 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Larmor. The Yillian Way by Keith Lommer. The ceremonious protocol of the Yills was impressive, colorful, and in the long run deadly. Part One James Ratief, vice consul, and third secretary in the diplomatic corps, followed the senior members of the terrestrial mission across the tarmac and into the gloom of the reception building. The gray-skinned Yill guide who had met the arriving embassy at the foot of the ramp hurried away. The counselor, two first secretaries, and the senior attachés gathered around their ambassador their ornate uniforms bright in a vast, done-colored room. Ten minutes passed. Ratief strolled across to the nearest door and looked through the glass panel at the room beyond. Several dozen Yill lounged in deep couches, sipping lavender drinks from slender glass tubes. Black tunic servants moved about inconspicuously, offering trays. A party of brightly dressed Yill moved toward the entrance doors. One of the party, a tall male, made to step before another, who raised a hand languidly, fist clenched. The first Yill stepped back and placed his hands on top of his head. Both Yill were smiling and chatting as they passed through the doors. Ratief turned away to rejoin the terrestrial delegation waiting beside a mound of crates made of rough, greenish wood stacked on the bare concrete floor. As Ratief came up, Ambassador Spradley glanced at his finger-watch and spoke to the man beside him. Ben, are you quite certain our arrival time was made clear? Second Secretary Magnan nodded emphatically. I stressed the point, Mr. Ambassador. I communicated with Mr. Takakai just before a lighter broke orbit. I specifically— I hope you didn't appear truculent, Mr. Magnan, the ambassador said sharply. No, indeed, Mr. Ambassador. I'm merely— You're sure there's no VIP room here? The ambassador glanced around the cavernous room. Curious, not even chairs had been provided. If you'd cared to sit on one of these crates— Certainly not. The ambassador looked at his watch again and cleared his throat. I may as well make use of these few moments to outline our approach to the more junior members of the staff. It's vital that the entire mission work in harmony and the presentation of the image. We terrestrials are a kindly, peace-loving race. The ambassador smiled in a kindly, peace-loving way. We seek only a reasonable division of spheres of the influence with the yield. He spread his hands, looking reasonable. We are a people of high culture, ethical, sincere. The smile was replaced abruptly by pursed lips. We'll start by asking for the entire Cyrenian system and settle for half. We'll establish a foothold on all the choice or worlds and with shrewd handling, in a century we'll be in a position to assert a wider claim. The ambassador glanced around. If there are no questions. Retief stepped forward. It's my understanding, Mr. Ambassador, that we hold the prior claim to the Cyrenian system. Did I understand your excellency to say that we are ready to concede half of it to the yield without a struggle? Ambassador Spradley looked up at Retief, blinking. The younger man loomed over him. Beside him, Magnum cleared his throat in the silence. Last Council Retief merely means— I can interpret Mr. Retief's remark, the ambassador snapped. He assumed a fatherly expression. Young man, you're noodle of service. You haven't yet learned the team play, the give and take of diplomacy. I shall expect you to observe closely the work of the experienced negotiators of the mission. You must learn the importance of subtlety. Mr. Ambassador, Magnum said, I think the reception committee is arriving. He pointed. Half a dozen tall, short-necked yield were entering through a side door. The leading yield hesitated as another stepped in his path. He raised a fist, and the other moved aside, touching the top of his head perfunctorily with both hands. The group started across the room toward the terrestrials. Retief watched as a slender alien came forward and spoke passable Tyren in a reedy voice. I am petoy, come this way. He turned, and the group moved toward the door, the ambassador leading. As he reached for the door, the interpreter darted ahead and shouldered him aside. The other yield stopped, waiting. The ambassador almost glared, and then remembered the image. He smiled and beckoned the yield ahead. They milled, uncertainly, muttering in the native tongue, then passed through the door. The Tyren party followed. Give a great deal to know what they're saying, Retief overheard as he came up. Our interpreter has forged to the van, the ambassador said. I can only assume he'll appear when needed. A pity we have to rely on a native interpreter, someone said. Had I known we'd meet this rather uncouth reception, the ambassador said stiffly. I would have audited the language personally, of course, during the voyage out. Oh, no criticism intended, of course, Mr. Ambassador. Heaven's magnan put