Channing lit his pipe and knew he was in for trouble. "They don't," he said. "Diplomatic relations are not maintained between Deneb and Targoff."
"May I ask you why not? You see, Deneb can get away with it, but we—"
"I'm surprised at you," Channing cut her off. "Earth can't sink to the Denebian level. We've got to set the example. We've got to be a shining light, a beacon, a...."
"Those speeches sound fine on television," the under-secretary said, "but I wasn't born yesterday, Mr. Channing. What are you going to do about this situation?"
"Nothing right now. The Secretary of State wants to let matters ride for the time being. The President...."
"I'm going to see the President, you know."
"Maybe it's best," Channing admitted. He was a thirty thousand dollar a year trouble-shooter for the Department of State, running smack-dab into a brick wall.
"You'll hear from me," warned the under-secretary. "You'll hear from the President. This is deplorable."
"Yes, m'am," said Channing, showing her to the door.
Half an hour later, Channing had wilted his whiskers with depilatory, staring all the while at his moody face with the slightly sagging jowls in a desk mirror and wishing he were in some other line of work. The achesonian epithet, it seemed, applied to State Department officials above the level of clerk who had the misfortune of dealing with touchy issues. If Health and P. W.'s Girl Friday had her way, Channing suspected, he would be an ogre by morning.