Free Galactic Diplomat by Keith Laumer

escort of armed and
helmeted guards trailing behind, fingering scimitars and eyeing the diplomats
suspiciously.
    “I . . . I think I’ll just scoot along
and see to the refreshments,” Magnan bleated. “Retief, you accompany His
Arrogance and keep him amused until help arrives—I mean, until the Ambassador
puts in an appearance!” He fled.
    The Pope dipped a boneless finger into a large crystal
container of cheese sauce, studied it at arm’s length, sniffed it, then, with a
flick of a limber wrist, spattered it across the ruffled shirt-fronts and
glassy smiles of the diplomats strung out in the receiving line.
    “Who are these loavers?” he demanded loudly. “Bropaply
relatives, waitink arount for handouts. I have the same proplem. Or had the
same proplem, I should zay. Two weeks ako was Self-Denial Festival. I made the
subreme sagrifize ant offered the entire lot to the anzestral spirids.”
    “Giving up your relatives for Lent is quite an idea,” Retief
said. “It could catch on.”
    The Pope picked up a plate of dainty sandwiches, spilled the
food off, sniffed the plate, and took a small bite. “I’ve heard a kreat teal
about Terran tishes,” he said, chewing noisily. “A bit too crizp, but not bat.”
He took a second nip from the thin porcelain, offered it to Retief.
    “Have a bite,” he invited genially.
    “No thanks, I filled up on a beer bottle just before Your
Arrogance arrived,” Retief countered. “Try the dinner plates. They’re said to
be an epicure’s delight.”
    There was a sudden stir from the vicinity of the wide terrace
doors. Ambitious diplomatic underlings sprang to positions of eager
anticipation, delighted smiles ready. The squat figure of Career Minister
Straphanger, Terrestrial Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary
to Hoog, waddled into view, stylishly decked out in a short but heavily
brocaded Hoogan longhi, a brilliant red sash which all but dragged the ground,
and jeweled sandals. At his side puffed a companion of almost identical build
and garb, distinguished only by a mop of vivid orange hair. Magnan trailed by
two yards.
    “Ah, the Ampassador is twints?” the Pope inquired, moving
toward the approaching pair.
    “No, that’s Mrs. Straphanger,” Retief said. “If I were Your
Arrogance I’d ditch that saucer; she’s fierce when aroused.”
    “Ah, the edernal female, ever conzerned with food
gonzervation.” The Pope tossed the crust of the plate back of a flowering bush.
    “Ah, there, Ampassador Strakhumper!” he bellowed. “And your
charming cow! She will be litterink zoon, I trust?”
    “Littering? How’s that?” Straphanger stared around in confusion.
    “I azzume you keep your cows pregnant?” the Pope boomed. “Or
possibly thiz one is over-aged. But no matter; doubtless she was a gread
broducer in her day.”
    “Well, I never!” Mrs. Straphanger snapped, bridling.
    “By the way,” Ai-Poppy-Googy went on, “I hate to disguss
finanzes over food, zo I suggesd we deal with the proplem of an abbrobriate
kift ad once. I am of gourse quite brebared to vorget the drivial
misuntersdandink with the former ampassator ant agcepd any zum in egzess of one
million gredits withoud quibblink.”
    “One million credits?” Straphanger babbled. “Gift?”
    “Of
gourse, if you wish to avoid aguirink a reputation as a piker, an egstra
million would not be taken amiss.”
    “A million credits of Corps funds?
But . . . but whatever for?”
    “Ah, ah,” the Pope waggled an admonitory tactile member. “No
pryink into Hoogan internal matters!”
    “Oh, no, indeed, Your Arrogance! I only
meant . . . what’s the occasion? For the gift, I mean.”
    “It’s Tuesday.”
    “Oh.”
    The Pope nodded placidly. “Luggy you didn’t throw thiz
affaire on Wentsday; thad’s douple gifd day.” He plucked a glass from a tray
offered by a bearer, emptied the contents on the lawn, nipped a chip from the
edge with his polished metallic teeth, munched