Authors: Keith Laumer
The broad-shouldered man glanced at
a meter.
"You took pretty near a full
jolt, that time," he said.
The hole in the globe was tracing
an oblique course now, swinging to the center, then below.
"A little longer," Magnan
said.
"That's the best speed I ever
seen on the Slam ball," someone said. "How much longer can he hold
it?"
Magnan looked at Retief's knuckles.
They showed white against the grip. The globe tilted farther, swung around,
then down; two chips fell out, clattered down a chute and into a box.
"We're ahead," Magnan
said. "Let's quit."
Retief shook his head. The globe
rotated, dipped again; three chips fell.
"She's ready," someone
called.
"It's bound to hit soon,"
another voice added excitedly. "Come on, mister!"
"Slow down," Magnan said.
"So it won't move past too quickly."
"Speed it up, before that lead
block gets you," someone called.
The hole swung high, over the top,
then down the side. Chips rained out, six, eight . . .
"Next pass," a voice
called.
The white warning light flooded the
cage. The globe whirled; the hole slid over the top, down
down ...
a chip fell, two more . . .
Retief half rose, clamped his jaw,
and crushed the grip. Sparks flew, and the globe slowed, chips spewing. It
stopped and swung back. Weighted by the mass of chips at the bottom, it
stopped again with the hole centered. Chips cascaded down the chute, filled
the box and spilled on the floor. The crowd yelled.
Retief released the grip and
withdrew his arm at the same instant that the lead block slammed down.
"Good lord," Magnan said.
"I felt that through the floor."
Retief turned to the
broad-shouldered man.
"This game's all right for
beginners," he said. "But I'd like to talk a really big gamble. Why
don't we go to your office, Mr. Zorn?"
"Your proposition interests
me," Zorn said, an hour later. "But there's some angles to this I
haven't mentioned yet."
"You're a gambler, Zorn, not a
suicide," Retief said. "Take what I've offered. Your dream of
revolution was fancier, I agree, but it won't work."
"How do I know you birds
aren't lying?" Zorn snarled. He stood up and strode up and down the room.
"You walk in here and tell me I'll have a squadron of Corps Peace Enforcers
on my neck, that the Corps won't recognize my regime. Maybe you're right; but
I've got other contacts. They say different." Whirling, he stared at
Retief.
"I have pretty good assurance
that once I put it over, the Corps will have to recognize me as the legal
de
facto
government of Petreac. They won't meddle in internal
affairs."
"Nonsense," Magnan spoke
up, "the Corps will never deal with a pack of criminals calling
themselves—"
"Watch your language,
you!" Zorn rasped.
"I'll admit Mr. Magnan's point
is a little weak," Retief said. "But you're overlooking something.
You plan to murder a dozen or so officers of the Corps Diplomatique
Terrestrienne along with the local wheels. The Corps won't overlook that. It
can't."
"Their tough luck they're in
the middle," Zorn muttered.
"Our offer is extremely
generous, Mr. Zorn," Magnan said. "The post you'll get will pay you
very well indeed; as against certain failure of your coup, the choice should be
simple."
Zorn eyed Magnan. "I thought
you diplomats weren't the type to go around making deals under the table.
Offering me a job—it sounds phony as hell."
"It's time you knew,"
Retief said. "There's no phonier business in the galaxy than
diplomacy."
"You'd better take it, Mr.
Zorn," Magnan said.
"Don't push me," Zorn
said. "You two walk into my headquarters empty-handed and big-mouthed. I
don't know what I'm talking to you for. The answer is no. N-i-x, no!"
"Who are you afraid off"
Retief said softly.
Zorn glared at him.
"Where do you get that
'afraid' routine? I'm top man here. What have I got to be afraid of?"
"Don't kid around, Zorn. Somebody's got you under his thumb. I can see you
squirming from here."
"What if I let your boys
alone?" Zorn said suddenly. "The Corps won't have anything to say
then, huh?"
"The Corps has plans for
Petreac, Zorn. You aren't part of them. A revolution right now isn't part of
them. Having the Potentate and the whole Nenni caste slaughtered isn't part of
them. Do I make myself clear?"
"Listen," Zorn said
urgently, "I'll tell you guys a few things. You ever heard of a world they
call Rotune?"
"Certainly," Magnan said.
"It's a near neighbor of yours, another backward—that is, emergent."
"Okay," Zorn said.
"You guys think I'm a piker, do you? Well, let me wise you up. The Federal
Junta on Rotune is backing my play. I’ll be recognized by Rotune, and the
Rotune fleet will stand by in case I need any help. I'll present the CDT with
what you call a
fait accompli
"What does Rotune get out of
this? I thought they were your traditional enemies."
"Don't get me wrong. I've got
no use for Rotune; but our interests happen to coincide right now."
"Do they?" Retief smiled
grimly. "You can spot a sucker as soon as he comes through that door out
there—but you go for a deal like this."
"What do you mean?" Zorn
looked angrily at Retief. "It's fool-proof."
"After you get in power,
you'll be fast friends with Rotune, is that it?"
"Friends, hell. Just give me
time to get set, and IH square a few things with that—"
"Exactly. And what do you
suppose they have in mind for you?"
"What are you getting
at?"
"Why is Rotune interested in
your take-over?"
Zorn studied Retief's face.
"I'll tell you why," he said. "It's you birds; you and your
trade agreement. You're here to tie Petreac into some kind of trade combine.
That cuts Rotune out. They don't like that. And anyway, we're doing all right
out here; we don't need any commitments to a lot of fancy- pants on the other
side of the galaxy."
"That's what Rotune has sold
you, eh?" Retief said, smiling,
"Sold, nothing—" Zorn
ground out his dope stick, then lit another. He snorted angrily.
