"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."
Channing shook his head. "Even if I agreed with you, I couldn't do that. Wouldn't that be perfect grist for the propaganda mills on Sirius and Centauri, not to mention Deneb? Big Brother Earth goes around using all the little planets. Humans break off diplomatic relations with cultures which don't adhere to Earth standards—unless, of course, we could milk something out of them."
"You know that isn't true."
"I'm not standing in judgment on it. I'm merely saying how they would interpret it on Centauri and Sirius. Not to mention Deneb."
It was Channing's trump card. You didn't argue when someone mentioned Deneb like that. Deneb was the ne plus ultra of dangerous interplanetary relations. If something were white on Earth, it was black on Deneb. Unfortunately, Channing knew, there was at least as much truth as fancy in what he said.
"How do the Denebians deal with Targoff?" the under-secretary demanded.