in. Who would have thought? Retief moved up behind the ambassador. Mr. Ambassador, he said. I, later, young man, the ambassador snapped. He'd beckoned to the first councillor, and the two moved off, heads together. Outside, a bluish sun gleamed in a dark sky. Retief watched his breath form a frosty cloud in the chill air. A broad, doughnut-wield vehicle was drawn up to the platform. The yield gestured the Terran party to the gaping door at the rear, then stood back, waiting. Retief looked curiously at the grey-painted van. The legend written on its side in alien symbols seemed to read, Eggnog. The ambassador entered the vehicle, the other terrestrials following. It was as bare of seats as the terminal building. What appeared to be a defunct, electronic chassis lay in the centre of the floor. Retief glanced back. The yield were talking excitedly. None of them entered the car. The door was closed, and the Terrans braced themselves under the low roof as the engine started up with a whine of worn turbos. The van moved off. It was an uncomfortable ride. Retief put out an arm as the vehicle rounded a corner, just catching the ambassador as he staggered, off balance. The ambassador glared at him, settled his heavy, tricorner hat, and stood stiffly until the car lurched again. Retief stooped, attempting to see out through the single, dusty window. They seemed to be in a wide street, lined with low buildings. They passed through a massive gate, up a ramp, and stopped. The door opened. Retief looked out at a blank, grey facade, broken by tiny windows at irregular intervals. A scarlet vehicle was drawn up ahead, the yield reception committee emerging from it. Through its wide windows, Retief saw a rich upholstery and caught a glimpse of glasses clamped to a tiny bar. Petoy, the yield interpreter, came forward, gestured to a small door. Magnan opened it, waiting for the ambassador. As he stepped to it, a yield thrust himself ahead, and hesitated. Ambassador Bradley drew himself up, glaring. Then he twisted his mouth into a frozen smile and stepped aside. The yield looked at each other, then filed through the door. Retief was the last to enter. As he stepped inside, a black-clad servant slipped past him, pulled the lid from a large box by the door, and dropped in a paper tray, heaped with refuse. There were alien symbols in flaking paint on the box. They seemed, Retief noticed, to spell, egg-nog. Part 2 The shrill pipes and whining reeds had been warming up for an hour when Retief emerged from his cubicle and descended the stairs into the banquet hall. Standing by the open doors, he lit a slender cigar and watched through narrowed eyes as obsequious servants in black flitted along the low, wide corridor, carrying laden trays into the broad room, arranging settings on a great four-sided table, forming a hollow square that almost filled the room. Rich brocades were spread across the center of the side nearest the door, flanked by heavily decorated white cloths. Beyond, plain white extended to the far side, where metal dishes were arranged on the bare tabletop. A richly dressed yule approached, stepped aside to allow a servant to pass, and entered the room. Retief turned at the sound of Tarran voices behind him. The ambassador came up, trailed by two diplomats. He glanced at Retief, adjusted his rough, and looked into the banquet hall. Apparently were to be kept waiting again, he muttered. After having been informed at the outset that the yule have no intention of yielding an inch, one almost wonders. Mr. Ambassador, Retief said, Have you noticed, however, Ambassador Bradley said, eyeing Retief, a seasoned diplomatist must take these little snubs in stride. In the end, ah, there, magnan, he turned away, talking. Somewhere a gong clanged. In a moment the corridor was filled with chattering yule who moved past the group of terrestrials into the banquet hall. Petoy, the yule interpreter, came up and raised a hand. Meet here. More yule filed into the dining room to take their places. A pair of helmeted guards approached, waving the terrestrials back. An immense gray jowl to yule waddled to the doors and passed through, followed by more guards. The chief of state, Retief heard magnan say, the admiral for cow, cow, cow. I have yet to present my credentials, Ambassador Bradley said. One expects some latitude in the observance's protocol, but I confess he wagged his head. The yule interpreter spoke up. You now will hide on your intestines intestines and creep to festive board there. He pointed across the room. Intestines! Ambassador Bradley looked about wildly. Mr. Petoy means our stomachs, I wouldn't wonder. Magnan said. He just wants us to lie down and crawl to our seats, Mr. Ambassador. What the devil are you grinning at, you idiot? the ambassador snapped. Magnan's face fell. Spreadly glanced down at the metals across his punch. This is—I've never— homage to gods, the interpreter said. Oh, oh, religion, someone said. Well, if