Saline Solution

Blast you, Retief! Your violent ways are the disgrace of Earth's diplomatic corps—but your salty jokes are worse!
Consul-General Magnan gingerly fingered the heavily rubber-banded sheaf of dog-eared documents. I haven't rushed into precipitate action on this claim, Retief, he said. The Consulate has grave responsibilities here in the Belt. One must weigh all aspects of the situation, consider the ramifications. What consequences would arise from a grant of minerals rights on the planetoid to this claimant?
The claim looked all right to me, Retief said. Seventeen copies with attachments. Why not process it? You've had it on your desk for a week.
Magnan's eyebrows went up. You've a personal interest in this claim, Retief?
Every day you wait is costing them money. That hulk they use for an ore-carrier is in a parking orbit piling up demurrage.
I see you've become emotionally involved in the affairs of a group of obscure miners. You haven't yet learned the true diplomat's happy faculty of non-identification with specifics—or should I say identification with non-specifics?
They're not a wealthy outfit, you know. In fact, I understand this claim is their sole asset—unless you want to count the ore-carrier.
The Consulate is not concerned with the internal financial problems of the Sam's Last Chance Number Nine Mining Company.
Careful, Retief said. You almost identified yourself with a specific that time.
Hardly, my dear Retief, Magnan said blandly. The implication is mightier than the affidavit. You should study the records of the giants of galactic diplomacy: Crodfoller, Passwyn, Spradley, Nitworth, Sternwheeler, Rumpwhistle. The roll-call of those names rings like the majestic tread of ... of....
Dinosaurs? Retief suggested.
An apt simile, Magnan nodded. Those mighty figures, those armored hides—