“That’s the best speed I ever seen on the Slam ball,” someone said. “How much longer can he hold it?”
Magnan looked at Retief’s knuckles. They showed white against the grip. The globe tilted farther, swung around, then down; two chips fell out, clattered down a chute and into a box.
“We’re ahead,” Magnan said. “Let’s quit.”
Retief shook his head. The globe rotated, dipped again; three chips fell.
“She’s ready,” someone called.
“It’s bound to hit soon,” another voice added excitedly. “Come on, mister!”
“Slow down,” Magnan said. “So it won’t move past too quickly.”
“Speed it up, before that lead block gets you,” someone called.
The hole swung high, over the top, then down the side. Chips rained out, six, eight . . .
“Next pass,” a voice called.
The white warning light flooded the cage. The globe whirled; the hole slid over the top, down, down . . . a chip fell, two more . . .
Retief half rose, clamped his jaw, and crushed the grip. Sparks flew, and the globe slowed, chips spewing. It stopped and swung back. Weighted by the mass of chips at the bottom, it stopped again with the hole centered. Chips cascaded down the chute, filled the box and spilled on the floor. The crowd yelled.
Retief released the grip and withdrew his arm at the same instant that the lead block slammed down.
“Good lord,” Magnan said. “I felt that through the floor.”
Retief turned to the broad-shouldered man.
“This game’s all right for beginners,” he said. “But I’d like to talk a really big gamble. Why don’t we go to your office, Mr. Zorn?”
* * *
“Your proposition interests me,” Zorn said, an hour later. “But there’s some angles to this I haven’t mentioned yet.”
“You’re a gambler, Zorn, not a suicide,” Retief said. “Take what I’ve offered. Your dream of revolution was fancier, I agree, but it won’t work.”
“How do I know you birds aren’t lying?” Zorn snarled. He stood up and strode up and down the room. “You walk in here and tell me I’ll have a squadron of Corps Peace Enforcers on my neck, that the Corps won’t recognize my regime. Maybe you’re right; but I’ve got other contacts. They say different.” Whirling, he stared at Retief.
“I have pretty good assurance that once I put it over, the Corps will have to recognize me as the legal de facto government of Petreac. They won’t meddle in internal affairs.”
“Nonsense,” Magnan spoke up, “the Corps will never deal with a pack of criminals calling themselves—”
“Watch your language, you!” Zorn rasped.
“I’ll admit Mr. Magnan’s point is a little weak,” Retief said. “But you’re overlooking something. You plan to murder a dozen or so officers of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne along with the local wheels. The Corps won’t overlook that. It can’t.”
“Their tough luck they’re in the middle,” Zorn muttered.
“Our offer is extremely generous, Mr. Zorn,” Magnan said. “The post you’ll get will pay you very well indeed; as against certain failure of your coup, the choice should be simple.”
Zorn eyed Magnan. “I thought you diplomats weren’t the type to go around making deals under the table. Offering me a job—it sounds phony as hell.”
“It’s time you knew,” Retief said. “There’s no phonier business in the galaxy than diplomacy.”
“You’d better take it, Mr. Zorn,” Magnan said.
“Don’t push me,” Zorn said. “You two walk into my headquarters empty-handed and big-mouthed. I don’t know what I’m talking to you for. The answer is no. N-i-x, no!”
“Who are you afraid of?” Retief said softly.
Zorn glared at him.
“Where do you get that `afraid’ routine? I’m top man here. What have I got to be afraid of?”
“Don’t kid around, Zorn. Somebody’s got you under his thumb. I can see you squirming from here.”
“What if I let your boys alone?” Zorn said suddenly. “The Corps won’t have anything to say then, huh?”
“The Corps has plans for Petreac, Zorn. You aren’t part of them. A revolution right now isn’t part of them. Having the Potentate and the whole Nenni caste slaughtered isn’t part of them. Do I make myself clear?”
“Listen,” Zorn said urgently, “I’ll tell you guys a few things. You ever heard of a world they call Rotune?”
“Certainly,” Magnan said. “It’s a near neighbor of yours, another backward—that is, emergent.”
