He holstered the pistol, showed the small, smooth-stone-shaped slug gun. “This will be a foot from your back, so be a good little soldier and give all the right answers.”
The Groaci’s throat sacs dilated, vibrating. He cast a sidelong glance at the stripped body of the Greenback.
“The swift inevitability of your death,” he hissed in Groaci. “To anticipate with joy your end in frightful torment . . .”
“To button your mandible and march,” Retief interrupted. He pulled the door open. “After you, General . . .”
* * *
The blaze of stars scattered from horizon to horizon above the palace roof gleamed on the polished fittings of a low-slung heli parked on the royal pad. As Retief and his prisoner emerged from the service stair into the cold night air, there was a crunch of boots on gravel, the snick! of a power gun’s action. A dark shadow moved before Retief. Abruptly a searchlight’s beam glared in his eyes.
“Stand aside, idiot!” the Groaci hissed. The light flashed across to him; five beady, stemmed eyes glinted angrily at the guard.
“General Hish, sir . . .” The guard snapped off the light, presented arms hurriedly. Other boots sounded, coming across the rooftop helipad.
“What’s going on here? Tell these—” the voice broke off. In the gloom, barely relieved by starlight, Retief saw the newcomer start, then put a hand to his pistol butt.
“We require the use of the royal gig,” Hish whispered. “Stand aside!”
“But the orders—” the first guard started.
“General, drop!” the second bawled, hauling his gun out. Retief shot him, took a short step and drove a hard punch to the jaw of the first Greenback, then caught the Groaci’s arm, jumped for the heli. Yells sounded across the roof. A yard-wide light-cannon, gymbal-mounted atop the guard shack, winked on, throwing a grey-blue tunnel of light into the sky; it pivoted, depressed, swept a burning disc across to Retief—
He drew the power pistol, thumbed it to narrow beam, blasted the light; it exploded in a shower of tinkling glass, a billow of orange smoke that faded, winked out.
Retief shoved the slender Groaci ahead of him, yanked wide the heli’s entry hatch, tumbled his prisoner in, jumped after him. He flipped switches, rammed the control lever to EMERGENCY FULL CLIMB. With a whine of power, the finely-engineered craft leaped from the roof, surged upward in a buffet of suddenly stirred air. From below, the blue and yellow flashes of blasters winked briefly against the discs of the screaming rotors; then they dwindled away and were gone.
* * *
Half an hour later, Retief dropped the heli in low over the black tree-tops of the Deep Forest. A gleam of light reflected across rippling water. He edged the machine forward, swung out over the lake; below, the water churned in the down-draft from the rotors as the heli settled gently into two feet of water. Retief cut the engine and popped the hatch. Cold mountain air swirled in; somewhere, water lizards shrilled.
“What place of infamy is this?” the captive general hissed. He stared out into the darkness. “Do you bring me here to slay me unseen, vile disrespecter of diplomatic privilege?”
“The idea has merit,” Retief said, “but I have other plans for you, General.” He climbed down, motioned the Groaci out. Hish grumbled, scrambling down into the icy water of the lake, slogging to shore. From the darkness, a night-fowl called. Retief whistled a reply. There was the sound of a footstep in the brush, the click! of a cross-bow’s cocking mechanism.
“It’s Retief,” he called. “I have a guest: General Hish, of the Groaci Embassy.”
“Ah, welcome, Retief,” a soft voice drawled. “We’re honored, General. Good of you to call. His Highness was hoping you’d be along soon . . .”
* * *
Inside the high-beamed lodge, Prince Tavilan came across the room; behind him, Aric grinned.
“I caught the rat all right, Mr. Retief—”
“Retief!” Tavilan clapped him on the shoulder. “Aric reached me with your message an hour ago. I heard the news of your arrest on Tri-D; they broke into a concert to announce that a plot involving the CDT and reactionary Royalist elements had been uncovered.”
“Hidebinder will be very unhappy with that version of events,” Retief said. “The agreement was that it was all to be blamed on a rotten apple in the Corps barrel, namely me—”
“We were saddling up to storm the palace and free you, when your message reached me—”
“How many reliable men do you have available on short notice, Your Highness?” Retief cut in.