it's a matter of religious beliefs, the ambassador looked dubiously around. Golly, it's only a couple of hundred feet, Magnan offered. Retief stepped up to Petoy. His Excellency the terrestrial ambassador will not crawl, he said clearly. Here, young man, I said nothing. Not to crawl, the interpreter wore an unreadable yule expression. It is against our religion, Retief said. Against— We are votaries of the snake goddess, Retief said. It is a sacrilege to crawl. He brushed past the interpreter and marched toward the distant table. The others followed. Puffing, the ambassador came to Retief's side as they approached the dozen empty stools on the far side of the square opposite the brocaded position of the admirable Fakao Kau Kau. Mr. Retief kindly see me after this affair, he hissed. In the meantime, I hope you will restrain any further rash impulses. Let me remind you I am the chief of mission here. Magnan came up from behind. Let me have my congratulations, Retief, he said. That was fast-thinking. Are you out of your mind, Magnan? The ambassador barked. I am extremely displeased. Why, Magnan stuttered. I was speaking sarcastically, of course, Mr. Ambassador. Didn't you notice the kind of shocked little gasp I gave when he did it? The terrestrials took their places, Retief at the end. The table before them was of bare green wood with an array of shallow pewter dishes. Some of the yule at the table were in plain grey, others in black. All eyed them silently. There was a constant stir among them as one or another rose and disappeared and others sat down. The pipes and reeds were shrilling furiously and the cesseration of yule in conversation from the other tables rose ever higher in competition. A tall yule in black was at the ambassador's side now. The nearby yule fell silent as he began lading a whitish soup into the largest of the bowls before the terrestrial envoy. The interpreter hovered, watching. That's quite enough, Ambassador Bradley said as the bowl overflowed. The yule-servant rolled his eyes, dribbled more of the soup into the bowl. Kindly serve the other members of my staff, the ambassador said. The interpreter said something in a low voice. The servant moved hesitantly to the next stool and ladled more soup. Retief watched, listening to the whispers around him. The yule at the table were craning now to watch. The soup ladler was ladling rapidly, rolling his eyes sideways. He came to Retief, reached out with the full ladle for the bowl. No, Retief said. The ladler hesitated. None for me, Retief said. The interpreter came up in motion to the servant who reached again ladle brimming. I don't like it, Retief said, his voice distinct in the sudden hush. He stared at the interpreter, who stared back, then waved the servant away. Mr. Retief! A voice hissed. Retief looked down the table. The ambassador was leaning forward, glaring at him, his face a mottled crimson. I'm warning you, Mr. Retief! He said hoarsely. I've eaten sheep's eyes in sedan, castaway in Burma, hundred-year cougar on Mars, and every name else that have been placed before me in the course of my diplomatic career. And by the holy relics of St. Ignats, you'll do the same. He snatched up a spoon like utensil and dipped it into his bowl. Don't eat that, Mr. Ambassador, Retief said. The ambassador stared, eyes wide. He opened his mouth, guided the spoon toward it. Retief stood, gripped the table under its edge, and heaved. The immense wooden slab rose and tilted, dishes sliding. It crashed to the floor with a ponderous slam. White-ish soup splattered across the terrazzo. A couple of odd bowls rolled across the room. Cries rang out from the yield, mingling with a strangled yield from Ambassador Spradley. Retief walked past the wild-eyed members of the mission to the sputtering chief. Mr. Ambassador, he said. I'd like— You'd like! I'll break you, you young hoodlum. Do you realize? Please! The interpreter stood at Retief's side. My apologies! Ambassador Spradley said, mopping his forehead. My profound apologies! Be quiet, Retief said. Wh—what? Don't apologize, Retief said. Petoy was beckoning. Please! I'll come. Retief turned and followed him. The portion of the table they were ushered to was covered with an embroidered white cloth, set with thin porcelain dishes. The yield already seated there rose, amid babbling, and moved down the table. The black-clad yield at the end of the table closed ranks to fill the vacant seats. Retief sat down and found Magnan at his side. What's going on here, the Secretary? They were giving us dog-food, Retief said. I overheard a yield, and they seated us at the bottom of the servants' table. You mean you know their language? I learned it on the way out. Enough, at least. The music burst out with a clangorous fanfare, and a throng of jugglers, dancers, and acrobats poured into the center of the hollow square, frantically juggling, dancing, and backflipping. Black-clad servants swarmed suddenly, heaping