Diplomat at Arms (8 page)

Retief leaned closer. “In my place—would you hesitate?” he
asked softly.

Taine
cursed, struggled to break free, eyes on the cigar.

“What kind of diplomat are you?” he snarled.

“The modern variety; throat-cutting, thumb-screws, poison and
stiletto work were popular in Machiavelli’s time; nowadays we go in more for
the administrative approach—but the cigar-end still has its role.”

“Look—we can come to an agreement—”

“What’s the Birthday Cake?” Retief snapped.

“I’m in a position to do a lot for you—”

“Last chance—”

“It’s the official Residence of the Manager-General!” Taine
screeched, writhing away from the cigar.

“Where is it? Talk fast!”

“You’ll never get close! There’s a seven-foot wall and by
this time the grounds are swarming with Sozier’s men—”

“Nevertheless, I want to know where it is—and the information
had better be good. If I don’t come back, you’ll have a long wait.”

Taine groaned. “All right. Put that damned cigar away. I’ll
tell you what I can . . .”

Retief
stood in the shadow of a vine-grown wall, watching the five-man guard detail at
the main gate to the Residence grounds. The bluish light of the Glavian
satellite reflected from the rain-pocked street, glinted from the leaves of a
massive tree ten yards from the gate. The chill in the air cut through Retief’s
wet clothes; the men at the gate huddled, hands in pockets, coat collars turned
up, backs to the wind—and to Retief. He moved silently forward, caught a low
branch of the tree, pulled himself up. The men at the gate exchanged muttered
remarks. One lit a cigarette. Retief waited, then moved higher. The guards
talked in low voices, edged closer to the shelter of the gate-house. Retief lowered
himself onto the wall, dropped down onto the sodden lawn, crouched, waiting.
There was no alarm.

Through the trees the dark shape of the house loomed up, its
top story defiantly ablaze with lights. Retief moved off silently, from the
shadow of one tree to the next, swinging in an arc that would bring him to the
rear of the great round structure. He froze as the heavy footfalls of one of
Sozier’s pickets slogged past five yards from him, then moved on. The glow of a
camp-fire flickered near the front of the house. Retief could make out the
shapes of men around it—a dozen or two, at least. Probably as many more warmed
themselves at each of the other fires visible on the grounds—and most of the
rest had doubtless found dryer shelter in the lee of the house itself.

Retief reached the conservatory at the rear of the house,
studied the dark path leading to the broad terrace, picked out the squat shape
of the utilities manifold behind a screen of shrubbery. So far, Taine’s
information had been accurate. The next step was to—

There was a faint sound from high above, followed by a
whoosh!— Then, with a sharp crack, a flare appeared overhead, rocking
gracefully, floating down gently under a small parachute. Below it, inky
shadows rocked in unison. In the raw white light, Retief counted eighteen men
clinging to handholds on the side of the house, immobile in the pitiless glare.
Above them, a face appeared, then a second, peering over the edge of the
fourth-story gallery. Both figures rose, unlimbering four-foot bows, fitting
arrows to strings—

Whok! Whok! Two men lost their holds and fell, yelling, to
slam into the heavy shrubbery. A second flight of arrows found marks. Retief
watched from the shadows as man after man dropped to flounder in the wet
foliage. Several jumped before the deadly bows were turned on them. As the
flare faded, the last of the men plunged down to crash among their fellows.
Retief stepped out, ran swiftly to the manifold, forcing his way among the
close-growing screen, scrambled to its top. His hand fell on a spent arrow. He
picked it up. It was a stout wooden shaft twenty inches long, terminating in a
rubber suction cup. Retief snorted, dropped the arrow and started up.

Twenty feet above ground level, the wide windows of the third
floor sun terrace presented a precarious handhold as Retief swung back a foot,
kicked in a panel. Inside, he dimly made out the shape of a broad carpeted
room, curving out of sight in both directions. There were wide-leafed tropical
plants in boxes, groups of padded chairs, low tables with bowls of fruit.
Retief made his way past them, found an inner door, went into a dark hall. At
the far end, voices exchanged shouted questions. Feet pounded. A flicker of
light from a hand lantern splashed across the wall, disappeared. Retief found a
stair, went up it noiselessly. According to Taine, the elevator to the top
floor apartment should be to the left—

Retief flattened himself to the wall. Footsteps sounded near
at hand. He moved quickly to a doorway. There was a murmur of voices, the
wavering light of lanterns. A party of uniformed men tiptoed past a cross
corridor, struggling under the weight of a massive log, two feet in diameter
and twelve feet long.

“ . . . on signal, hit it all together.
Then . . .” someone was saying.

Retief waited, listening. There was the creak of a door, the
fumbling of awkwardly-laden feet on a stair, hoarse breathing, a muffled curse.

“ . . . got my fingers, ya
slob . . .” a voice snarled.

“Shaddup!” another voice hissed.

There was a long moment of silence, then a muffled
command—followed an instant later by a thunderous crash, a shout—cut off
abruptly by a ponderous blam! followed instantly by a roar like a burst dam,
mingled with yells, thumps, crashes. A foamy wash of water surged along the cross
corridor, followed a moment later by a man sliding on his back, then another,
two more, the log, fragments of a door, more men.

In the uproar, Retief moved along to the elevator, felt over
the control panel, located a small knurled button. He turned it; the panel came
away. He fumbled cautiously, found a toggle switch, flipped it. A light sprang
up in the car; instantly, Retief flipped the light switch; the glow faded. He
waited. No alarm. Men were picking themselves up, shouting.

“ . . . them broads dropped a hundred
gallon bag of water . . .” someone complained.

“ . . . up there fast, men. We got the
door OK!”

Feet thumped. Yells sounded.

“No good, Wes! They got a safe or something in the way!”

Retief silently closed the lift door, pressed the button. With
a sigh, the car slid upward, came to a gentle stop. He eased the door open,
looked out into a dim-lit entrance hall. Footsteps sounded beyond a door. He
waited, heard the clack of high heels crossing a floor. Retief stepped out of
the car, went to the door, glanced into a spacious lounge with rich furniture,
deep rugs, paintings, a sweep of glass, and in an alcove at the far side, a
bar. Retief crossed the room, poured a stiff drink into a paper-thin glass, and
drained it.

The high-heeled steps were coming back now. A door opened.
Two leggy young women in shorts, with red-gold hair bound back by ribbons—one
green, one blue—stepped into the room. One held a coil of insulated wire; the
other carried a heavy-looking grey-enameled box eight inches on a side.

“Now, see if you can tinker that thing to put out about a
thousand amps at two volts, Lyn,” the girl with the wire said. “I’ll start
stringing . . .” her voice died as she caught sight of Retief.
He raised his glass. “My compliments, ladies. I see you’re keeping yourselves
amused.”

“Who . . . who are you?” Lyn faltered.

“My name’s Retief; your father sent me along to carry your
bags. It’s lucky I arrived when I did, before any of those defenseless chaps
outside were seriously injured.”

“You’re not . . . one of them?”

“Of course he’s not, Lyn,” the second girl said. “He’s much
too good-looking.”

“That’s good,” Lyn said crisply. “I didn’t want to have to
use this thing.” She tossed a bright-plated 2mm needler onto a chair and sat
down. “Dad’s all right, isn’t he?”

“He’s fine, and we’ve got to be going. Tight schedule, you
know. And you’d better get some clothes on. It’s cold outside.”

Lyn nodded. “Environmental Control went off the air six hours
ago; you can already feel snow coming.”

“Don’t you suppose we have time to just rig up one little old
circuit?” the other twin wheedled. “Nothing serious; just enough to tickle.”

“We planned to wire all the window frames, the trunk we used
to block the stair, the lift shaft—”

“And then we thought we’d try to drop a loop down and pick up
the gallery guard rail, and maybe some of that wrought-iron work around the
front of the house—”

“Sorry, girls; no time.”