“I have thirty-eight of the Invincibles with me here; at least three others are under arrest on various pretexts. Four more managed to report in that they’re pinned down by `protective escorts’ but we can still strike—”
Retief shook his head. “That was the idea of arresting me, Your Highness—as a personal challenge to you, since my sympathies are well-known. Prouch wanted to bring you out into the open. An armed attack was just what he needed—and he was ready for you. He has at least two hundred Greenbacks in the palace—armed to the nines. Your raid would have been the signal for his take-over—to preserve the domestic tranquility, of course—and your death in the fighting would have left him a clear field.”
“What about the Palace Guard? They haven’t gone over . . . ?”
“Of course not . . .” Retief accepted a cigar, took a seat by the fire. “They’re standing fast, playing it by ear. The Grand Ball tonight gave them an excuse for full dress, including weapons, of course. The Greenbacks aren’t quite ready to start anything with them—yet.”
Tavilan stamped across the fire-beast-hide rug. “Blast it, Retief, we can’t sit here and watch Prouch and his mob move in unopposed! If we hit them now—before they’ve had time to consolidate—”
“—you’ll get every Royalist supporter in Elora City killed,” Retief finished for him. “Now, let’s consider the situation. Item: the Royal Fleet is grounded, courtesy of CDT policy. Item two: Prouch’s People’s Volunteer Naval Reserve Detachment of late-model Bogan destroyers is sitting in its launch-cradles at Grey Valley, fifteen miles from here—”
“They’re no threat to us; they can’t operate without fuel either.”
“They won’t have to,” Retief said, pulling out smoke. “Corps policy is nothing if not elastic. It seems that the Big Picture called for the supplying of the Volunteer Reserve with full magazines—”
“What!”
“—and the topping off of all tanks.”
Tavilan’s face was pale. “I see,” he said quietly, nodding. “The CDT talked disarmament to me while it was arming Prouch’s revolutionaries. It never intended to see the monarchy survive.”
“Well, Your Highness, the CDT is a very clean-minded organization, and it heard somewhere that `monarchy’ was a dirty word—”
“All right!” Prince Tavilan turned to Count Arrol. “We have mounts for every man—and plenty of cross-bow bolts. There’ll be Greenback blood on the palace floors before the night is out—”
“If I might make a suggestion . . . ?”
“You’re not involved in this, Retief. Take the copter and get clear—”
“Clear to where? I’ve been disowned by my colleagues and slapped in jail by the Prime Minister. To get back to the Little Picture: I see no point in our riding into Elora City and being shot down at long range by Greenbacks—”
“We’ll ride in at the Marivale Gate, move up through the fire-lanes—”
“If you’ll pardon my saying so,” Retief said, “I’ve got a better idea. It’s only fifteen miles to the Grey Valley . . .”
“So?”
“So I suggest we take a ride over and look at the Volunteer Navy.”
“You just told me Prouch’s renegades are armed to the teeth . . .”
Retief nodded. “Since we need guns, Your Highness, I can’t think of a closer place to get ’em . . .”
* * *
At the head of the troop of thirty-eight riders, including General Hish, lashed to a mount, Retief and Tavilan reined in at the crest of the slope that faced the barracks of the Peoples’ Volunteer Naval Reserve, a blaze of light all across the narrow valley. On the ramp a quarter of a mile beyond the administrative and shop areas, fifty slim destroyers loomed, bathed in the glare of polyarcs. Prince Tavilan whistled.
“Prouch and the CDT seem to have struck it off even better than I thought. That’s all brand-new equipment.”
“Just defensive, of course,” Retief said. “I believe Minister Prouch has given assurances that the elimination of Dangredi’s free-booters will be carried out with dispatch—just as soon as the CDT recognizes his regime.”
Tavilan laughed shortly. “I could have swept Dangredi off the space lanes six months ago—if the CDT hadn’t blockaded me.”
“Such are the vagaries of Galactic policy—”
“I know: the Big Picture again.” Tavilan turned to Arrol. “We’ll split into two parties, work around both ends of the valley, and pick our targets at close range. Retief, you ride with me. Let’s move out.”