mounds of fragrant food on the plates of yield and terrestrials alike, pouring a pale purple liquor into slender glasses. Retief sampled the yield-food. It was delicious. Conversation was impossible in the din. He watched the gaudy display, and ate heartily. Part Three Retief leaned back, grateful for the lull in the music. The last of the dishes were whisked away, and more glasses filled. The exhausted entertainers stopped to pick up the thick square coins the diners threw. Retief sighed. It had been a rare feast. Retief, Magan said, in the comparative quiet, what were you saying about dog-food as the music? Retief said, he thought it was a good idea. Retief, Magan said, in the comparative quiet, what were you saying about dog-food as the music came up? Retief looked at him. Haven't you noticed the pattern, Mr. Magan? The series of deliberate affronts? Deliberate affronts? Just a minute, Retief. They're uncouth, yes. Crowding into doorways, and that sort of thing. He looked at Retief uncertainly. They herded us into a baggage warehouse at the terminal. They holed us here in a garbage truck. Only symbolic, of course. They ushered us in the tradesman's entrance, and assigned us cubicles in the servants' wing. Then we were seated with the Cooley-class sweepers at the bottom of the table. You must be—I mean, we're the terrestrial delegation. Surely these yul must realize our power. Precisely, Mr. Magan. But with a clang of cymbals the musicians launched a renewed assault. Six tall, helmeted yul spraying into the center of the floor and paired off in a wild performance half dance, half combat. Magan pulled at Retief's arm, his mouth moving. Retief shook his head. No one could talk against a yul orchestra in full cry. He sampled a bright red wine and watched the show. There was a flurry of action, and two of the dancers stumbled and collapsed. Their partner opponents whirling away off to pair off again, described the elaborate pre-combat ritual and abruptly set to dull sabers' clashing. And two more yul were down, stunned. It was a violent dance. Retief watched, the drink forgotten. The last two yul approached, and retreated. World bobbed and spun, fainted and postured, and on the instant clashed, straining chest to chest. Then broke apart, heavy weapons chopping, parrying, as the music mounted to a frenzy. Evenly matched, the two hacked, thrust, blow-for-blow across the floor, then back, defense forgotten, slugging it out. And then one was slipping, going down, helmet awry. The other, a giant muscular yul, spun away, whirled in a mad scurril of pipes as coins showered, and then froze before a gaudy table, raised the sabre, and slammed it down in a resounding blow across the gay cloth before a lace of bow-bedect yul in the same instant that the music stopped. In utter silence, the dancer-fighter stared across the table at the seated yul. With a shout, the yul leaped up, raised a clench-fist. The dancer bowed his head, spread his hands on his helmet. Retief took a deep gulp of pale yellow liqueur and leaned forward to watch. The berebred yul waved a hand negligently, spilled a handful of coins across the table, and sat down. The challenger spun away in a screeching shrill of music. Retief caught his eye for an instant as he passed. And then the dancer stood rigid before the brocaded table, and the music stopped off short as the sabre slammed down before a heavy yul in ornate metallic coils. The challenged yul rose and raised a fist. The other ducked his head, put his hands on his helmet. Coins rolled, and the dancer moved on. Twice more, the dancer struck the table in a ritualistic challenge, exchanged gestures, bent his neck, and passed on. He circled the broad floor, sabre twirling, arms darting in an intricate symbolism. The orchestra blared shrilly, unmuffled now by the surf roar of conversation. The yul, Retief noticed suddenly, were sitting silent, watching. The dancer was closer now, and then he was before Retief, poised, towering, sabre above his head. The music cut, and in the startling, instantaneous silence, the heavy sabre whipped over and down with an explosive concussion that set dishes dancing on the tabletop. The yul's eyes held on Retief's. In the silence, Magnan tittered drunkenly. Retief pushed back his stool. Steady, my boy, Ambassador Spradley called. Retief stood, the yul topping his six-foot-three by an inch. In a motion almost too quick to follow, Retief reached for the sabre, twitched it from the yul's grip, swung it in a whistling cut. The yul ducked, spraying back, snatched up a sabre dropped by another dancer. Someone stopped a madman, Spradley howled. Retief leaped across the table, sending fragile dishes spinning. The other danced back, and only then did the orchestra spring to life with a screech and a mad tattoo of high-pitched drums. Making no attempt to follow the weaving pattern of the yul bolero, Retief pressed the other, fending off vicious cuts with the blunt weapon, chopping