ned and stalked away.

"Ambassador-baiting is a dangerous sport, Retief," Magnan said.

Retief took a swallow of his drink. "Still," he said, "it's better than
no sport at all."

"Your time would be better spent observing the Nenni mannerisms.
Frankly, Retief, you're not fitting into the group at all well."

"I'll be candid with you, Mr. Magnan. The group gives me the willies."

"Oh, the Nenni are a trifle frivolous, I'll concede," Magnan said. "But
it's with them that we must deal. And you'd be making a contribution to
the overall mission if you merely abandoned that rather arrogant manner
of yours." Magnan looked at Retief critically. "You can't help your
height, of course. But couldn't you curve your back just a bit--and
possibly assume a more placating expression? Just act a little more...."

"Girlish?"

"Exactly." Magnan nodded, then looked sharply at Retief.

Retief drained his glass and put it on a passing tray.

"I'm better at acting girlish when I'm well juiced," he said. "But I
can't face another sorghum-and-soda. I suppose it would be un-Nenni-like
to slip the bearer a credit and ask for a Scotch and water."

"Decidedly." Magnan glanced toward a sound across the room.

"Ah, here's the Potentate now!" He hurried off.

Retief watched the bearers coming and going, bringing trays laden with
drinks, carrying off empties. There was a lull in the drinking now, as
the diplomats gathered around the periwigged Chief of State and his
courtiers. Bearers loitered near the service door, eyeing the notables.
Retief strolled over to the service door, pushed through it into a
narrow white-tiled hall filled with the odors of the kitchen. Silent
servants gaped as he passed, watching as he moved along to the kitchen
door and stepped inside.

II

A dozen or more low-caste Petreacans, gathered around a long table in
the center of the room looked up, startled. A heap of long-bladed bread
knives, French knives, carving knives and cleavers lay in the center of
the table. Other knives were thrust into belts or held in the hands of
the men. A fat man in the yellow sarong of a cook stood frozen in the
act of handing a knife to a tall one-eyed sweeper.

Retief took one glance, then let his eyes wander to a far corner of the
room. Humming a careless little tune, he sauntered across to the open
liquor shelves, selected a garish green bottle and turned unhurriedly
back toward the door. The group of servants watched