Free Galactic Diplomat by Keith Laumer Page A

thoughtfully.
    “Lackink in flavor,” he commented.
    “My best crystal,” Mrs. Straphanger gasped. “All the way from
Brooklyn, yet, and like a goat he’s eating it!”
    “A koat?” The Pope eyed her suspiciously. “I don’t belief I
know the term.”
    “It’s a . . . a sort of gourmet,”
Straphanger improvised. Sweat was glistening on his forehead. “Known for its
discriminating tastes.”
    “Now, about the matter of a bension,” the Pope continued. “I
zee no neet of oztentation. A mere thousant a day would suvvize as a token of
Corps esteem.”
    “A thousand what a day?” the Ambassador inquired around a
frozen diplomatic grin which exposed old-fashioned removable dentures.
    “Gredits, of gourse. And then there is the matter of
zupzidies to Hoogan industry; zay fifty thousand a month. Don’d give a thoughd
to atminisdration; just make the cheggs payable to me perzonally—”
    “Hoogan industry? But I was given to understand there are no
industries here on Hoog—”
    “That’s why we reguire a zupzity,” the Pope said blandly.
    Straphanger hitched his smile in place with an effort.
    “Your Arrogance, I’m here merely to establish friendly
relations, to bring Hoog into the mainstream of Galactic cultural life—”
    “What
coult be frientlier than money?” the Pope inquired in a loud, final-sounding
voice.
    “Well,” Straphanger conceded, “we might arrange a loan—”
    “An oudright krant is zo much zimpler,” the Pope pointed out.
    “Of
course, it would mean extra staff, to handle the administrative load.” Straphanger rubbed his hands together, a
speculative gleam in his eye. “Say twenty-five for a start—”
    The Pope turned as a medium-sized Hoog in tight
black-and-silver vestments came up, growled in his ear, waving a rubbery arm
toward the house.
    “What?” the Pope exploded. He swiveled on Straphanger. “You
are harporink tapoo greatures! Givink aid and gomfort to untesirable elements?
Sharink your zubstanze with minions of the Opposition?”
    “Your Arrogance!” Straphanger’s voice quavered against the
rising roar of the outraged cleric. “I don’t understand! What did that fellow
say?”
    The Pope bawled commands in Hoogan. His escort scattered,
began beating the bushes rimming the garden. The Ambassador trotting at his
side, the guest of honor strode to the laden refreshment tables, began stuffing
in fragile china, muttering to himself.
    “Your
Arrogance,” Straphanger panted. “If I could just have some explanation! I’m
sure it’s all just a ghastly mistake! What are these men searching for? I
assure you—”
    “Out of the gootnezz of my heard, I welgomed you to Hoog!”
the Pope roared. “As a great gompliment to you, I abzorbed your language! I was
even ready to agzept cash, the zubreme chesture! And now I find that you openly
gonzort with the enemies of the Kods!”
    Standing on the sidelines of the verbal fray, Retief glanced
around the garden, spotted a fountain in the shape of a two-headed Hoogan dwarf
with oversized teeth and belly. He moved over to it, turned and surveyed the
gesticulating group at the table. There was a tug at his sandal-lace. He
looked down. Two bright eyes at the ends of wire-like stalks stared up
appealingly from a clump of grass. He glanced around; all eyes were on the
Pope.
    “Are you looking for me?” Retief asked softly.
    “Right!” a squeaky voice piped. “You’re a hard man to have a
quiet chat with, Mr. Ahh.”
    “Retief.”
    “How do, Retief. My name’s Jackspurt. The boys appointed me
spokesmen to tell you Terries about what’s going on. After all, I guess us
Spisms got a few rights, too.”
    “If you can explain what’s going on in this filbert factory,
I’ll be forever in your debt, Jackspurt. Speak your piece.”
    “It’s the Hoogans; they don’t give us a minute’s peace. Talk
about persecution! Do you know those psalm-singing hippos are blaming us for
everything from sour milk to loss of