Dissolute Diplomat
by Bob Shaw
Gringledoonk lay in a comfortable floor dish, experimenting with himself out of sheer boredom. From three points along his perimeter he projected slim pseudopods, intertwined them for a short distance in the centre, then split the end of each in two and looped them out to form six little hooks.
Listlessly he solidified the edifice and extruded an eye to examine it. It did not look like much.
There were several races in the Federation who covered their bodies with fabrics, and this thing he had made might have been useful to one of them, but not to anybody civilised. More bored than ever, he commenced the slow process of dissolving the hardened pseudopods.
A low whistle came from the entrance of the tubeway in the palace wall. The little circular door opened and Mugg, his Minister of Home Affairs, shot out on to the floor. He lay for a moment in the bullet shape that Gyoinks used for travelling the tubeway; then he reformed and flowed into the floor dish beside Gringledoonk.
When he had stopped rippling, Mugg extruded an eye and, on seeing the peculiar shape his ruler had assumed, kept popping out more and bigger eyes to get a better view. Gringledoonk watched the process with disgust. No matter how often he was told about it, Mugg never seemed to realise how ill-mannered such displays of curiosity were.
“What,” Mugg finally enquired, “have you done to yourself, Your Softness?”
“Never mind that,” Gringledoonk said irritably. “Why did you come here? You know this is my rest period.”
“It’s important,” Mugg replied. “A spaceship on normal drive has entered the system and is heading for this planet.”
For an instant Gringledoonk lost the cool green colouring that befitted his position and allowed his natural mottled orange to show through. “What? What sort of a spaceship?”
“It appears to be a Terran ship, Your Fluidity.”
“The Treaty does not allow Terran ships to land here,” Gringledoonk said. “This is most unexpected. We’ll have to check the libraries on how to receive the officers of a Terran ship.”
He moved out of his dish, balancing the still rigid tripod with difficulty, and into the entrance port of the tubeway. The soft, warm radiance there helped him dissolve and reabsorb the cumbersome extension, and he vanished into the narrow aperture of the tubeway.
After years of inactivity, Gringledoonk, Lord and Representative of the Gyoinks, was back in business.
Hal Portman was holding a moderate 800C when his warp-drive generators gave a low sigh and vanished into some unknown dimension. The ancient Morris Starcruiser emerged into normal space with a sickening jiggle.
On checking his position, Portman found that there was a planet called Yoink so close, astronomically speaking, that he could have spat on it. He tapped out Yoink’s coordinates on his destination selector and began drinking beer in preparation.
Two days and thirty-two cans of beer later, the Starcruiser bulleted down for a landing.
Wiping white froth from his bristly upper lip, Portman opened the lock and went down on to springy yellow turf. He found himself surrounded by a varicoloured crowd of beings of indeterminate shape who chittered at him excitedly. He could not decide whether their agitation was due to the sudden appearance of his ship or the fact that it seemed to have crushed a number of their plastic buildings on arrival.
He drew his sidearm and shouted, “Silence, friends. I am a citizen of—uh—Imperial Earth and I command your obedience. I want—”
One of the waist-high cones of jelly interrupted him by sprouting an enormous mouth and bellowing something about violations of the Treaty. Portman gave the little alien a short burst from his Colt .45 which reduced it to a pile of crackling cinders.
“You’re only saying that because you’re jellos,” he joked hastily, feeling that it might be better to pass the incident off. The directory had stated that the Gyoinks were non-aggressive, but there was no point in not acting in a friendly manner. He knew about the Treaty, but the cargo of contraband luminous furs that he had tucked away would have caused unwelcome comment if he had waited for an A A repair ship.
“Now listen, friends,” he repeated, brandishing the weapon. “We’ll get along as long as nobody argues or tries to get funny. My ship has broken down. Replace the warp generators and I’ll be on my way.”
“Imperial Earth will be grateful,” he added as an afterthought. This diplomacy stuff was a cinch for a guy who knew how to handle people and things.
Several of the Gyoinks immediately extruded stumpy legs and waddled up the ramp into the ship. Others went off toward a larger domeshaped building, muttering something about going for tools.
Portman went into the ship and obtained a further supply of beer, booting aside any of the Gyoinks who got in his way, then lay down on the bright turf and contentedly watched the work progress. In spite of the fact that the Gyoinks were just animated trifles, he had to admit that they were pretty good space-drive mechanics.
Later in the afternoon as Portman sat on the ramp, smoking under the brilliantly pink sky, a Gyoink approached from the direction of the town on the horizon. This was a large, pale green Gyoink who looked unfamiliar to Portman.
“What do you want? You’re disturbing a representative of Imperial Earth.”
“I know, I know,” the Gyoink replied humbly. “My name is Gringledoonk.”
“Anything to the Boston Gringledoonks?” Portman queried genially.
“No,” Gringledoonk said, wincing slightly. “I come to apologise for the conduct of my people earlier. When I heard that you were here, I came from the Capital to make sure you would receive the proper attention due to a representative of—”
“Yeah, yeah, I should think so,” Portman cut in. “One of those jellos argued with me today. Argued! How do you like that?” He took the cigar from between his thick lips and pursed them in disapproval.
“Most regrettable,” the Gyoink agreed. “I can assure you there will be no more such incidents. My people are ignorant of the formalities involved in the reception of the captain of a Terran ship. Fortunately, our libraries contain something about the traditions of the great Earth space fleets and, from now on, we will observe those traditions to the best of our limited ability.”
“That’s more like it,” Portman said.
It had been necessary to dismantle the ship’s power plant and, as the Yoink nights were chilly and the installation of the new generators would not be completed until the morning, Portman was moved into one of the little plastic huts about a mile from the ship. He found that the Gyoinks had rigged up a hammock, of all things, but it took him only a short while to find the knack of sleeping in it.
In the morning he was wakened by the sound of bells and the insistent prodding of a Gyoink who was proffering a glass of brown liquid on a small tray. The Gyoink’s shiny surface had become bright blue. Portman demanded to know what was going on.
“Eight bells, sir,” the Gyoink replied. “Your breakfast is ready.” There was a note of eager sincerity in the Gyoink’s voice.
Portman stretched luxuriously in the hammock, took the glass and found that the Gyoinks had contrived to produce a pretty fair rum. Grinning with satisfaction, he got up and lumbered out of the hut, stooping to get through the low door.
Outside, a fiat open conveyance on four wheels, manned by two more blue Gyoinks, was waiting. It looked brand new and had lifebelts slung along the sides.
“The Chief Engineer reports that your ship is ready, sir,” one of the Gyoinks said. “Step aboard and we will take you to it, sir. Aye, aye, sir.”
Portman got into the car and sat down. As he was being driven the short distance to his ship, he found himself almost wishing that he was not leaving so soon. Once the jellos had come to understand that he was the boss, they had been all right, in spite of being such ugly brutes.