"Personal belongings under duty-free entry."
"Guns?"
"No, thanks, just a cab."
"You got no gun?" The man raised his voice.
"That's right, fellows," Retief called out. "No gun; no knife, not
even a small fission bomb. Just a few pairs of socks and some reading
matter."
A brown-uniformed man ran from behind the Customs Counter, holding a
long-barreled blast-rifle centered on the Corps insignia stitched to
the pocket of Retief's powder-blue blazer.
"Don't try nothing," he said. "You're under arrest."
"It can't be overtime parking. I've only been here five minutes."
"Hah!" The gun-handler moved out from the counter, came up to Retief.
"Empty out your pockets!" he barked. "Hands overhead!"
"I'm just a diplomat, not a contortionist," Retief said, not moving.
"Do you mind pointing that thing in some other direction?"
"Looky here, Mister, I'll give the orders. We don't need anybody
telling us how to run our business."
"I'm telling you to shift that blaster before I take it away from you
and wrap it around your neck," Retief said conversationally. The cop
stepped back uncertainly, lowering the gun.
"Jake! Horny! Pud! come on out!"
Three more brown uniforms emerged from concealment.
"Who are you fellows hiding from, the top sergeant?" Retief glanced
over the ill-fitting uniforms, the unshaved faces, the scuffed boots.
"Tell you what. When he shows up, I'll engage him in conversation. You
beat it back to the barracks and grab a quick bath--"
"That's enough smart talk." The biggest of the three newcomers moved
up to Retief. "You stuck your nose in at the wrong time. We just had a
change of management around here."
"I heard about it," Retief said. "Who do I complain to?"
"Complain? What about?"
"The port's a mess," Retief barked. "Nobody on duty to receive official
visitors! No passenger service facilities! Why, do you know I had to
carry my own bag--"
"All right, all right, that's outside my department. You better see the
boss."
"The boss? I thought you got rid of the bosses."
"We did, but now we got new ones."
"They any better than the old ones?"
"This guy asks too many questions," the man with the gun said. "Let's
let Sozier answer 'em."
"Who's he?"
"He's the Military Governor of the City."
"Now we're getting somewhere," Retief said. "Lead the way, Jake--and
don't forget my bag."
* * * * *
Sozier was a small man with thin hair oiled across a shiny scalp,
prominent ears and eyes like coal chips set in rolls of fat. He
glowered at Retief from behind a polished desk occupying the center of
a spacious office.
"I warned you off," he snapped. "You came anyway." He leaned forward
and slammed a fist down on the desk. "You're used to throwing your
weight around, but you won't throw it around here! There'll be no spies
pussyfooting around Glave!"
"Looking for what, Mr. Sozier?"
"Call me General!"
"Mind if I sit down?" Retief pulled out a chair, seated himself and
took out a cigar. "Curiously enough," he said, lighting up, "the Corps
has no intention of making any embarrassing investigations. We deal
with the existing government, no questions asked." His eyes held the
other's. "Unless, of course, there are evidences of atrocities or other
illegal measures."
The coal-chip eyes narrowed. "I don't have to make explanations to you
or anybody else."
"Except, presumably, the Glavian Free Electorate," Retief said blandly.
"But tell me, General--who's actually running the show?"
A speaker on the desk buzzed. "Hey, Corporal Sozier! Wes's got them two
hellions cornered. They're holed up in the Birthday Cake--"
"General Sozier, damn you! and plaster your big mouth shut!" He
gestured to one of the uniformed men standing by.
"You! Get Trundy and Little Moe up here--pronto!" He swiveled back to
Retief. "You're in luck. I'm too busy right now to bother with you.
You get back over to the port and leave the same way you came--and tell
your blood-sucking friends the easy pickings are over as far as Glave's
concerned. You won't lounge around here living high and throwing big
parties and cooking up your dirty deals to get fat on at the expense of
the working man."
Retief dribbled ash on Sozier's desk and glanced at the green uniform
front bulging between silver buttons.
"Who paid for your potbelly, Sozier?" he inquired carelessly.