“Very well, gentlemen, I’ll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it the Smørbrødian public are notified they can remain where they are. And by the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of the indetectible drive the Qornt use?”
“No, sir. That is, yes, sir.”
“Well? Well?”
“There isn’t any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground.”
“Underground? Doing what?”
“Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch.”
Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking to a tall man in a pilot’s coverall.
“I’ll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—your recruiting scheme, Retief,” Magnan said. “Suppose you run into the city to assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?”
Magnan raised his eyebrows. “You’re remarkably compliant today, Retief. I’ll arrange transportation—”
“Don’t bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilot who ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.”
Magnan nodded curtly.
“I’ll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief,” the pilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye. “An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you’re not consorting with his kind socially . . .”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Retief said. “We just want to go over a few figures together.”
THE PRINCE AND THE PIRATE
“The ancient defender of the principle of self-determination of peoples threw the elite of its diplomatic shock troops into the fight when local tradition was threatened at Elora. Holding himself aloof from internal bickering, Ambassador Hidebinder dealt shrewdly with diverse elements of the power picture, to forge a bright new page in Corps history . . .”
—Vol. VIII, Reel 7, 450 AE (AD 2951)
Retief reined in the tall-shouldered urze-beast with a jangle of the hunting-bells attached to the long-legged mount’s harness. The trail of the dirosaur led straight ahead, into a dense thicket of iron-rod trees fifty feet distant, now bent and twisted by the passing of the wounded monster. Far away, the hunting horns of the main party sounded; Retief smiled. Prince Tavilan would employ a choice selection of royal oaths when he learned that a mere diplomat had beaten him to the quarry’s turn-at-bay . . .
A windy screech sounded from the depths of the thicket; Retief raised his saddle-horn, blew an answering blast. There was a clanging of branches, a scraping of armored hide on metallic bark. Retief dropped the horn to swing at the pommel; with a pull of a lever, he cocked his cross-bow, sat his mount, waiting. A tiny head, mostly jaws, armed with a foot-long spike below the mouth, snaked out from the grove, hissing a ferocious warning. Retief’s urze-beast stirred, tossed its head at the scent of the dirosaur. Trees shuddered aside as the great carnivore forced its bulk between them, its golden-yellow eyes fixed on the man. A clawed foreleg as big as a man’s body set with rusty scales raked the ground, dragging the predator’s multi-ton bulk into the clear. With a final clangorous flick of its log-like tail, the dirosaur broke free, reared its head into striking position, and charged. Retief raised the cross-bow, took aim—
The cross-bow bucked; Retief spurred aside; he had a momentary glimpse of a two-foot shaft of polished steel protruding from the eye socket of the monster as it blundered past, the long neck falling, to collapse in a cloud of dust, lie twitching, then still.
* * *
It was five minutes before the hunt galloped into view, Prince Tavilan’s black crested urze-beast in the lead. He slowed to a canter, rode up beside the fallen dirosaur, sat looking down at the open-jawed head, the yellow eyes, glazing in death.
“That’s another barrel of royal vintage I owe you, Retief,” he said. “If I ever see the palace cellars again.” He was a tall, wide, sandy-haired man with a turned-up sunburned-nose. His leather forest garb was well worn; there were cockleburrs in the snow-tiger facings of his royal Eloran blue cape. The cross-bow slung across his back was his only weapon.
“We’re wasting time hunting game,” a rider at the prince’s side said. “There’s a plentiful supply of cross-bow bolts at the lodge; I propose we ride down to Elora City and distribute them among the good Prime Minister’s Greenbacks—point first.”
“The King still has hopes the CDT will revise its policy,” Tavilan glanced at Retief. “If the triple-damned embargo were lifted, Minister Prouch and his talk of a regency would evaporate faster than the royal treasury has under his control.”
