluttered. "I'm amazed that even you would bring up a matter of
such delicacy. A race's unfortunate physical characteristics are hardly a fit
matter for Terrestrial curiosity."
"Well, I've only been here a
month. But it's been my experience, Mr. Ambassador, that few people are above
improving on nature; otherwise you, for example, would be tripping over your
beard."
.Magnan shuddered.
"Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian."
Retief stood. "My own program
for the day includes going over to the dockyards. There are some features of
this new passenger liner the Fustians are putting together that
I want to look into. With your
permission, Mr. Ambassador. . . ?"
Magnan snorted. "Your
preoccupation with the trivial disturbs me, Retief. More interest in
substantive matters- such as working with youth groups—would create a far
better impression."
"Before getting too involved
with these groups, it might be a good idea to find out a little more about
them," Retief said. "Who organizes them? There are three strong political
parties here on Fust; what's the alignment of this SCARS organization?"
"You forget, these are merely
teen-agers, so to speak," Magnan said. "Politics mean nothing to
them . . . yet."
"Then there are the Groaci.
Why their passionate interest in a two-horse world like Fust? Normally they're
concerned with nothing but business; and what has Fust got that they could use?
"You may rule out the
commercial aspect in