Authors: Keith Laumer
Retief put the ’phone to his ear.
“ . . . agreed, then,” Ambassador
Hidebinder’s voice was saying. “Seventy-two hours from now, and not a moment
before.”
“Just see that you keep your end of the bargain,” a thin
Groaci voice lisped. “This would be a poor time for
treachery . . .”
“I want it clearly understood that our man will be treated in
a reasonably civilized fashion, and quietly released to us when the affair is
completed.”
“I suggest you avoid over-complicating the arrangements with
last minute conditions,” the Groaci voice said.
“You’ve done very well in this affair,” Hidebinder came back.
“Your profits on the armaments alone—”
“As I recall, it was you who proposed the scheme; it is you
who wish to place homeless Soetti rabble on Elora, not we . . .”
Retief listened for another five minutes before he snapped
the phone back in its bracket, stepped quickly to the door; in the hall, Aric
came to meet him.
“Find anything, Mr. Retief?”
“Too much . . .” Retief took a pen from his
pocket, jotted a note.
“See that this gets to Prince Tavilan at the lodge; tell him
to get the Invincibles ready, but to do nothing until I get word to him—no
matter what.”
“Sure, Mr. Retief, but—”
“Let’s go, Aric. And remember: you’re more help to me outside
than inside . . .”
“I don’t follow you, Mr. Retief . . .” Aric
trotted at his side. “Outside what . . . ?”
“We’ll know in a few minutes; but wherever I wind up, watch
for a signal . . .”
From the head of the Grand Staircase, Retief saw the glint of
light on steel. Two men in the dull black and green of the People’s Volunteers
stood in the corridor.
“Hey, Mr. Retief,” Aric whispered. “What are Greenbacks doing
in the palace . . . ?”
“Simple, Aric. They’re standing guard over my door.”
“Maybe somebody caught those Groaci trying to break
in . . .”
“Drop back behind me, Aric—and remember what I
said . . .”
Retief walked up to his door, took out an old-fashioned
mechanical key, inserted it in the lock. One of the two armed soldiers stepped
up, made a threatening motion with his rifle butt.
“Nobody goes in there, you,” he growled. He was a broad-faced
blonde, a descendant of the transported felons who had served as contract labor
on Elora a century earlier.
Retief
turned casually, moved to one side far enough that the man before him was
between him and his companion, then moved suddenly, caught the stock of the
rifle in his left hand and with his right yanked the barrel forward; the butt
described a short arc, smashed against the soldier’s chin. He gave a choked
yell, stumbled back. Retief jerked the door open, slipped inside, slammed it
behind him. He shot the bolt, then started a fast check of his room. The door
rattled; heavy poundings sounded. Retief pulled open the desk; a loose heap of
unfamiliar papers lay there. A glance at one showed the letterhead of the
Office of the Commercial Attaché, Terrestrial Embassy. It appeared to be a
delivery order for one hundred thousand rounds of fractional-ton ammunition
made out to a Bogan armaments exporter. Another was an unsigned letter
referring to drop-points and large sums of money. A heavy parchment caught
Retief’s eye. It was stamped in red: UTTER TOP SECRET. Below the seal of the
Eloran Imperial Department of War was a detailed break-out of the disposition
of units of the Imperial Fleet and the Volunteer Reserve.
The telephone buzzed. Retief picked it up. There was a sound
of breathing at the other end.
“Yilith . . . ?” a faint voice inquired.
“No, you damned fool!” Retief snapped. “They finished up ten
minutes ago. When do the Greenbacks arrive?”
“Why, they should be there now. The pigeon has left the
ballroom—” There was a pause. “Who is this?”
Retief slammed down the phone, whirled to the wide fireplace,
flipped the switch that started a cheery blaze licking over the pseudo-logs. He
grabbed up a handful of papers from the desk, tossed them into the fire,
started back for another—
With a rending of tough plastic panels, the door bulged, then
slammed open. Half a dozen Greenbacks charged into the room, short bayonets
fixed and leveled. Retief’s hand went behind him, felt over the small table at
his back, plucked open the drawer, fished out a tiny slug gun, dropped it into
a back pocket.
