Diplomat at Arms (13 page)

“First,”
he said, “the Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate enough to make
contact with a defector from a party of renegade Terrestrials who’ve been
advising the Soetti.” He folded another finger. “Next, a battle plan for the
Jorgensen’s people, worked out by the Theory Group.” He wrestled a third finger
down. “Lastly, an Utter Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard
anti-acceleration field into a potent weapon—a development our Systems people
have been holding in reserve for just such a situation.”

“Is that all? You’ve still got two fingers sticking up.”

Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away. “This is no
occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this information could be
catastrophic. You’ll memorize it before you leave this building—”

“I’ll carry it, sealed,” Retief said. “That way nobody can
sweat it out of me.”

“As you wish. Now, let me caution you against personal
emotional involvement here. Overall policy calls for a defense of these
backwater worlds; otherwise, the Corps would prefer simply to allow History to
follow its natural course, as always.”

“When does this attack happen?”

“In less than four weeks.”

“That doesn’t leave me much time.”

“I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as
far as Aldo Cerise. You’ll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest
of the way.”

“And what do I rely on to get me back?”

Magnan looked casually at his fingernails. “Of course you
could
refuse the assignment . . .”

Retief smiled, directed a smoke ring past Magnan’s ear.

“This antiac conversion; how long does it take?”

“A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of
minutes. The Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every second man is a
mechanic of some sort.”

Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at
the tickets inside.

“Less than four hours to departure time,” he said. “I’d
better not start any long books.”

“You’d better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination,”
Magnan said.

Retief stood up. “If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.”

“The allusion escapes me,” Magnan said coldly. “And one last
word: the Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen’s Worlds. Don’t
get yourself interned.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Retief said soberly; “in a pinch, I’ll
mention your name.”

“You’ll be traveling with Class X credentials,” Magnan
snapped. “There must be nothing to connect you with the Corps.”

“I’ll pose as a gentleman. They’ll never guess.”

“You’d better be getting started.” Magnan shuffled papers.

“You’re right. If I work at it, I might manage a snootful by
take-off.” He went to the door, looked back.

“No objection to my checking out a needler, is there?”

Magnan looked up. “I suppose not. What do you want with it?”

“Just a feeling I’ve got.”

“Please yourself.”

“Some day,” Retief said, “I may take you up on that.”

Retief put down the heavy, travel-battered suitcase and
leaned on the counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the
legend “ALDO CERISE INTERPLANETARY.” A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse
and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails and watched Retief
from the corner of his eye; he nipped off a ragged corner with rabbit-like
front teeth, spat it on the floor. “Was there something?” he said.

“Two-twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group. Is
it on schedule?”

The clerk nibbled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief.

“Filled up. Try again in a couple of weeks.”

“What time does it leave?”

The
clerk smiled pityingly. “It’s my lunch hour. I’ll be open in an hour.” He held
up a thumb nail, frowned at it.

“If I have to come around this counter,” Retief said, “I’ll
feed that thumb to you the hard way.”

The clerk looked up, opened his mouth, caught Retief’s eye.
He closed his mouth and swallowed.

“Just as it says there,” he said, jerking the thumb at the
board. “Lifts in an hour. But you won’t be on it,” he added.

Retief looked at him.

“Some . . . ah . . . VIPs
required accommodation,” the clerk said. He hooked a finger inside the sequined
collar. “All tourist reservations were canceled,” he went on. “You’ll have to
try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship next—”

“Which gate?” Retief said.

“For . . . ah . . . ?”

“Two-twenty-eight for Jorgensen’s Worlds.”

“Well,” said the clerk. “Gate 19,” he added quickly. “But—”

Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the
glare sign reading “To gates 16-30.”

“Smart-alec,” the clerk said behind him.

Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds,
found a covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man
with a scarred jawline and small eyes, wearing a rumpled grey uniform, put out
a hand as Retief started past him.

“Lessee your boarding pass,” he growled.

Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.

The guard blinked at it. “Whassat?”

“A ’gram confirming my space. Your boy on the counter says
he’s out to lunch.”

The guard crumbled the ’gram, dropped it on the floor,
lounged back against the handrail.

“On your way, bum,” he said.

Retief put his suitcase down carefully, took a step and drove
a right into the guard’s midriff, stepped aside as the man doubled and went to
his knees.

“You were wide open, ugly. I couldn’t resist.” Retief picked
up his bag. “Tell your boss I sneaked past while you were resting your eyes.”
He stepped over the man and went up the gangway into the ship. A pimply youth
in stained white came along the corridor.

“Which way to cabin fifty-seven?” Retief asked.

“Up
there.” The boy jerked his head, hurried on. Retief made his way along the
narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven. The door was
open. Inside, unfamiliar baggage was piled in the center of the floor. A tall
florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in the
open door. He looked at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man clamped his
jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.

