The Coordinator, a black-bearded Scot, took a deep breath. “You're maybe not going to like this, MacTyler, but you have gotten yourself a diplomatic manager. I know these Chinese, and when they get their minds set on something, they're worse than my old woman!”
Jonnie had lain back. He addressed the ceiling. “And what is wrong with my simply asking for my best buckskin suit to be laid out?”
“Everything,” said the Coordinator. “Just everything.” He sighed and began to explain: “Mr. Tsung is a descendant of a family that served as chamberlains to the Ch'ing Dynasty-those who ruled China from the mandate 1644 A.D. to about 1911. Maybe eleven hundred years ago. That was the last dynasty before China became a People's Republic. The court and emperors were not Chinese; they were a race called 'Manchus.' And they needed a lot of advice. Tsung says his family served them well but times changed and because they had served the Manchus his ancestors were exiled to Tibet. It was the western powers that overthrew the Manchus, Tsung says, not his family's advice. So Mr. Tsung here is really a 'Mandarin of the blue button' according to ancestry, a lord of the court.
“He says all the family records and scrolls are with the Chinese university library you put in a vault someplace.”
“Russia,” said Jonnie. “They're in the Russian base, though lord knows how it's holding out right now!”
“Well, good,” said the Scot. “He says he could read you some of it but he doesn't have it here. But his family always kept up on its background, expecting someday a dynasty they could serve would come back into power. They have long memories, these Chinese– imagine waiting eleven hundred years to get back a job!”
Mr. Tsung detected this was wandering off track and he nudged the Coordinator's arm and made gestures that clearly said, tell him, tell him!
The Coordinator sighed. He was not sure how Jonnie would take this. “He says you are 'Lord Jonnie' and”– he got it all out in a rush-'you can't go around looking like a barbarian!”
If Jonnie had not been so worried about other things he would have laughed.
The Coordinator was relieved that this had not been received as criticism. He continued. “He says he knew there would be a diplomatic conference and that a lot of lords would be arriving and that they would be very uppish and snobbish and fancy. And it's true enough. I’ve seen them coming in on the platform. Jeweled breathe-masks, glittering cloth, ornaments-one even had a jeweled monocle. Pretty fancy dudes!”
He then swallowed and said the rest in a rush, “And if you go out there and talk to them in hines, they'll think you're just a barbarian and won't listen to you. He says if you look and act,” he swallowed again, “like an uncouth savage, they'll hold you in contempt.” He stopped, relieved to have gotten through it. “And that's what he was trying to tell you. Don't be upset with him. I could add that quite in addition to a genuine affection for you, about thirty-five thousand lives– no, less than that now, but a lot– depend on this conference. Otherwise I wouldn't have translated it for him because to me, MacTyler, ye're no barbarian!”
Jonnie thought all he would have to do was reassure Mr. Tsung he would be polite and not slap anybody and that would be that. But not so!
Mr. Tsung made the Coordinator stand right there and translate everything he said exactly with no changes. Mr. Tsung hunkered down close to the side of the bed and started talking. The Coordinator translated at each pause.
It is one thing, translated the Scot, " 'to be a mighty warrior...but although you have won every battle...and driven the enemy to rout...from a field of slaughter...the entire war...can be lost...at the conference table!' "
Jonnie digested that. They actually hadn't won the war yet by a long ways, but even if they did, they could lose the whole thing in that conference room. He had known that, but he was impressed. Mr. Tsung had obviously sought this job, not as somebody who cleaned up a room, but as an advisor. Well, heavens knew he needed advice. He had come up with no ideas.
“Your attitude, the Coordinator continued to translate as the little Mr. Tsung spoke on, " '...must be calculated to impress.... A lord is used to handling inferiors.... He is impressed by being handled as an inferior.... Be
haughty.... Do not be polite.... Be cold and disdainful.... Be distant and aloof.'
“Say, this old man is really wringing out my Mandarin. That's real court Chinese he's talking!”
Mr. Tsung motioned him not to add his own comments.
Do not, the Scot obediently translated, " 'agree or seem to agree to anything.... Your words can be tricked into seeming to agree...so avoid the word: yes.... They will make preposterous demands they know they cannot attain...just to gain bargaining points...so you in return should advance to them...impossible demands even if you feel they won't agree, and who knows, you might win them...! All diplomacy is a matter of compromise.... There is a middle ground between the two opposite poles of impossible demands...which will become the eventual treaty or agreement.... Always work for the most advantageous position you can get.'
The Scot paused. “He wants to know if you've got all that.”
“Yes, sir!” said Jonnie. “And welcome.”
He was feeling this was useful even though it didn't give him the idea he needed.
“And now,” said the Coordinator, “he wants to give you lessons in deportment. Watch him.”
Well, they were dealing with creatures from many another race, and their ideas of deportment and those from ancient imperial China might not agree at all. So Jonnie felt a bit tolerant as he watched the Chinese. But almost immediately he felt he was wrong. These manners fitted any race!
How to stand. Feet apart, tall, leaning slightly back. Firmly fixed to the earth. Position eminent. Got that?
Then do it!
How to hold a scepter or wand. One hand on grip end, other end laid in the other palm. Grip both ends to show control. Tap one end into palm to hint the small possibility of punishment when one might wish to seem a bit offended. Wave idly in air to show that the other's argument was of no consequence and was like the wind. Got that? Here is a wand. Do it! Not quite right. Be easy, lordly. Now do them all again.
Walk as though not caring what lies before you. Suggest power. Steady, unstoppable. Like this. Got it? Do it!
For half an hour Mr. Tsung worked on Jonnie. And Jonnie realized that his own walk was like that of a panther whereas for this conference it must be stately.
Mr. Tsung made him go through the whole lesson and then the postures and walks again before he was satisfied. Jonnie, who had always had a sinking feeling about being a diplomat, began to feel a bit more confident. There was an art to this thing. It was like hunting game but a different kind of game. It was like a battle but a different kind of battle.
He thought he was all through. He could see on the screen that more and more emissaries were arriving. But Mr. Tsung said they would all have to present their credentials at the first meeting in the conference room and that there was lots and lots of time. Had Jonnie thought of a strategy? A strategy was very necessary. How to approach the diplomatic battle, what one intended to use to maneuver. Well, Jonnie could think about it. It was like a battle but your infantry and cavalry were ideas and words. Maneuvered wrongly, it meant defeat!