"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—"
"Those tiny brains—"
Magnan smiled sadly. "I see you're indulging your penchant for distorted facetiae. Perhaps one day you'll learn their true worth."