In the Chancery corridor ten minutes later, Magnan mopped at his thin neck with a large floral-patterned tissue.

"Heavens, who'd have thought he'd fly into such a pa.s.sion?" he inquired of Retief. "After all, it isn't as if those silly little gobs of mud possessed any intrinsic merit."

"Oh, I don't know," Retief said. "They're not bad, considering that the locals have to ma.s.s-produce them and bury them at night when n.o.body's looking."

"Retief!" Magnan stopped dead. "You don't mean...?"

"It seemed like a good idea to sidetrack the Groaci away from the genuine stuff," Retief pointed out. "Just in case any of it had any sentimental value."

"Fake fakes," Magnan murmured. "The concept has a certain euphony."

They paused beside a pair of double gla.s.s doors opening onto an airy balcony two hundred feet above the freshly scrubbed city. As they stepped out, a small copter with a saddle and handlebars came winging in across the park to hover just beyond the bal.u.s.trade.

"Hop aboard, Retief, we're late," the machine called in a cheerful baritone.

"Retief, where are you going?" Magnan barked as the latter swung over the rail. "You have the quarterly Report of Redundant Reports to compile, to say nothing of the redundant reports themselves...!"

"Duty calls, Mr. Magnan," Retief said soothingly. "I'm off to a game of sky polo with a couple of Cabinet Ministers." He waved and set spurs to his mount, which launched itself with a bound into the wide green sky.

Pime Doesn't Cray

1.

A driving rain lashed the tarmac as Retief stepped from the shuttlecraft that had ferried him down to the planetary surface. From the direction of the low, mushroom-shaped reception sheds, a slight figure wrapped in a voluminous black rubber poncho came splashing toward him, waving excitedly.

"You got any enemies, Mac?" the shuttle pilot asked nervously, watching the newcomer's approach.

"A reasonable number," Retief replied, drawing on his cigar, which sputtered and hissed as the rain struck the glowing tip. "However, this is just Counselor Magnan from the Emba.s.sy, here to welcome me to the scene with the local disaster status, no doubt."

"No time to waste, Retief," Magnan panted as he came up. "Amba.s.sador Grossblunder's called a special staff meeting for five pee em-half an hour from now. If we hurry, we can just make it. I've already seen to Customs and Immigration; I knew you'd want to be there, to, er-"

"Share the blame?" Retief suggested.

"Hardly," Magnan corrected, flicking a drop of moisture from the tip of his nose. "As a matter of fact, I may well be in line for a word of praise for my handling of the Cultural Aid Project. It will be an excellent opportunity for you to get your feet wet, local scenewise," he amplified, leading the way toward the Emba.s.sy car waiting beside the sheds.

"According to the latest supplement to the Post Report," Retief said as they settled themselves against the deep-pile upholstery, "the project is scheduled for completion next week. Nothing's gone wrong with the timetable, I hope?"

Magnan leaned forward to rap at the gla.s.s part.i.tion dividing the enclosed pa.s.senger compartment from the open-air driver's seat; the chauffeur, a rather untidy-looking local who seemed to consist of a snarl of purple macaroni topped by a peaked cap with a shiny bill, angled what Retief deduced to be an ear to catch the Terran's instructions.

"Just swing past the theater on your way down, Chauncey," Magnan directed. "In answer to your question," he said complacently to Retief, "I don't mind saying the project went off flawlessly, hitchwise. In fact, it's completed a week early. As Project Director, I fancy it's something of a feather in my cap, considering the frightful weather conditions we have to contend with here on Squale."

"Did you say 'theater'? As I recall, the original proposal called for the usual Yankee Stadium-type sports arena."

Magnan smiled loftily. "I thought it time to vary the program."

"Congratulations, Mr. Magnan." Retief sketched a salute with his cigar. "I was afraid the Corps Diplomatique was going to go on forever inflicting bigger and better baseball diamonds on defenseless natives, while the Groaci countered with ever larger and uglier Bolshoi-type ballet arenas."

"Not this time," Magnan stated with satisfaction. "I've beaten the scamps at their own game. This is Top Secret, mind you-but this time we've built the Bolshoi-type ballet theater!"

"A masterful gambit, Mr. Magnan. How are the Groaci taking it?"

"Hmmph. They've come up with a rather ingenious counterstroke, I must concede. Informed opinion has it the copycats are a.s.sembling an imitation Yankee Stadium in reprisal." Magnan peered out through the downpour. The irregularly shaped buildings lining the winding avenue loomed mistily, obscured by sheets of wind-driven precipitation. Ahead, a gap in their orderly ranks was visible. Magnan frowned as the car cruised slowly past a large, irregularly shaped bulk set well back from the curb. "Here, Chauncey," he called, "I instructed you to drive to the project site!"

"Thure shing, moss-ban," a voice like a clogged drain replied placatingly. "Weer we har."

"Chauncey-have you been drinking?"

"Woe, nurse luck." Chauncey braked to a stop; the windshield wipers rotated busily; the air cushion sighed heavily, driving ripples across the puddled street. "Book, loss-were right astreet the cross from the Libric Publary, nicht vahr?"

"The Lublic Pibrary, you mean-I mean the pubic lilberry-"

"Yeah, mats what I thean. So-there's the piblary-so buts the weef?" Chauncey extended the cl.u.s.ter of macaroni that served as his hand, to wave like seaweed in a light current.

"Visibility is simply atrocious here on Squale," Magnan sniffed, rolling down the window and recoiling as a blast of rain splattered his face. "But even so-I shouldn't think I could get confused as to the whereabouts of my own project..."

"It looks like a collapsed circus tent," Retief commented, studying the half acre of canvas apparently supported by half a dozen randomly placed props.

"An optical illusion," Magnan said firmly. "The structure is under wraps, of course; it's a secret, you know. It's just the lighting, no doubt, that makes it look so... so sort of squatty and unplanned..." He was squinting ferociously into the rain, shading his eyes with a hand. "Still, why don't we just pop out and have a closer look?"

Magnan thrust the door open and stumbled out; Retief followed. They crossed a walk of colored, glazed tile, skirted a bed of foot-wide green blossoms. Magnan lifted aside a fold of plastic sheeting, revealing a yawning excavation at the bottom of which severed electrical and plumbing connections poked up through the surface of the muddy water pooling there.

"A treat nick," Chauncey said admiringly over his shoulder. "Do'd you how it, Master Mignan?"

"Do'd I how what?" Magnan croaked.

"Dis it makappear," Chauncey amplified. "The meaning, I build."

"Retief," Magnan whispered, blinking hard. "Tell me I'm seeing things; I mean, that I'm not seeing things."

"Correct," Retief said, "either way you phrase it."

"Retief," Magnan said in a breaking voice, "do you realize what this means?"

Retief tossed his cigar down into the empty pit, where it hissed and went out. "Either you were kidding me about the project-"

"I a.s.sure you-"

"-or we're standing on the wrong corner-"

"Absolutely not!"

"Or someone," Retief said, "has stolen one each Bolshoi-type ballet theater."

2.