“Oh, it’s not an Embargo, Your Highness,” Retief said. “I believe Ambassador Hidebinder refers to it as a unilateral shift in emphasis balance-of-trade-wise to a more group-oriented—”
“What it adds up to is the Royal Eloran Navy grounded, while traitors plot in the palace and Dangredi’s pirates raid shipping at the edge of Eloran atmosphere!” Tavilan smacked a fist into his palm. “I’ve got the finest corps of naval-combat commanders in the Eastern Arm, forty-five battle-ready ships of the line—and, thanks to CDT policy, no fuel! So much for my co-operation with your Ambassador, Retief!”
“Didn’t he explain that, Your Highness? If you had the Big Picture, it would all make sense. Of course, I’m a Small Picture man myself, so I’m afraid I can’t be of much help.”
“It’s not your doing, Retief. But ten million Elorans are about to have a dictatorship clamped on them because I lack a few megaton/seconds of firepower . . .”
“Your great-grandfather’s mistake was in being a romantic. If he’d named his planet Drab Conformity, set up a committee of bureaucrats to run it and used the forest to supply paper mills instead of hunting in them, you’d be the apple of the collective CDT eye today.”
“The old man led a hard life; when he found Elora it was a wilderness. He made his fortune—and then arranged matters here to suit himself—and we Elorans still like parties!”
Retief glanced at the sun. “Speaking of which, I’d better be starting back; the Grande Balle d’Elore is tonight and Mr. Magnan will be upset if I’m not there to help him hover nervously for at least an hour before the Ambassador comes down.”
“Retief, you’re not riding back to the city . . . ?” Count Arrol looked up from cutting out the dirosaur’s chin-horn. He stood. “I told you what my man reported. Your sympathies are too well-known to suit Prouch. Tonight, at the ball—”
“I don’t think the worthy Prime Minister will go that far. He’s dependent on the good will of the CDT—and diplomat-killing is bad publicity.”
“The Palace Guard is still loyal,” Tavilan said. “And remember the lad, Aric; you can trust him with any mission within his strength. He’s working in the palace as a mess-servant.” He laughed bitterly. “Think of us as you dance with the fair ladies of the court, Retief. If you see my father, tell him that my Invincibles and I will continue to skulk here in the Deep Forest as he commands—but we long for action.”
“I’ll get word to you, Tavilan,” Retief said. “My conspiratorial instinct tells me that there’ll be action enough for everybody before sunrise tomorrow.”
* * *
In the Grand Ballroom at the Palace of Elora, Retief cast an eye over the chattering elite of the court, the gorgeously gowned and uniformed couples, the glum representatives of the People’s Party, the gaudily uniformed diplomats from Yill, Fust, Flamme, and half a hundred other worlds. A cluster of spider-lean Groaci whispered together near a potted man-eating plant, one leaf of which quivered tentatively, seemed to sniff the aliens, withdrew hastily. Retief plucked a glass from a wide silver tray offered by a bright-eyed mess-boy in a brocaded bolero jacket and a cloth-of-gold turban, who glanced quickly around the crowded ballroom, then stepped close to whisper:
“Mr. Retief—the rascals are forcing the lock on your room!”
Retief passed the glass under his nose, sipped.
“Exactly which rascals do you mean, Aric?” he murmured. “We’ve got about four sets to choose from.”
Aric grinned. “A couple of the Groaci Ambassador’s boys,” he whispered. “The ones he usually uses for high-class back-alley work.”
Retief nodded. “That would be Yilith and Sith, formerly of the Groaci Secret Police. Things must be coming to a head. It’s not like old Lhiss to take such direct action.” He finished the drink in his hand, put the empty glass on a black marble table.
“Come on, Aric. Ditch that tray and let’s take a walk.”
In the broad mirror-hung corridor, Retief turned to the right.
“But, Mr. Retief,” Aric said. “Your apartment’s in the other direction . . .”
“They won’t find anything there, Aric—and it would be embarrassing for all concerned if I caught them red-handed. So while they’re occupied, I’ll just take this opportunity to search their rooms.”
* * *