A tall man with a small head, a body like a bag of water, and
tiny feet bellied his way through the armed men. He wore a drab cutaway of
greyish-green adorned with the star of the Order of Farm Production. Behind him,
the small, spindle-armed figure of the Groaci Military Attaché was visible,
decked out in formal jewel-studded eyeshields and a pink and green hip-cloak.
“Don’t touch anything!” the water-bag man called in a high,
excited voice. “I want everything undisturbed!”
“What about the fire, Mr. Minister?” the Groaci lisped. “The
miscreant seems to have been burning something . . .”
“Yes, yes. Rake those papers out of there!” The large man
wobbled his chin agitatedly. He fixed Retief with eyes like peeled eggs. “I’m
warning you, don’t make any violent moves—”
“Let me have a crack at him,” a Greenback said. “He fixed
Horney so he won’t be able to eat nothing but mush for six months—”
“None of that!” the big-bellied man folded his arms. A
striped vest bulged under his voluminous frock coat like a feather mattress.
“We’ll just hold him for the criminal authorities.”
“Any particular reason why you and your friends came to play
in my room?” Retief inquired mildly. “Or were you under the impression it was
my birthday?”
“Look
here,” a man called from across the room. “Under the
mattress . . .” He held up a paper. “A letter from the pirate,
Dangredi, addressed to Retief, thanking him for the latest consignment of arms
and supplies!”
“If you’ll wait just a minute,” Retief said, “I’ll get my
scrapbook; it’s full of all kinds of incriminating evidence I’ve been saving
for just this occasion.”
“Ah, then you confess! Where is it?” the Groaci whispered
hoarsely, pushing to the fore.
“Oh, I forgot; when I heard you coming, I ate it.”
There
was a stir at the rear of the group. The ranks parted and a short, round
Terrestrial with a stiff white moustache and a mouth like a change-purse pushed
through. He yanked at the overlapping lapels of a grape-juice colored
mess-jacket caked with decorations.
“Here, what’s this, Mr. Retief! Contraband? Pilfered
documents? Evidence of traffic with piratical elements?”
“No, Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said, “I’m only charging them
with breaking and entering, assault with a deadly weapon, abuse of diplomatic
privilege, and loitering. If you’ll—”
“Here, don’t let him confuse the issue, Ambassador
Hidebinder!” The egg-like eyes rolled toward the stout diplomat. “He stands
self-convicted—”
“Don’t say too much, Mr. Minister,” Retief cut in. “After
all, you haven’t had time yet to read those scraps the boys are fishing out of
the fire, so it wouldn’t do for you to know what they are.”
“Enough of this pointless chatter!” Prime Minister Prouch
piped. “Obviously, there’s treason afoot here!” He jabbed a finger at the
Terrestrial Ambassador. “In view of the seriousness of the offense—in a time of
grave crisis in inter-world affairs—I demand that you suspend this criminal’s
diplomatic immunity!”
The Groaci spoke up: “As a neutral party, I propose that he
be turned over to my mission for restraint until the time of trial.”
“Well . . .” Ambassador Hidebinder blinked.
“I’m not at all sure . . .”
“We’ll tolerate no stalling tactics!” the Minister squeaked.
“The security of Elora is at stake!” He motioned. The troops closed in around
Retief.
“I propose to take this man into custody at once,” he bulged
his eyes at Hidebinder. “I trust there will be no
protest . . . !”
Hidebinder looked around at the room, the scattered papers,
the smoldering fire, then past Retief’s ear.
“Your penchant for mischief is well-known, Mr. Retief,” he
said solemnly. “I’m sure this fits the pattern nicely.”
“Not as nicely as you seem to imagine,” Retief said. “Maybe
you’d better think it over—without any help from Ambassador Lhiss.”
Hidebinder purpled; he sputtered. “The man’s insane! You have
my permission to place him under protective restraint!” He stamped from the
room.
General Hish stepped forward. “Soldiers, you heard the order
of the Minister,” he hissed. “Take the criminal away . . .”
