“Hey, you been holdin’ out on me!” Hoddy accused. “I never knew you was that kinda gunfighter!”
“There’s a new wrinkle,” the man with the white goatee said. “We’ll have to screen the help at these affairs a little more closely.” He turned to me. “Mr. Ambassador, New Texas owes you a great deal for saving the President’s life. If you’ll get that pistol out of your hand, I’d be proud to shake it, sir.”
I holstered my automatic, and took his hand. Gail was saying, “Stephen, this is my father,” and at the same time, Palme, the Secretary of State, was doing it more formally:
“Ambassador Silk, may I present one of our leading citizens and large ranchers, Colonel Andrew Jackson Hickock.”
Dumbarton Oaks had taught me how to maintain the proper diplomat’s unchanging expression; drinking superbourbon had been a postgraduate course. I needed that training as I finally learned Gail’s last name.
VI
It was early evening before we finally managed to get away from the barbecue. Thrombley had called the Embassy and told them not to wait dinner for us, so the staff had finished eating and were relaxing in the patio when our car came in through the street gate. Stonehenge and another man came over to meet us as we got out—a man I hadn’t met before.
He was a little fellow, half-Latin, half-Oriental; in New Texas costume and wearing a pair of pistols like mine, in State Department Special Services holsters. He didn’t look like a Dumbarton Oaks product: I thought he was more likely an alumnus of some private detective agency.
“Mr. Francisco Parros, our Intelligence man,” Stonehenge introduced him.
“Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived, Mr. Silk,” Parros said. “Out checking on some things. But I saw that bit of shooting, on the telecast screen in a bar over town. You know, there was a camera right over the bandstand that caught the whole thing—you and Miss Hickock coming toward the President and his party, Miss Hickock running forward to her father, the waiter going up behind Hutchinson with the knife, and then that beautiful draw and snap shot. They ran it again a couple of times on the half-hourly newscast. Everybody in New Austin, maybe on New Texas, is talking about it, now.”
“Yes, indeed, sir,” Gomez, the Embassy Secretary, said, joining us. “You’ve made yourself more popular in the eight hours since you landed than poor Mr. Cumshaw had been able to do in the ten years he spent here. But, I’m afraid, sir, you’ve given me a good deal of work, answering your fan-mail.”
We went over and sat down at one of the big tables under the arches at the side of the patio.
“Well, that’s all to the good,” I said. “I’m going to need a lot of local good will, in the next few weeks. No thanks, Mr. Parros,” I added, as the Intelligence man picked up a bottle and made to pour for me. “I’ve been practically swimming in superbourbon all afternoon. A little black coffee, if you don’t mind. And now, gentlemen, if you’ll all be seated, we’ll see what has to be done.”
“A council of war, in effect, Mr. Ambassador?” Stonehenge inquired.
“Let’s call it a council to estimate the situation. But I’ll have to find out from you first exactly what the situation here is.”
Thrombley stirred uneasily. “But sir, I confess that I don’t understand. Your briefing on Luna. …”
“Was practically nonexistent. I had a total of six hours to get aboard ship, from the moment I was notified that I had been appointed to this Embassy.”
“Incredible!” Thrombley murmured.
I wondered what he’d say if I told him that I thought it was deliberate.
“Naturally, I spent some time on the ship reading up on this planet, but I know practically nothing about what’s been going on here in, say, the last year. And all I know about the death of Mr. Cumshaw is that he is said to have been killed by three brothers named Bonney.”
“So you’ll want just about everything, Mr. Silk,” Thrombley said. “Really, I don’t know where to begin.”
“Start with why and how Mr. Cumshaw was killed. The rest, I believe, will key into that.”
So they began; Thrombley, Stonehenge and Parros doing the talking. It came to this:
Ever since we had first established an Embassy on New Texas, the goal of our diplomacy on this planet had been to secure it into the Solar League. And it was a goal which seemed very little closer to realization now than it had been twenty-three years before.
“You must know, by now, what politics on this planet are like, Mr. Silk,” Thrombley said.
“I have an idea. One Ambassador gone native, another gone crazy, the third killed himself, the fourth murdered.”
“Yes, indeed. I’ve been here fifteen years, myself. …”
“That’s entirely too long for anybody to be stationed in this place,” I told him. “If I’m not murdered, myself, in the next couple of weeks, I’m going to see that you and any other member of this staff who’s been here over ten years are rotated home for a tour of duty at Department Headquarters.”
“Oh, would you, Mr. Silk? I would be so happy. …”
Thrombley wasn’t much in the way of an ally, but at least he had a sound, selfish motive for helping me stay alive. I assured him I would get him sent back to Luna, and then went on with the discussion.
Up until six months ago, Silas Cumshaw had modeled himself after the typical New Texas politician. He had always worn at least two faces, and had always managed to place himself on every side of every issue at once. Nothing he ever said could possibly be construed as controversial. Naturally, the cause of New Texan annexation to the Solar League had made no progress whatever.
Then, one evening, at a banquet, he had executed a complete 180-degree turn, delivering a speech in which he proclaimed that union with the Solar League was