"Okay—what's your idea?"
"You know what Petreac is
getting in the way of imports as a result of the trade agreement?"
"Sure, a lot of junk. Clothes
washers, tape projectors, all that kind of stuff."
"To be specific," Retief
said, "there'll be 50,000 Tatone B-3 dry washers; 100,000 Glo-float motile
lamps; 100,000 Earthworm Minor garden cultivators; 25,000 Veco space heaters;
and 75,000 replacement elements for Ford Mono- meg drives."
"Like I said: a lot of
junk," Zorn said.
Retief leaned back, looking
sardonically at Zorn. "Here's the gimmick, Zorn," he said. "The
Corps is getting a little tired of Petreac and Rotune carrying on their
two-penny war out here. Your privateers have a nasty habit of picking on
innocent bystanders. After studying both sides, the Corps has decided Petreac
would be a little easier to do business with; so this trade agreement was
worked out. The Corps can't openly sponsor an arms shipment to a belligerent;
but personal appliances are another story."
"So what do we do—plow 'em
under with back-yard cultivators?" Zorn looked at Retief, puzzled.
"What's the point?"
"You take the sealed monitor
unit from the washer, the repeller field generator from the lamp, the converter
control from the cultivator, et cetera, et cetera. You fit these together
according to some very simple instructions; presto! you have one hundred
thousand Standard-class Y hand blasters; just the thing to turn the tide in a
stalemated war fought with obsolete arms."
"Good Lord," Magnan said.
"Retief, are you—"
"I have to tell him. He has to
know what he's putting his neck into."
"Weapons, hey?" Zorn
said. "And Rotune knows about
it. . .
?
"Sure they know about it; it's
not too hard to figure out. And there's more. They want the CDT delegation
included in the massacre for a reason; it will put Petreac out of the picture;
the trade agreement will go to Rotune; and you. and your new regime will find
yourselves looking down the muzzles of your own blasters."
Zorn threw his dope-stick to the
floor with a snarl.
"I should have smelled
something when that Rotune agent made his pitch." Zorn looked at the clock
on the wall.
"I've got two hundred armed
men in the palace. We've got about forty minutes to get over there before the
rocket goes up."
In the shadows of the palace
terrace, Zorn turned to Retief, "You'd better stay here out of the way
until I've spread the word. Just in case."
"Let me caution you against
any . . . ah . . . slip-ups, Mr. Zorn," Magnan said. "The Nenni are
not to be molested."
Zorn looked at Retief. "Your
friend talks too much. I'll keep my end of it; he'd better keep his."
"Nothing's happened yet,
you're sure?" Magnan said.
"I'm sure," Zorn said.
"Ten minutes to go; plenty of time."
"I'll just step into the salon
to assure myself that all is well," Magnan said.
"Suit yourself. Just stay
clear of the kitchen, or you'll get your throat cut." Zorn sniffed at his
dope-stick. "I sent the word for Shoke," he muttered. "Wonder
what's keeping him?"
Magnan stepped to a tall glass
door, eased it open, and poked his head through the heavy draperies. As he
moved to draw back, a voice was faintly audible. Magnan paused, his head still
through the drapes.
"What's going on there?"
Zorn rasped. He and Retief stepped up behind Magnan.
". . . breath of air,"
Magnan was saying.
"Well, come along,
Magnan!" Ambassador Crodfoller's voice snapped.
Magnan shifted from one foot to the
other, then pushed through the drapes.
"Where've you been, Mr.
Magnan?" The ambassador's voice was sharp.
"Oh ... ah ...
a slight accident, Mr. Ambassador."
"What's happened to your
shoes? Where are your insignia and decorations?"
"I—ah—spilled a drink on them.
Maybe I'd better nip up to my room and slip into some fresh medals."
The ambassador snorted. "A
professional diplomat never shows his liquor, Magnan. It's one of his primary
professional skills. I'll speak to you about this later. I had expected your
attendance at the signing ceremony, but under the circumstances I'll dispense
with that. You'd better depart quietly through the kitchen."
"The kitchen? But it's
crowded ...
I mean .. ."
"A little loss of caste won't
hurt at this point, Mr. Magnan. Now kindly move along before you attract
attention. The agreement isn't signed yet."
"The agreement . . ."
Magnan babbled, sparring for time, "very clever, Mr. Ambassador. A very
neat solution."
The sound of an orchestra came up
suddenly, blaring a fanfare.
Zorn shifted restlessly, his ear
against the glass. "What's your friend pulling?" he rasped. "I
don't like this."
"Keep cool, Zorn. Mr. Magnan
is doing a little emergency salvage on his career."
The music died away with a clatter.
". . . my God."
Ambassador Crodfoller's voice was faint. "Magnan, you'll be knighted for
this. Thank God you reached me. Thank God it's not too late. I’ll find some
excuse. I'll get off a gram at once."
"But you—"
"It's all right, Magnan. You
were in time. Another ten minutes and the agreement would have been signed and
transmitted. The wheels would have been put in motion. My career would have
been ruined. . . ."
Retief felt a prod at his back. He
turned.
"Double-crossed," Zorn
said softly. "So much for the word of a diplomat."
Retief looked at the short-barreled
needier in Zorn's hand.
"I see you hedge your bets,
Zorn."
"We'll wait here until the
excitement's over inside. I wouldn't want to attract any attention right
now."
"Your politics are still
lousy, Zorn. The picture hasn't changed. Your coup hasn't got a chance." '
"Skip it. I'll take up one
problem at a time."
"Magnan's mouth has a habit of
falling open at the wrong time."
"That's my good luck I heard
it. So there'll be no agreement, no guns, no fat job for Tammany Zorn, hey?
Well, I can still play it the other way. What have I got to lose?"