Retief nodded. “The uniform has its uses,” he agreed. He tried the drink. “Say, what is this? It’s not bad.”
“Sugar-weed rum; made from a marine plant. We have plenty of ocean here on Glave; there’s only the one continent, you know, and it’s useless for agriculture.”
“Weather?”
“That’s part of it; Glave is moving into what would be a major glaciation if it weren’t for a rather elaborate climatic control installation. Then there are the tides; half the continent would be inundated twice a year when our satellite is at aphelion; there’s a system of baffles, locks and deep-water pumps that maintain the shore-line more or less constant; we still keep our cities well inland. Then there are the oxygen generators, the atmosphere filtration complex, vermin control, and so on. Glave in its natural state is a rather hostile world.”
“I’m surprised that your mines can support it all.”
“Oh, they don’t.” Corasol shook his head. “Two hundred years ago, when the company first opened up Glave, it was economical enough. Quintite was a precious mineral in those days. Synthetics have long since taken over. Even fully automated, the mines barely support the public services and welfare system.”
“I seem to recall a reference in the Post Report to the effect that a Company petition to vacate its charter had been denied . . .”
Corasol nodded, smiling wryly. “The CDT seemed to feel that as long as any of the world’s residents desired to remain, the Company was constrained to oblige them. The great majority departed long ago, of course—relocated to other operational areas. Only the untrainables, living off welfare funds—and a skeleton staff of single men to operate the technical installations—have stayed on.”
“What do you mean—untrainable?”
“There’s always a certain percentage of any population with the conviction that society is a conspiracy to deny them their rights. The right to be totally ignorant of any useful knowledge seems to be the basic one. Most societies can carry the burden of these drones—along with the criminal and idiot classes—as mere minority problems. Here on Glave, they’ve constituted the population—with the planet operated to maintain them. Some of them have opened small businesses—of the kind that require only a native shrewdness and a stomach for the popular tastes. Of course, they still regard any material advantages possessed by the productive as flagrant evidence of discrimination.”
“That explains the mechanics of the recent uprising,” Retief said.
The bottle clinked against glasses for a second round. “What about the good corporal?” Retief asked. “Assuming he’s a strong swimmer, you should be hearing from him soon.”
Corasol glanced at his finger watch. “I imagine he’ll be launching his gas attack any minute.”
“The prospect doesn’t seem to bother you.”
“Sozier is a clever enough chap in his own way,” Corasol said. “But he has a bad habit of leaping to conclusions. He’s gotten hold of a tank of what someone has told him is gas—as indeed it is. Hydrogen, for industrial use. It seems the poor fellow is under the impression that anything masquerading as gas will have a lethal effect.”
“He may be right—if he pumps it in fast enough.”
“Oh, he won’t be pumping it—not after approximately five minutes from now.”
“Hmmm. I think I’m beginning to see the light. `Power off at sunset . . . ‘”
Corasol nodded. “I don’t think he realizes somehow that all his vehicles are operating off broadcast power.”
“Still, he has a good-sized crowd of hopefuls with him. How do you plan to get through them?”
“We don’t; we go under. There’s an extensive system of service ways underlying the city; another detail which I believe has escaped the corporal’s notice.”
“You’ll be heading for the port?”
“Yes—eventually. First, we have a few small chores to see to. Sozier has quite a number of our technical men working at gun point to keep various services going.”
Retief nodded. “It won’t be easy breaking them out; I made a fast tour of the city this afternoon; locked doors, armed guards—”
“Oh, the locks are power-operated, too. Our fellows will know what to do when the power fails. I think the sudden darkness will eliminate any problem from the guards.”
The lights flickered and died. The whine of the turbines was suddenly noticeable, descending. Faint cries sounded from outside.
Corasol switched on a small portable lantern. “All ready, gentlemen?” he called, rising. “Let’s move out. We want to complete this operation before dawn.”
* * *
Four hours later, Retief stood with Corasol in a low-ceilinged tunnel, white-tiled, brilliantly lit by a central glare strip, watching as the last of the column of men released from forced labor in the city’s utilities installations filed past. A solidly-built man with pale blond hair came up, breathing hard.
