Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, a black-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of Chief of State and Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road. Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d'Regime waved his cigar glumly at the surrounding hills.
"Fifty years ago this was bare rock," he said. "We've bred special strains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and we followed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We planned to put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like the goats will get it."
"Will that scrubland support a crop?" Retief said, eyeing the lichen-covered knolls.
"Sure. We start with legumes and follow up with cereals. Wait until you see this next section. It's an old flood plain, came into production thirty years ago. One of our finest—"
The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose, with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among a stand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar's arm.
"Keep calm, Georges," he said. "Remember, we're on a diplomatic mission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling of goats."
"Let me at 'em!" Georges roared. "I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands!"
A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. "Look at that long-nosed son!" The goat gave a derisive bleat and took another mouthful of ripe grain.
"Did you see that?" Georges yelled. "They've trained the son of a—"
"Chin up, Georges," Retief said. "We'll take up the goat problem along with the rest."
"I'll murder 'em!"
"Hold it, Georges. Look over there."
A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise, paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then galloped down the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaks billowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-golden grain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep from the ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered, waiting.
Georges scrambled for the side of the car. "Just wait 'til I get my hands on him!"
Retief pulled him back. "Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Never give the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goat lover—and hand me one of your cigars."
The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter of pebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retief peeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. He drew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at the trio of Aga Kagan cavaliers.
"Peace be with you," he intoned in accent-free Kagan. "May your shadows never grow less."

The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard, unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously.
"Have no fear," Retief said, smiling graciously. "He who comes as a guest enjoys perfect safety."
A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled his rifle at Retief.
"Youth is the steed of folly," Retief said. "Take care that the beardless one does not disgrace his house."
The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered the rifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief.
"Begone, interlopers," he said. "You disturb the goats."
"Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous," Retief said. "May the creatures dine well ere they move on."
"Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga." The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. "We welcome no intruders on our lands."
"To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appear foolish," Retief said. "These are the lands of the Boyars. But enough of these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler."
"You may address me as 'Exalted One'," the leader said. "Now dismount from that steed of Shaitan."
"It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir'," Retief said. "I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Now you may conduct us to your headquarters."
"Enough of your insolence!" The bearded man cocked his rifle. "I could blow your heads off!"
"The hen has feathers, but it does not fly," Retief said. "We have asked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man, a hint is enough."
"You mock me, pale one. I warn you—"
"Only love makes me weep," Retief said. "I laugh at hatred."
"Get out of the car!"
Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerful............