"Curious," Magnan commented. "I wonder what the significance of the white ensign might be?"
Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrements and a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The high white sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes, butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather.
"A brave show indeed," Magnan commented approvingly. "I confess the idea has merit."
The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tired wheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomat stepped out.
"Why, Ambassador Nitworth," Magnan glowed. "This is very kind of you."
"Keep cool, Magnan," Nitworth said in a strained voice. "We'll attempt to get you out of this."
He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly at the ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, at the eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts.
"Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency," Nitworth said, blinking up at the leading Qornt. "You are Commander of the Strike Force, I assume?"
"Nope," the Qornt said shortly.
"I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuate Headquarters," Nitworth plowed on.