The cell was ten feet square, with a twelve by eighteen inch
opening just under the ten-foot high ceiling. The furnishings included a
plastic cot with one blanket, the minimum in plumbing facilities, one small,
unshielded neon lamp, numerous large roaches, and a bristly rat over a foot
long, which sat by the open floor drain from which it had emerged, regarding
Retief with beady eyes.
Retief’s hand went slowly to the small, hard pillow on the
cot beside him. He picked it up, pegged it suddenly; with a squeal of rage, the
rat dove for cover, scrabbled for a moment in a frantic attempt to squirm past
the cushion, now wedged in the drain; then it darted for the darkest corner of
the cell.
Retief picked up the blanket and a length of yarn worked from
it earlier, moved toward the rat. It crouched, making a sound like a
rusty-bed-spring. Suddenly it leaped—straight at Retief’s face—and met the
enveloping blanket in mid-air. Cautiously, Retief folded back the blanket to
expose the chinless, snouted face, armed with back-slanting yellow fangs half
an inch long. He looped the string over the vicious head, drew it snug, and
knotted it.
He went to the drain, kicked the obstruction from it, then
released the tethered rat. It dived down the dark opening and was gone. The
carefully coiled string paid out rapidly, loop after loop. It slowed, then fed
down the drain more slowly as the rat traveled through the piping. The guard’s
footsteps approached, Retief jumped for the cot; he was stretched out at ease
when the sentry looked in. When he had passed, Retief looped the end of the
string over his finger, pulled in the slack. In the gloomy light of the neon
lamp, the thread was invisible against the dark floor. He sat on the bunk and
waited.
An hour passed. The barred rectangle of moonlight slanting
through the window crept across the floor. Regularly, at nine minute intervals,
feet sounded in the passage outside the metal slab door. Suddenly the string in
Retief’s hand twitched, once, twice, three times. He gave three answering tugs.
For a moment there was no response; then there was a single firm tug. Aric was
on the job . . .
Retief pulled at the string; it dragged heavily. He hauled it
in slowly, hand over hand. Twice it caught on some obstruction far away in the
drain line; he tugged gently until it came free. He thrust the accumulating
pile of thread under the mattress. Each time the guard looked in, he was
sitting quietly, staring at the wall. Suddenly, the end of a half-inch rope
appeared, securely tied to the end of the string. Retief let it slip back a few
inches, waited until the sentry passed, then quickly began hauling in the rope.
Five minutes later, a hundred feet of polyon cable was tucked
out of sight under the mattress. Retief slipped the bundle of hacksaw blades
which had been tied to the end of the rope into the pocket of the gold-braided
white trousers which he had been allowed to retain along with his short boots.
He stood under the window, gauged the distance, then jumped; he pulled himself
up, got a firm grip on the bars, then took out a saw and started in.
An hour later, both bars were cut through, ready to be
removed by a single firm twist. Retief waited for the guard to pass, then
dropped the blades down the drain, looped the cable over his shoulder and
leaped up to the window again. Far below, he could see the moonlight sparkling
on a fountain in the palace garden; the shadows of trees and hedges were dark
against the grass. On the graveled walks, armed sentries passed.
Retief
wrenched the bars free, tied the rope to one, tossed the coil of rope through
the window, then pulled himself up, and carefully fitted the short bar across
the corner of the window opening on the inside. Keeping pressure on the rope,
he eased out, then slid quickly down.
Twenty feet below, Retief dropped onto a narrow balcony
before a rank of darkened glass doors. With a flick, he freed the upper end of
the rope; the bar clattered against the stone wall as it fell; he pulled the
rope in, dropped it in a heap, then tried door handles, found one that turned.
He stepped in through heavy drapes, felt his way across to a door, opened it
and looked out into a wide corridor. At the far end, two ornately uniformed
guards stood stiffly at attention. There was no one else in sight. Retief
slipped the slug gun into the palm of his hand, stepped out, walked boldly
toward the guards. They stood unmoving. As he passed, one spoke quietly from
the corner of his mouth: