Authors: Keith Laumer
The two men rolled, came to rest with Taine on top, Retief
face-down, his arm bent back and doubled. Taine, red-faced and puffing, grunted
as he applied pressure.
“You
know a lot about me,” he granted, “but you overlooked the fact that I’ve been
Glavian Judo champion for the past nine years.”
“You’re a clever man, Taine,” Retief said between clenched
teeth. “Too clever to think it will work.”
“It will work. Glave’s never had a CDT mission here before;
we’re too small. Corasol invited your Embassy in because he had an idea there
was something in the wind. That forced my hand. I’ve had to move hastily. But
by the time I invite observers in to see for themselves, everything will be
running smoothly. I can even afford to let Corasol and the others go—I’ll have
hostages for his good behavior.”
“You’ve been wanting to boast about it to someone who could
appreciate your cleverness, I see. Sozier must be an unappreciative audience.”
“Sozier’s a filthy pig—but he had his uses.”
“What do you plan to do now?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself—but I think the best
solution is simply break your arm for now. You should be easy to control then.
It’s quite simple; I merely apply pressure, thus . . .”
“Judo is a very useful technique,” Retief said. “But in order
to make it work, you have to be a pretty good man . . .” He
moved suddenly, shifting his position. Taine grabbed, holding Retief’s arm by
the wrist and elbow, his own arm levering Retief’s back,
back . . . Retief twisted onto his side, then his back.
Taine grunted, following the movement, straining. Slowly, Retief sat up against
Taine’s weight. Then, with a surge, he straightened his arm. Taine’s grip
broke. Retief came to his feet. Taine scrambled up in time to meet a clean
uppercut.
“Ah, there you are,” Retief said as Taine’s eyes fluttered
and opened. “You’ve had a nice nap—almost fifteen minutes. Feeling better?”
Taine snarled, straining against the bonds on his wrists.
“Gold braid has its uses,” Retief commented. “Now that you’re
back, perhaps you can answer a question for me. What’s the Birthday Cake?”
Taine spat. Retief went to stand over him.
“Time is growing short, Mr. Taine. It will be dawn in another
two hours. I can’t afford the luxury of coaxing you. You’d better answer my
question.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
Retief looked at the glowing end of his cigar. “This won’t be
subtle, I agree—but it will work . . .”
“You’re bluffing.”
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 . . .”