back relentlessly. Left hand on hip, Retief matched blow for blow, driving the other back. Abruptly, the yul abandoned the double roll. Dancing forgotten, he settled down in earnest, cutting, thrusting, parrying, and now the two stood toe to toe, sabres clashing in a lightning exchange. The yul gave a step, two, then rallied, drove Retief back, back, and the yul stumbled. His sabre clattered, and Retief dropped his point as the other wavered past him and crashed to the floor. The orchestra fell silent in a descending wail of reeds. Retief drew a deep breath and wiped his forehead. Come back here, you young fool, Spradley called hoarsely. Retief hefted the sabre, turned, eyed, brocade, draped table. He started across the floor. The yul sat as if paralyzed. Retief! No! Spradley yelped. Retief walked directly to the admirable foe-cow-cow-cow. Stopped, raised the sabre. Not the chief of state, someone in the terrestrial mission groaned. Retief whipped the sabre down. The dull blades split the cloth and clove the hardwood table. There was utter silence. The admirable foe-cow-cow-cow rose. Seven feet of obese gray yul. Broadface expressionless to any Terran eyes, he raised a fist like a jewel-studded ham. Retief stood bridged for a long moment. Then, gracefully, he inclined his head, placed his fingertips on his temples. Behind him there was a clatter as Ambassador Spradley collapsed. Then the admirable foe-cow-cow-cow cried out and reached across the table to embrace the terrestrial, and the orchestra went mad. Gray hands helped Retief across the table. Stools were pushed aside to make room at foe-cow-cow-cow's side. Retief sat, took a tall flag in of coal-black brandy pressed on him by his neighbor, clashed glasses with the admirable and drank. Part 4 Retief turned at the touch on his shoulder. The Ambassador wants to speak to you, Retief, Magnan said. Retief looked across to where Ambassador Spradley sat, glowering behind the plain table-cloth. Under the circumstances, Retief said, you'd better ask him to come over here. Ambassador? Magnan's voice cracked. Never mind the protocol, Retief said. The situation is still delicate. Magnan went away. The feast ends, foe-cow-cow-cow said. Now you and I, Retief, must straddle the council's stool. I'll be honored, admirable, Retief said. I must inform my colleagues. Colleagues, foe-cow-cow-cow said. It is for chiefs to parley. Who shall speak for a king while he yet has tongue for talk? The yield way is wise, Retief said. Foe-cow-cow-cow emptied a squat tumbler of pink beer. I will treat with you, Retief, as viceroy, since, as you say, your king is old and the space between worlds is far. But there shall be no scheming underlings privy to our dealings. He grinned a yield grin. Afterwards we shall carouse, Retief. The council's stool is hard and awaiting handmaidens delectable. This makes for quick agreement. Retief smiled. The king is wise. Of course. A being prefers wenches of his own kind, foe-cow-cow-cow said. He belched. The Ministry of Culture has imported several Terry—excuse me, Retief—terrestrial joy girls, said to be top-notch specimens. At least they have very fat wetchermere collets. The king is most considerate, Retief said. Retief said. Let us do it, then, Retief. I may hazard a fling with one of your Terry's myself. I fancy an occasional perversion. Foe-cow-cow-cow dug an elbow into Retief's side and bellowed with laughter. Ambassador Spradley hurried to intercept Retief as he crossed to the door at Foe-cow-cow's side. Retief kindly excuse yourself. I wish a word with you. His voice was icy. Magnan stood behind him, goggling. Mr. Ambassador, forgive my apparent rudeness, Retief said. I don't have time to explain now. RUDENESS! Spradley barked. Don't have time, eh? Let me tell you. Lower your voice, Mr. Ambassador, Retief said. Spradley quivered, mouth open, speechless. If you sit down and wait quietly, Retief said, I think— YOU THINK! Spradley spluttered. SILENCE! Retief said. Spradley looked up at Retief's face. He stared for a moment into Retief's grey eyes, closed his mouth, and swallowed. The yield seemed to have gotten the impression I'm in charge, Retief said. We'll have to keep it up. BUT! BUT! Spradley stuttered. Then he straightened. That is the last straw, he whispered hoarsely. I am the Terrestrial Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary. Magnan has told me that we've been studiedly insulted, repeatedly, since the moment of our arrival. Kept waiting in baggage rooms, transported in refuse lorries, heard about with servants, offered swill at the table. Now I am my senior staff are left cool in our heels without so much as an audience, while this—this multiple cow person hobnob's with—with— Spradley's voice broke. I may have been a trifle hasty, Retief, in attempting to restrain you. Blaspheming the native gods and dumping the banquet table are rather extreme measures, but your resentment was perhaps partially justified. I am