Five minutes later, the twins were ready, wrapped in fur
robes. Retief had exchanged his soaked blazer for a down-lined weatherproof.

“The lift will take us all the way down, won’t it?” he asked.

Lyn nodded. “We can go out through the wine cellar.”

Retief picked up the needler and handed it to Lyn. “Hang on
to this,” he said. “You may need it yet.”

A cold wind whipped the ramp as dawn lightened the sky.

“It’s hard to believe,” Corasol said. “What made him do it?”

“He saw a chance to own it all.”

“He can have it.” Corasol’s communicator beeped. He put it to
his ear. “Everything’s ship-shape and ready to lift,” a tiny voice said.

Corasol turned to Retief. “Let’s go aboard—”

“Hold it,” Retief said. “There’s someone
coming . . .”

Corasol spoke into the communicator. “Keep him covered, but
don’t fire unless he does.”

The man slogging across the concrete was short, wrapped in heavy
garments. Over his head a white cloth fluttered from a stick.

“From the set of those bat-ears, I’d say it was the good
corporal.”

“I wonder what he wants.”

Sozier stopped twenty feet from Retief and Corasol.

“I want
to . . . ah . . . talk to you, Corasol,”
he said.

“Certainly, General. Go right ahead.”

“Look here, Corasol. You can’t do this. My men will freeze.
We’ll starve. I’ve been thinking it over, and I’ve decided we can reach an
understanding.”

Corasol waited.

“I mean, we can get together on this thing. Compromise. Maybe
I acted a little hasty.” Sozier looked from Corasol to Retief. “You’re from the
CDT. You tell him. I’ll guarantee his people full rights . . .”

Retief puffed at his cigar in silence; Sozier started again.

“Look, I’ll give you a full voice in running things. A
fifty-fifty split. Whatta you say?”

“I’m afraid the proposal doesn’t interest me, General,”
Corasol said.

“Never mind the General stuff,” Sozier said desperately.
“Listen, you can run it. Just give me and my boys a little say-so.”

“Sorry,” Corasol shook his head. “Not interested, General.”

“OK, OK! You win! Just come on back and get things
straightened out! I got a belly fully of running things!”

“I’m afraid I have other plans, General. For some time I’ve
wanted to transfer operations to a world called Las Palmas on which we hold a
charter. It has a naturally delightful climate, and I’m told the fishing is
good. I leave Glave to the Free Electorate with my blessing. Goodbye, General.”
He turned to the ship.

“You
got to stay here!” Sozier howled. “We’ll complain to the CDT! And don’t call
me General. I’m a Corporal—”

“You’re a General now—whether you like it or not,” Corasol
said bluntly. He shivered. There was a hint of ice in the air. “If you or any
of your men ever decide to go to work, General, I daresay we can train you for
employment on Las Palmas. In the meantime—Long Live the Revolution!”

“You can’t do this! I’ll sue!”

“Calm down, Sozier,” Retief said. “Go back to town and see if
you can get your radio working. Put in a call for Mr. Magnan aboard the CDT
vessel. Tell him your troubles. It will make his day. And a word of advice: Mr.
Magnan hates a piker—so ask for plenty.”

“My boy, I’m delighted,” Ambassador Sternwheeler boomed. “A
highly professional piece of work. A stirring testimonial to the value of the
skilled negotiator! An inspiration to us all!”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said, glancing at
his watch.

“And
Magnan tells me that not only will the mission be welcomed, and my job secure
for another year—that is, I shall have an opportunity to serve—but a technical
mission has been requested as well. I shall look forward to meeting General
Sozier. He sounds a most reasonable chap.”

“Oh, you’ll like him, Mr. Ambassador. A true democrat,
willing to share all you have.”

Counselor of Embassy Magnan tapped and entered the office.

“Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Ambassador,” he said
breathlessly, “but—”

“Well, what is it man! The deal hasn’t gone
sour . . . ?”

“Oh, far from it! I’ve been exploring General Sozier’s economic
situation with him via scope—and it seems he’ll require a
loan . . .”