“How did it go, Taine?” Corasol asked.
“They’re beginning to catch on, Mr. Corasol. We had a brisk time of it at Station Four. Everybody’s clear now. No one killed, but we had a few injuries.”
Corasol nodded. “The last few crews in have reported trouble. “Ah—what about—”
Taine shook his head. “Sorry, Sir. No trace. No one’s seen them. But they’re probably at the port ahead of us, hiding out. They’d know we’d arrive eventually.”
“I suppose so. You sent word to them well in advance . . .”
“Suppose I stand by here with a few men; we’ll patrol the tunnels in case they show up. We have several hours before daylight.”
“Yes. I’ll go along and see to the preparations at Exit Ten. We’ll make our sortie at oh-five-hundred. If you haven’t seen anything of them by then . . .”
“I’m sure they’re all right.”
“They’d better be,” Corasol said grimly. “Let’s be off, Retief.”
“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Manager-General, I’ll stay here with Taine; I’ll join you later.”
“As you wish. I don’t imagine there’ll be any trouble—but if there is, having a CDT observer along will lend a certain air to the operation.” He smiled, shook Retief’s hand and moved off along the tunnel. The echo of feet and voices grew faint, faded to silence. Taine turned to the three men detailed to him, conversed briefly, sent them off along branching corridors. He glanced at Retief.
“Mr. Retief, you’re a diplomat. This errand is not a diplomatic one.”
“I’ve been on a few like that, too, Mr. Taine.”
Taine studied Retief’s face. “I can believe that,” he said. “However, I think you’d better rejoin the main party.”
“I might be of some use here, if your missing men arrive under fire.”
“Missing men?” Taine’s mouth twisted in a sour smile. “You fail to grasp the picture, Mr. Retief. There’ll be no missing men arriving.”
“Oh? I understood you were waiting here to meet them.”
“Not men, Mr. Retief. It happens that Corasol has twin daughters, aged nineteen. They haven’t been seen since the trouble began.”
* * *
Half an hour passed. Retief leaned against the tunnel wall, arms folded, smoking a cigar in silence. Taine paced, ten yards up the corridor, ten yards back . . .
“You seem nervous, Mr. Taine,” Retief said.
Taine stopped pacing, eyed Retief coldly. “You’d better go along now,” he said decisively. “Just follow the main tunnel; it’s about a mile—”
“Plenty of time yet, Mr. Taine.” Retief smiled and drew on his cigar. “Your three men are still out—”
“They won’t be back here; we’ll rendezvous at Exit Ten.”
“Am I keeping you from something, Taine?”
“I can’t be responsible for your safety if you stay here.”
“Oh? You think I might fall victim to an accident?”
Taine narrowed his eyes. “It could happen,” he said harshly.
“Where were the girls last seen?” Retief asked suddenly.
“How would I know?”
“Weren’t you the one who got word to them?”
“Maybe you’d better keep out of this.”
“You sent your men off; now you’re eager to see me retire to a safe position. Why the desire for solitude, Taine? You wouldn’t by any chance have plans . . . ?”
“That’s enough,” Taine snapped. “On your way. That’s an order!”
“There are some aspects of this situation that puzzle me, Mr. Taine. Mr. Corasol has explained to me how he and his Division Chiefs—including you—were surprised in the Executive Suite at Planetary Control, by a crowd of Sozier’s bully-boys. They came in past the entire security system without an alarm. Corasol and the others put up a surprisingly good fight and made it to the service elevators—and from there to the Sub-station. There was even time to order an emergency alert to the entire staff—but somehow, they were all caught at their stations and kept on the job at gun point. Now, I should think that you, as Chief of Security as well as Communications, should have some idea as to how all this came about.”
“Are you implying—”
“Let me guess, Taine. You have a deal with Sozier. He takes over, ousts the legal owners, and set himself up to live off the fat of the land, with you as his technical chief. Then, I imagine, you’d find it easy enough to dispose of Sozier—and you’d be in charge.”