“A space lawyer.” The captain turned. “Throw him out, boys,” he called.
Two big men edged into the cabin, stood looking at Retief. “Go on, pitch him out,” the captain snapped.
Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, swung his feet off the bunk. One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, and stepped forward, then hesitated.
“Hey,” he said. “This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?”
“That’s him,” the thick-necked man called. “Spilled Mr. Tony’s possessions right on the deck.”
“Deal me out,” the bouncer said. “He can stay put as long as he wants to. I signed on to move cargo. Let’s go, Moe.”
“You’d better be getting back to the bridge, Captain,” Retief said. “We’re due to lift in twenty minutes.”
The thick-necked man and the captain both shouted at once. The captain’s voice prevailed. “—twenty minutes . . . Uniform Code . . . gonna do?”
“Close the door as you leave,” Retief said.
The thick-necked man paused at the door. “We’ll see you when you come out.”
Four waiters passed Retief’s table without stopping. A fifth leaned against the wall nearby, a menu under his arm. At a table across the room, the captain, now wearing a dress uniform and with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of male passengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasional glances Retief’s way.
A panel opened in the wall behind Retief’s chair. Bright blue eyes peered out from under a white chef’s cap.
“Givin’ you the cold shoulder, heh, mister?”
“Looks like it, old timer. Maybe I’d better go join the skipper; his party seems to be having all the fun.”
“Fella has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there.”
“I see your point.”
“You set right where you’re at, mister. I’ll rustle you up a plate.”
Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two-ounce Delmonico nicely garnished with mushrooms and garlic butter.
“I’m Chip,” the chef said. “I don’t like the cap’n. You can tell him I said so. Don’t like his friends, either. Don’t like them dern Sweaties; look at a man like he was a worm.”
“You know how to fry a steak, Chip,” Retief said. He poured red wine into a glass. “Here’s to you.”
“Dern right,” Chip said. “Dunno who ever thought up broiling ’em. I got a Baked Alaska comin up in here for dessert. You like brandy in yer coffee?”
“Chip, you’re a genius.”
“Like to see a fella eat. I gotta go now; if you need anything, holler.”
Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days to Jorgensen’s Worlds. Then, if Magnan’s information was correct, there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was a temptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase; it would be good to know what Jorgensen’s Worlds would be up against.
Retief finished the steak, and the chef handed out the Baked Alaska and coffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tony and his retainers still sat at the captain’s table.
As Retief watched, four men arose from the table, sauntered across the room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, took a cigar from his mouth as he reached the table, dipped the lighted end in Retief’s coffee, looked at it, dropped it on the tablecloth.
The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.
“You must want to get to Jorgensen’s pretty bad,” the thug said in a grating voice. “What’s your game, hick?”
Retief looked at the coffee up, picked it up.
“I don’t think I want my coffee,” he said. He looked at the thug. “You drink it.”
The thug squinted at Retief. “A wise hick,” he began.
With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug’s face, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thug went down.
Retief looked at Mr. Tony, who stood open-mouthed.
“You can take your playmates away now, Tony,” he said. “And don’t bother to come around yourself. You’re not funny enough.”
Mr. Tony found his voice. “Take him, Marbles,” he growled.
The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic, brought out a long-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.
Retief heard the panel open beside him. “Here you go, mister,” Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honed French knife lay on the sill.
“Thanks, Chip. I won’t need it for these punks.”
Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking him under the table. The other man stepped back, fumbled a power pistol from his shoulder holster.
“Aim that at me, and I’ll kill you,” Retief said.
“Go on, burn him, Hoany!” Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him the captain appeared, white-faced.
“Put that away, you!” he yelled. “What kind of—”
“Shut up,” Mr. Tony said. “Put it away, Hoany. We’ll fix this bum later.”
“Not on this vessel, you won’t,” the captain said shakily. “I got my charter to—”
“Ram your charter,” Hoany said harshly. “You won’t be needing it long—”
“Button your floppy mouth, damn you,” Mr. Tony snapped. He looked at the two men on the floor. “Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump the slobs . . .” He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters came up. Retief watched as they carted the casualties from the dining room.
The panel opened. “I usta be about your size, when I was your age,” Chip said. “You handled them pansies right. I wouldn’t give ’em the time o’ day.”
“How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip?”
“Sure, mister. Anything else?”
“I’ll think of something,” Retief said. “This is shaping up into one of those long days.”
* * *
“They don’t like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin,” Chip said. “But the cap’n knows I’m the best cook in the Merchant Service; they won’t mess with me.”
“What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip?” Retief asked.
“They’re in some kind o’ crooked business together. You want some more of that smoked turkey?”
“Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen’s Worlds?”
“Dunno; hasn’t been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I sure like a fella that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was yer age.”
“I’ll bet you can still handle it, old-timer. What are Jorgensen’s Worlds like?”
“One of ’em’s cold as hell and three of ’em’s colder. Most o’ the Jorgies live on Svea; that’s the least froze up. Man don’t enjoy eatin’ his own cookin’ like he does somebody else’s.”
“That’s where I’m lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo’s the captain got aboard for Jorgensen’s?”
“Derned if I know. In and out o’ there like a grasshopper, ever few weeks. Don’t never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says. Don’t know what we even run in there for.”
“Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?”
“To Alabaster; that’s nine days’ run in-sector from Jorgensen’s. You ain’t got another of them cigars, have you?”
“Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship.”
“Plenty of space, mister. We got a dozen empty cabins.” Chip puffed the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and brandy.
“Them Sweaties is what I don’t like,” he said.
Retief looked at him questioningly.
“You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly-lookin’ devils. Skinny legs, like a lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery-lookin’ head; you can see the pulse beatin’ when they get riled.”
“I’ve never had the pleasure.”
“You’ll prob’ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever trip out; act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin’.”
There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.
“I ain’t superstitious ner nothin’,” said Chip, “but I’ll be triple-danged if that ain’t them boardin’ us now.”
Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door, accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy knock sounded.
“They got to look you over,” Chip whispered. “Nosey damn Sweaties.”
“Unlock it, Chip.” The chef threw the latch, opened the door.
“Come in, damn you,” he said.
A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-like feet tapping on the floor. A metal helmet shaded the deep-set compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees. Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.
“Yo’ papiss,” the alien rasped.
“Who’s your friend, captain?” Retief said.
“Never mind; just do like he tells you.”
“Yo’ papiss,” the alien said again.
“Okay,” Retief said. “I’ve seen it. You can take it away now.”
“Don’t horse around,” the captain said. “This fellow can get mean.”
The alien brought up two tiny arms from the concealment of the mantle, clicked toothed pincers under Retief’s nose. “Quick, soft one.”