prepared to be lenient with you. He fixed a choleric eye on Retief. I am walking out of this meeting, Mr. Retief. I'll take no more of these deliberate, personal— That's enough! Retief snapped. You're keeping the king waiting. Get back to your chair and sit there until I come back. Magnan found his voice. What are you going to do, Retief? I'm going to handle the negotiations. Retief said. He handed Magnan his empty glass. Go sit down and work on the image. At his desk in the VIP suite aboard the orbiting core vessel, Ambassador Spradley pursed his lips and looked severely at Vice-Consul Retief. Further, he said, you have displayed a complete lack of understanding of core discipline, the respect due a senior agent, and even the basic courtesies. Your aggravated displays of temper, ill-timed outbursts of violence, and almost incredible arrogance in the assumption of authority make your further retention as an officer agent of the diplomatic core impossible. It will therefore be my unhappy duty to recommend your immediate— There was a muted buzz from the communicator. The Ambassador cleared his throat. Well? A signal from Sector HQ, Mr. Ambassador, a voice said. Well, read it, Spradley snapped. Skip the preliminaries. Congratulations on the unprecedented success of your mission. The articles of agreement transmitted by you embody a most favorable resolution of the difficult Serenian situation, and you will form the basis of continued amicable relations between the terrestrial states and the Yale Empire. To you and your staff, full credit is due for a job well done. Signed Deputy Assistant Secretary Spradley cut off the voice impatiently. He shuffled papers, eyed Ratif sharply. Superficially, of course, an uninitiated observer might leap to the conclusion that the results that were produced in spite of these irregularities justify the latter. The Ambassador smiled a sad, wise smile. This is far from the case, he said. The communicator burped softly. Confound it, Spradley muttered. Yes. Mr. Takai-Kai has arrived, the voice said. Shall I send him in at once? Spradley glanced at Ratif. Only a two-syllable man, but I shall attempt to correct these false impressions and make some amends. The two terrestrials waited silently until the Yale Protocol Chief tapped at the door. I hope, the Ambassador said, that you will resist the impulse to take advantage of your unusual position. He looked at the door. Come in. Takai-Kai stepped into the room, glanced at Spradley, turned to greet Ratif in voluble Yale. He rounded the desk to the Ambassador's chair, motioned him from it, and sat down. I have a surprise for you, Ratif, he said in turn. I myself have made use of the teaching machine you so kindly lent us. That's fine, Takai-Kai, Ratif said. I'm sure Mr. Spradley will be interested in hearing what we have to say. Never mind, the Yale said. I am here only socially. He looked around the room. So plainly you decorate your chamber. But it has a certain austere charm. He laughed, a Yale laugh. Oh, you are a strange breed, you terrestrials. You surprised us all. You know, one hears such outlandish stories. I tell you in confidence, we had a surprise. You hear such outlandish stories. I tell you in confidence, we had expected you to be over pushes. Push-overs, Spradley said tonelessly. Such restraint. What pleasure you gave to those of us, like myself, of course, who appreciated your grasp of protocol. Such finesse. How subtly you appeared to ignore each overture, while neatly avoiding actual contamination. I can tell you, there were those who thought, poor fools, that you had no grasp of etiquette. How gratified we were, we professionals, who could appreciate your virtuosity when you placed matters on a comfortable basis by spurning the cat's meat. It was sheer pleasure, then, waiting to see what form your compliment would take. The yule offered orange cigars and stuffed one in his nostril. I confess, even I had not hoped that you would honour our admirable so signally. Oh, it is a pleasure to deal with fellow professionals who understand the meaning of protocol. Ambassador Spradley made a choking sound. This fellow has caught a chill, to Kaikai said. He eyed Spradley dubiously. Step back, my man, I am highly susceptible. There is one bit of business I shall take pleasure in attending to, my dear Retief, to Kaikai went on. He drew a large paper from his reticule. The admirable is determined that none other than yourself shall be accredited here. I have here my government's executor confirming you as Terrestrial Consul-General to yule. We shall look forward to your prompt return. Retief looked at Spradley. I am sure the coa will agree, he said. Then I shall be going, to Kaikai said. He stood up. Hurry back to us, Retief. There is much that I would show you of yule. I'll hurry. Retief said. And, with a yule wink, together we shall see many high and splendid things. End of The Yilean Way by Keith Lommer. Recording by John Lommer.