“A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately, Jorgensen’s Worlds are backward, technologically undeveloped areas. They’re farmers, traders; their industry is limited to a minor role in their economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The war potential, by conventional standards, is nil.”
Magnan tapped the folder before him.
“I have here,” he said solemnly, “information which will change that picture completely.” He leaned back, blinked at Retief.
“All right, Mr. Secretary,” Retief said. “I’ll play along; what’s in the folder?”
Magnan spread his fingers, folded one digit down.
“First,” he said, “the Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunate enough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegade Terrestrials who’ve been advising the Soetti.” He folded another finger. “Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen’s people, worked out by the Theory Group.” He wrestled a third finger down. “Lastly, an Utter Top Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-acceleration field into a potent weapon—a development our Systems people have been holding in reserve for just such a situation.”
“Is that all? You’ve still got two fingers sticking up.”
Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away. “This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this information could be catastrophic. You’ll memorize it before you leave this building—”
“I’ll carry it, sealed,” Retief said. “That way nobody can sweat it out of me.”
“As you wish. Now, let me caution you against personal emotional involvement here. Overall policy calls for a defense of these backwater worlds; otherwise, the Corps would prefer simply to allow History to follow its natural course, as always.”
“When does this attack happen?”
“In less than four weeks.”
“That doesn’t leave me much time.”
“I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as Aldo Cerise. You’ll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest of the way.”
“And what do I rely on to get me back?”
Magnan looked casually at his fingernails. “Of course you could refuse the assignment . . .”
Retief smiled, directed a smoke ring past Magnan’s ear.
“This antiac conversion; how long does it take?”
“A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every second man is a mechanic of some sort.”
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets inside.
“Less than four hours to departure time,” he said. “I’d better not start any long books.”
“You’d better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination,” Magnan said.
Retief stood up. “If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.”
“The allusion escapes me,” Magnan said coldly. “And one last word: the Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen’s Worlds. Don’t get yourself interned.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Retief said soberly; “in a pinch, I’ll mention your name.”
“You’ll be traveling with Class X credentials,” Magnan snapped. “There must be nothing to connect you with the Corps.”
“I’ll pose as a gentleman. They’ll never guess.”
“You’d better be getting started.” Magnan shuffled papers.
“You’re right. If I work at it, I might manage a snootful by take-off.” He went to the door, looked back.
“No objection to my checking out a needler, is there?”
Magnan looked up. “I suppose not. What do you want with it?”
“Just a feeling I’ve got.”
“Please yourself.”
“Some day,” Retief said, “I may take you up on that.”
* * *
Retief put down the heavy, travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend “ALDO CERISE INTERPLANETARY.” A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails and watched Retief from the corner of his eye; he nipped off a ragged corner with rabbit-like front teeth, spat it on the floor. “Was there something?” he said.
“Two-twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group. Is it on schedule?”
The clerk nibbled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief.
“Filled up. Try again in a couple of weeks.”
“What time does it leave?”
The clerk smiled pityingly. “It’s my lunch hour. I’ll be open in an hour.” He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
“If I have to come around this counter,” Retief said, “I’ll feed that thumb to you the hard way.”
The clerk looked up, opened his mouth, caught Retief’s eye. He closed his mouth and swallowed.
“Just as it says there,” he said, jerking the thumb at the board. “Lifts in an hour. But you won’t be on it,” he added.
Retief looked at him.
“Some . . . ah . . . VIPs required accommodation,” the clerk said. He hooked a finger inside the sequined collar. “All tourist reservations were canceled,” he went on. “You’ll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship next—”
“Which gate?” Retief said.
“For . . . ah . . . ?”
“Two-twenty-eight for Jorgensen’s Worlds.”
“Well,” said the clerk. “Gate 19,” he added quickly. “But—”
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign reading “To gates 16-30.”
“Smart-alec,” the clerk said behind him.
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man with a scarred jawline and small eyes, wearing a rumpled grey uniform, put out a hand as Retief started past him.
“Lessee your boarding pass,” he growled.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it. “Whassat?”
“A ‘gram confirming my space. Your boy on the counter says he’s out to lunch.”
The guard crumbled the ‘gram, dropped it on the floor, lounged back against the handrail.
“On your way, bum,” he said.
Retief put his suitcase down carefully, took a step and drove a right into the guard’s midriff, stepped aside as the man doubled and went to his knees.
“You were wide open, ugly. I couldn’t resist.” Retief picked up his bag. “Tell your boss I sneaked past while you were resting your eyes.” He stepped over the man and went up the gangway into the ship. A pimply youth in stained white came along the corridor.
“Which way to cabin fifty-seven?” Retief asked.
“Up there.” The boy jerked his head, hurried on. Retief made his way along the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven. The door was open. Inside, unfamiliar baggage was piled in the center of the floor. A tall florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood in the open door. He looked at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid man clamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.
“Somebody in the cabin. Get ’em out.” He rolled a cold eye at Retief, backed out of the room. A short thick-necked man appeared.
“What are you doing in Mr. Tony’s room?” he barked. “Never mind; clear out of here, fellow. You’re keeping Mr. Tony waiting.”
“Too bad,” Retief said. “Finders keepers.”
“You nuts or something?” The thick-necked man stared at Retief. “I said it’s Mr. Tony’s room.”
“I don’t know Mr. Tony. He’ll have to bull his way into other quarters.”
“We’ll see about you, mister.” The man turned and went out. Retief sat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices in the corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at an oversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it with a crash, glanced at Retief, and went out. The thick-necked man appeared again.
“All right, you; out,” he growled. “Or have I got to have you thrown out?”
Retief rose, clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped a handle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heaved the trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to the door.
“Catch,” he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against the far wall of the corridor and burst. Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. The face of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.
“Mister, you must be—”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Retief said. “It’s time for my nap.” He flipped the door shut, pulled off his shoes, and stretched out on the bed.
Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open. Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, a blue turtleneck sweater, and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eye stared at Retief.
“Is this the joker?” he grated.
The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief, snorted. “That’s him, sure.”
“I’m captain of this vessel,” the gaunt man said. “You’ve got two minutes to haul your freight out of here. Get moving, Buster.”
“When you can spare the time,” Retief said, “take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code. That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged in interplanetary commerce.”