“Okay,” Zorn said. “You guys think I’m a piker, do you? Well, let me wise you up. The Federal Junta on Rotune is backing my play. I’ll be recognized by Rotune, and the Rotune fleet will stand by in case I need any help. I’ll present the CDT with what you call a fait accompli.”
“What does Rotune get out of this? I thought they were your traditional enemies.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got no use for Rotune; but our interests happen to coincide right now.”
“Do they?” Retief smiled grimly. “You can spot a sucker as soon as he comes through that door out there—but you go for a deal like this.”
“What do you mean?” Zorn looked angrily at Retief. “It’s fool-proof.”
“After you get in power, you’ll be fast friends with Rotune, is that it?”
“Friends, hell. Just give me time to get set, and I’ll square a few things with that—”
“Exactly. And what do you suppose they have in mind for you?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Why is Rotune interested in your take-over?”
Zorn studied Retief’s face. “I’ll tell you why,” he said. “It’s you birds; you and your trade agreement. You’re here to tie Petreac into some kind of trade combine. That cuts Rotune out. They don’t like that. And anyway, we’re doing all right out here; we don’t need any commitments to a lot of fancy-pants on the other side of the galaxy.”
“That’s what Rotune has sold you, eh?” Retief said, smiling.
“Sold, nothing—” Zorn ground out his dope-stick, then lit another. He snorted angrily.
“Okay—what’s your idea?”
“You know what Petreac is getting in the way of imports as a result of the trade agreement?”
“Sure, a lot of junk. Clothes washers, tape projectors, all that kind of stuff.”
“To be specific,” Retief said, “there’ll be 50,000 Tatone B-3 dry washers; 100,000 Glo-float motile lamps; 100,000 Earthworm Minor garden cultivators; 25,000 Veco space heaters; and 75,000 replacement elements for Ford Mono-meg drives.”
“Like I said: a lot of junk,” Zorn said.
Retief leaned back, looking sardonically at Zorn. “Here’s the gimmick, Zorn,” he said. “The Corps is getting a little tired of Petreac and Rotune carrying on their two-penny war out here. Your privateers have a nasty habit of picking on innocent bystanders. After studying both sides, the Corps has decided Petreac would be a little easier to do business with; so this trade agreement was worked out. The Corps can’t openly sponsor an arms shipment to a belligerent; but personal appliances are another story.”
“So what do we do—plow ’em under with back-yard cultivators?” Zorn looked at Retief, puzzled. “What’s the point?”
“You take the sealed monitor unit from the washer, the repeller field generator from the lamp, the converter control from the cultivator, et cetera, et cetera. You fit these together according to some very simple instructions; presto! you have one hundred thousand Standard-class Y hand blasters; just the thing to turn the tide in a stalemated war fought with obsolete arms.”
“Good lord,” Magnan said. “Retief, are you—”
“I have to tell him. He has to know what he’s putting his neck into.”
“Weapons, hey?” Zorn said. “And Rotune knows about it . . . ?”
“Sure they know about it; it’s not too hard to figure out. And there’s more. They want the CDT delegation included in the massacre for a reason; it will put Petreac out of the picture; the trade agreement will go to Rotune; and you and your new regime will find yourselves looking down the muzzles of your own blasters.”
Zorn threw his dope-stick to the floor with a snarl.
“I should have smelled something when that Rotune agent made his pitch.” Zorn looked at the clock on the wall.
“I’ve got two hundred armed men in the palace. We’ve got about forty minutes to get over there before the rocket goes up.”
* * *
In the shadows of the palace terrace, Zorn turned to Retief. “You’d better stay here out of the way until I’ve spread the word. Just in case.”
“Let me caution you against any . . . ah . . . slip-ups, Mr. Zorn,” Magnan said. “The Nenni are not to be molested.”
Zorn looked at Retief. “Your friend talks too much. I’ll keep my end of it; he’d better keep his.”
“Nothing’s happened yet, you’re sure?” Magnan said.
“I’m sure,” Zorn said. “Ten minutes to go; plenty of time.”
“I’ll just step into the salon to assure myself that all is well,” Magnan said.
“Suit yourself. Just stay clear of the kitchen, or you’ll get your throat cut.” Zorn sniffed at his dope-stick. “I sent the word for Shoke,” he muttered. “Wonder what’s keeping him?”