At the top of the wide spiral staircase that led from the public areas of the palace to the living quarters assigned to foreign diplomatic missions, Retief paused.
“You wait here, Aric.” He went along the corridor to the third door, a simple white-painted panel edged with a tiny carved floral design. He tried the large gold doorknob, then took a slender instrument from an inner pocket of his silver-epauletted tangerine mess jacket and delicately probed the lock. The bolt snicked back. He eased the door open, glanced around, then stepped back out and beckoned Aric to him.
“How’d you get it open, Mr. Retief?”
“Locks are a hobby of mine. Patrol the corridor, and if you see anybody, cough. If it’s one of my Groaci colleagues, have a regular paroxysm. I won’t be long.”
Inside the room, Retief made a fast check of the desk, the dresser drawers, the undersides of furniture. He slapped sofa cushions, prodded mattresses for telltale cracklings, then opened the closet door. Through the wall, faint voices were audible, scratchy with the quality of narrow-range amplification. He stooped, plucked a tiny earphone from a miniature wall bracket. Ambassador Lhiss, it appeared, was not immune from eavesdropping by his own staff.
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 . . .”