Retief stepped to the machine, dropped the coin.
"If you want to change your mind," the man said, "you can back out now.
All it'll cost you is the chip you dropped."
Retief reached through the hole, took the grip. It was leather padded
hand-filling. He squeezed it. There was a click and bright lights sprang
up. The crowd ah!-ed. The globe began to twirl lazily. The four-inch
hole at its top was plainly visible.
"If ever the hole gets in position it will empty very quickly," Magnan
said, hopefully.
Suddenly, a brilliant white light flooded the glass cage. A sound went
up from the spectators.
"Quick, drop a chip," someone called.
"You've only got ten seconds...."
"Let go!" Magnan yelped.
Retief sat silent, holding the grip, frowning up at the weight. The
globe twirled faster now. Then the bright white light winked off.
"A bluff!" Magnan gasped.
"That's risky, stranger," the gray-templed man said.
The globe was turning rapidly now, oscillating from side to side. The
hole seemed to travel in a wavering loop, dipping lower, swinging up
high, then down again.
"It has to move to the bottom soon," Magnan said. "Slow it down."
"The slower it goes, the longer it takes to get to the bottom," someone
said.
There was a crackle and Retief stiffened. Magnan heard a sharp intake of
breath. The globe slowed, and Retief shook his head, blinking.
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
of the hole, six, eight....
"Next pass," a voice called.
The white 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. The
globe slowed, chips spewing. It stopped, swung back, weighted by the
mass of chips at the bottom, and stopped again with the hole centered.
[Illustration]
Chips cascaded down the chute, filled the box before Retief, 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, grinding out the stump of
his dope stick in a brass ashtray. "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. The other idea was fancier, I agree, but it won't work."
"How do I know you birds aren't lying?" Zorn snarled. He stood up,
strode up and down the room. "You walk in here and tell me I'll have a
task force on my neck, that the Corps won't recognize my regime. Maybe
you're right. But I've got other contacts. They say different." He
whirled, stared at Retief.
"I have pretty good assurance that once I put it over, the Corps will
have to recognize me as the legal 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 the certain failure
of your planned coup, the choice should be simple."
Zorn eyed Magnan. "Offering me a job--it sounds phony as hell. I thought
you birds were goody-goody diplomats."
"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, Junior!" 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 of?" Retief said softly.
Zorn glared at him.
"Where do you get that 'afraid' routine? I'm top man here!"
"Don't kid around, Zorn. Somebody's got you under their 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, pulling a chair around. "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 I'll 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. Well, 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, lit another. He snorted angrily.
"Okay; what's your idea?" he asked after a moment.
"You know what Petreac is getting in the way of imports as a result of
the agreement?"
"Sure. A lot of junk."
"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 Monomeg drives."
"Like I said. A lot of junk."
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," Retief said. "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 smoothie made his
pitch." Zorn looked at his watch.
"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."
V
"You'd better stay here on this terrace out of the way until I've spread
the word," Zorn said. "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," he said. "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," Zorn said. "Just stay clear of the kitchen, or you'll
get your throat cut." He sniffed at his dope-stick. "What's keeping
Shoke?" he muttered.
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, head still through the drapes.
"What's going on there?" Zorn rasped. He and Retief stepped up behind
Magnan.
"--breath of air, ha-ha," 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. Sir. Ah--listen...."
The sound of an orchestra came up suddenly, blaring a fanfare.
Zorn shifted restlessly, ear against the glass.
"What's your friend pulling?" he rasped. "I don't like this."
"Keep cool, Zorn," Retief said. "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 a gram off 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 ruined...."
Retief felt a prod at his back. He turned.
"Doublecrossed," Zorn said softly. "So much for the word of a diplomat."
* * * * *
Retief looked at the short-barreled needler in Zorn's hand.
"I see you hedge your bets, Zorn," he said.
"We'll wait here," Zorn said, "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 that 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?"
With a movement too quick to follow, Retief's hand chopped down across
Zorn's wrist. The needler clattered as Zorn reeled, and then Retief's
hand clamped Zorn's arm and whirled him around.
"In answer to your last question," Retief said, "your neck."
"You haven't got a chance, doublecrosser," Zorn gasped.
"Shoke will be here in a minute," Retief said. "Tell him it's all off."
"Twist harder, Mister," Zorn said. "Break it off at the shoulder. I'm
telling him nothing!"
"The kidding's over, Zorn," Retief said. "Call it off or I'll kill you."
"I believe you," Zorn said. "But you won't have long to remember it."
"All the killing will be for nothing," Retief said. "You'll be dead and
the Rotunes will step into the power vacuum."