“Somebody in the cabin. Get ’em out.” He rolled a cold eye at
Retief, backed out of the room. A short thick-necked man appeared.

“What are you doing in Mr. Tony’s room?” he barked. “Never
mind; clear out of here, fellow. You’re keeping Mr. Tony waiting.”

“Too bad,” Retief said. “Finders keepers.”

“You nuts or something?” The thick-necked man stared at
Retief. “I said it’s Mr. Tony’s room.”

“I don’t know Mr. Tony. He’ll have to bull his way into other
quarters.”

“We’ll see about you, mister.” The man turned and went out.
Retief sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in the
corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an oversized trunk.
They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it with a crash, glanced at
Retief, and went out. The thick-necked man appeared again.

“All right, you; out,” he growled. “Or have I got to have you
thrown out?”

Retief rose, clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped
a handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved the
trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the door.

“Catch,” he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed
against the far wall of the corridor and burst. Retief turned to the baggage on
the floor, tossed it into the hall. The face of the thick-necked man appeared
cautiously around the door jamb.

“Mister, you must be—”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Retief said. “It’s time for my nap.”
He flipped the door shut, pulled off his shoes, and stretched out on the bed.

Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.
Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a blue
turtleneck sweater, and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye stared at
Retief.

“Is this the joker?” he grated.

The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief,
snorted. “That’s him, sure.”

“I’m captain of this vessel,” the gaunt man said. “You’ve got
two minutes to haul your freight out of here. Get moving, Buster.”

“When you can spare the time,” Retief said, “take a look at
Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code. That spells out the law on
confirmed space on vessels engaged in interplanetary commerce.”

“A space lawyer.” The captain turned. “Throw him out, boys,”
he called.

Two big men edged into the cabin, stood looking at Retief.
“Go on, pitch him out,” the captain snapped.

Retief
put his cigar in an ashtray, swung his feet off the bunk. One of the two wiped
his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and stepped forward, then
hesitated.

“Hey,” he said. “This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?”

“That’s him,” the thick-necked man called. “Spilled Mr.
Tony’s possessions right on the deck.”

“Deal me out,” the bouncer said. “He can stay put as long as
he wants to. I signed on to move cargo. Let’s go, Moe.”

“You’d better be getting back to the bridge, Captain,” Retief
said. “We’re due to lift in twenty minutes.”

The thick-necked man and the captain both shouted at once.
The captain’s voice prevailed. “—twenty minutes . . . Uniform
Code . . . gonna do?”

“Close the door as you leave,” Retief said.

The thick-necked man paused at the door. “We’ll see you when
you come out.”

Four
waiters passed Retief’s table without stopping. A fifth leaned against the wall
nearby, a menu under his arm. At a table across the room, the captain, now
wearing a dress uniform and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a
table of male passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting
occasional glances Retief’s way.

A panel opened in the wall behind Retief’s chair. Bright blue
eyes peered out from under a white chef’s cap.

“Givin’ you the cold shoulder, heh, mister?”

“Looks like it, old timer. Maybe I’d better go join the
skipper; his party seems to be having all the fun.”

“Fella has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over
there.”

“I see your point.”

“You set right where you’re at, mister. I’ll rustle you up a
plate.”

Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two-ounce
Delmonico nicely garnished with mushrooms and garlic butter.

“I’m Chip,” the chef said. “I don’t like the cap’n. You can
tell him I said so. Don’t like his friends, either. Don’t like them dern
Sweaties; look at a man like he was a worm.”

“You know how to fry a steak, Chip,” Retief said. He poured
red wine into a glass. “Here’s to you.”

“Dern right,” Chip said. “Dunno who ever thought up broiling
’em. I got a Baked Alaska comin up in here for dessert. You like brandy in yer
coffee?”

“Chip, you’re a genius.”

“Like to see a fella eat. I gotta go now; if you need
anything, holler.”

Retief
ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to Jorgensen’s Worlds.
Then, if Magnan’s information was correct, there would be four days to prepare
for the Soetti attack. It was a temptation to scan the tapes built into the
handle of his suitcase; it would be good to know what Jorgensen’s Worlds would
be up against.

Retief finished the steak, and the chef handed out the Baked
Alaska and coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr.
Tony and his retainers still sat at the captain’s table.

As Retief watched, four men arose from the table, sauntered
across the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took
a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table, dipped the lighted end in
Retief’s coffee, looked at it, dropped it on the tablecloth.

The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.

“You must want to get to Jorgensen’s pretty bad,” the thug
said in a grating voice. “What’s your game, hick?”

Retief looked at the coffee up, picked it up.

“I don’t think I want my coffee,” he said. He looked at the
thug. “You drink it.”

The thug squinted at Retief. “A wise hick,” he began.

With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the
thug’s face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug went
down.

Retief looked at Mr. Tony, who stood open-mouthed.

“You can take your playmates away now, Tony,” he said. “And
don’t bother to come around yourself. You’re not funny enough.”