"You understand that the Commissario speaks personally only with officials of his own rank."
"That's rank enough," grunted Franklen. "And I can be just as rank as he is. Now stop caging and make that appointment for me—no later than tomorrow morning! Rank? Spinach! Where I come from, we elect our rulers and they'd better do as we want them to, or they don't stay rulers! And Hohmann can put you in his pipe and smoke it! Or," he added softly, "shall I order a cordon of United Nations marines out to see that I am properly escorted into his presence?"
"That would create an international incident," replied the undersecretary.
"Uh-huh," snorted Franklen. "It sure would, wouldn't it?"
Both he and the underling knew at that point just who would be deemed responsible for the international incident, and so there was no point in further argument. The phone was used three times, and ultimately it was reported that James Franklen would be most welcome in the morning at eight-thirty—and would he partake of breakfast with Commissario Hohmann?
He nodded. After all, Hohmann might not spoil his digestion—Franklen had a stomach installed by a copper company and felt safe.
There was pomp and ceremony as Franklen entered the swanky apartments of the Commissario Hohmann. He was escorted in by an honor-guard, and once in the ornate dining room, Franklen came face to face with the commissario himself.
Hohmann bowed genially and Franklen returned the pleasantry. He was seated across a small table from the dictator of the Central Power, and as he settled in the chair, silver service with a half grapefruit came from a servitor for each man simultaneously. Hohmann tasted his, smiled and nodded at it. "Excellent," he said to Franklen. Jim tried his and was forced to agree.
"Now," said Hohmann easily, "I've been told that the United Nations do not approve of certain happenings?"