"So what? When I die, the world ends."
"Suppose I make you another offer, Zorn?"
"Why would it be any better than the last one, chiseler?"
Retief released Zorn's arm, pushed him away, stooped and picked up the
needler.
"I could kill you, Zorn. You know that."
"Go ahead!"
Retief reversed the needler, held it out.
"I'm a gambler too, Zorn. I'm gambling you'll listen to what I have to
say."
Zorn snatched the gun, stepped back. He looked at Retief.
"That wasn't the smartest bet you ever made, Mister; but go ahead.
You've got maybe ten seconds."
"Nobody doublecrossed you, Zorn. Magnan put his foot in it. Too bad. Is
that a reason to kill yourself and a lot of other people who've bet
their lives on you?"
"They gambled and lost. Tough."
"Maybe you haven't lost yet--if you don't quit."
"Get to the point!"
Retief spoke earnestly for a minute and a half. Zorn stood, gun aimed,
listening. Then both men turned as footsteps approached along the
terrace. A fat man in a yellow sarong padded up to Zorn.
Zorn tucked the needler in his waistband.
"Hold everything, Shoke," he said. "Tell the boys to put the knives
away. Spread the word fast. It's all off."
* * * * *
"I want to commend you, Retief," Ambassador Crodfoller said expansively.
"You mixed very well at last night's affair. Actually, I was hardly
aware of your presence."
"I've been studying Mr. Magnan's work," Retief said.
"A good man, Magnan. In a crowd, he's virtually invisible."
"He knows when to disappear all right."
"This has been in many ways a model operation, Retief." The Ambassador
patted his paunch contentedly. "By observing local social customs and
blending harmoniously with the court, I've succeeded in establishing a
fine, friendly, working relationship with the Potentate."
"I understand the agreement has been postponed."
The Ambassador chuckled. "The Potentate's a crafty one. Through ... ah
... a special study I have been conducting, I learned last night that he
had hoped to, shall I say, 'put one over' on the Corps."
"Great heavens," Retief said.
"Naturally, this placed me in a difficult position. It was my task to
quash this gambit, without giving any indication that I was aware of its
existence."
"A hairy position indeed," Retief said.
"Quite casually, I informed the Potentate that certain items which had
been included in the terms of the agreement had been deleted and others
substituted. I admired him at that moment, Retief. He took it
coolly--appearing completely indifferent--perfectly dissembling his very
serious disappointment."
"I noticed him dancing with three girls wearing a bunch of grapes
apiece. He's very agile for a man of his bulk."
"You mustn't discount the Potentate! Remember, beneath that mask of
frivolity, he had absorbed a bitter blow."
"He had me fooled," Retief said.
"Don't feel badly; I confess at first I failed to sense his shrewdness."
The Ambassador nodded and moved off along the corridor.
Retief turned and went into an office. Magnan looked up from his desk.
"Ah," he said. "Retief. I've been meaning to ask you. About the ... ah
... blasters. Are you--?"
Retief leaned on Magnan's desk, looked at him.
"I thought that was to be our little secret."
"Well, naturally I--" Magnan closed his mouth, swallowed. "How is it,
Retief," he said sharply, "that you were aware of this blaster business,
when the Ambassador himself wasn't?"
"Easy," Retief said. "I made it up."
"You what!" Magnan looked wild. "But the agreement--it's been revised!
Ambassador Crodfoller has gone on record...."
"Too bad. Glad _I_ didn't tell him about it."
* * * * *
Magnan leaned back and closed his eyes.
"It was big of you to take all the ... blame," Retief said, "when the
Ambassador was talking about knighting people."
Magnan opened his eyes.
"What about that gambler, Zorn? Won't he be upset?"
"It's all right," Retief said, "I made another arrangement. The business
about making blasters out of common components wasn't completely
imaginary. You can actually do it, using parts from an old-fashioned
disposal unit."
"What good will that do him?" Magnan whispered, looking nervous. "We're
not shipping in any old-fashioned disposal units."
"We don't need to," Retief said. "They're already installed in the
palace kitchen--and in a few thousand other places, Zorn tells me."
"If this ever leaks...." Magnan put a hand to his forehead.
"I have his word on it that the Nenni slaughter is out. This place is
ripe for a change. Maybe Zorn is what it needs."
"But how can we _know?_" Magnan yelped. "How can we be sure?"
"We can't," Retief said. "But it's not up to the Corps to meddle in
Petreacs' internal affairs." He leaned over, picked up Magnan's desk
lighter and lit a cigar. He blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
"Right?"