Es Percipi

Diplomatic relations became strained when the Targoffian Ambassador started selling miracle products on Earth. Products that didn't exist!...

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy October 1955 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Nicholson ducked into the room and squinted myopically through contact lenses which made his eyes look watery and far away. "Better scram out the back way, boss," he said. "That dame from the Department of Health and Public Welfare is here again."

Bryan Channing allowed himself ten seconds of barely audible swearing. Finally, he said, "What does she expect me to do, snap my fingers and make the Ambassador from Targoff disappear?"

"It would be nice," Nicholson admitted.

"Unfortunately," Bryan Channing said for the fifth time that day, "our hands are tied. Sure, Earth can get along without Targoff. The galaxy would hardly know the difference if sub-space opened up a world-sized pocket tomorrow and swallowed Targoff and its sun."

"But," said Nicholson.

"Yes, but, I'll have to see the old battle-ax sooner or later, Nick. On your way out you might as well tell Julie to send her in."

"Oh, am I leaving?"

"You get the idea," said Bryan Channing. "You discovered Targoff, then dumped it in my lap. One of these days you better find us a planet which will make Health and P. W. happy. Now, beat it."

A moment after Nicholson had departed, the under-secretary of Health and Public Welfare opened the door with a well-manicured hand and followed it into Bryan Channing's office, which looked out on the East River and the dismantling job being done on the Queensboro Bridge through a solid wall of thermoglass.

"I don't smoke and I don't drink on duty," she said primly after Bryan Channing had made the necessary gestures and offerings. "There were twenty-two thousand divorces in the New York Metropolitan Area alone last week, Mr. Channing. I have figures for other locations, if you wish."

"Just let my secretary have them on your way out."

"Very well."

"Incidentally, I don't want to tell you your business, but the figure doesn't seem so alarmingly high."

"Perhaps. How would fifty thousand sound--for the first half of this week?"

"High," said Bryan Channing. "Go ahead."

"Deaths from malnutrition and disease continue at an even more alarming rate. These figures--" And the under-secretary began to remove a sheaf of papers from her briefcase.

"My secretary," Bryan Channing said again. "Can you pin these things directly on Qui Dor?"

"Qui Dor?"

"The Targoffian Ambassador."

"I can only go by his advertisements and what our field workers report after interviews. Qui Dor or whatever his name is, is to blame, it appears. Tell me, Mr. Channing, is it quite regular for a planetary Ambassador to--well, to go into business like that?"

"Yes and no," Bryan Channing told her, launching himself on his favorite subject. "We don't make the laws, m'am. Fifty different planetary cultures nurtured on fifty different sets of laws with a heritage as rich as our own Roman one--you don't merely stamp out all the existing laws and arbitrarily distribute a new code. All you can do is hope that in some fields at least there is a common meeting point for the planets."

"You've failed to answer my question."

"Sorry. The Lurane Ambassadors are primarily businessmen, out to make a buck for their planet, as the expression goes. The Specixes Ambassador is a glorified emcee trooping around with a bunch of acrobats, dancers and singers. There are no laws which would prohibit Qui Dor--"

"But he's threatening our entire way of life!" cried the under-secretary, no longer prim and diplomatically correct.

"Aren't you exaggerating the situation, m'am?" he asked politely. He wanted to say she was making a mountain not out of a mole hill but a pimple. He wanted to say a lot of things but never did, and realized that was one of the reasons ulcers ran so high in the Department of State. He would settle for some chianti, antipasto and chicken cacciatore with Ellen in their favorite Italian restaurant, but first he had to placate the emissary from Health and P. W. and keep Nicholson happy at the same time. It hardly seemed possible, for if he knew Nick, the myopic explorer-with-portfolio was eavesdropping on their conversation through the office intercom.

"You think it isn't serious, if our standard of living is threatened by--"

"Let's look at it another way. I mean, it's just not our problem. That's an internal problem for the Department of Health and Public Welfare to solve, m'am."

"You can tell the Targoffian Ambassador to get the hell off our planet. Excuse me."