Without warning, Taine put his head down and charged. Retief dropped his cigar, side-stepped, and planted a solid right on Taine’s jaw. He staggered, went to his hands and knees.
“I suppose you’d like to get word to Sozier that his work force is arriving at the port at oh-five-hundred,” Retief said. “Of course, he’ll want to have a good-sized reception committee on hand as they come out—”
Taine plunged to his feet, threw a vicious left that went past Retief’s ear, then abruptly dropped, clamped a lock on Retief’s leg, twisted—
The two men rolled, came to rest with Taine on top, Retief face-down, his arm bent back and doubled. Taine, red-faced and puffing, grunted as he applied pressure.
“You know a lot about me,” he granted, “but you overlooked the fact that I’ve been Glavian Judo champion for the past nine years.”
“You’re a clever man, Taine,” Retief said between clenched teeth. “Too clever to think it will work.”
“It will work. Glave’s never had a CDT mission here before; we’re too small. Corasol invited your Embassy in because he had an idea there was something in the wind. That forced my hand. I’ve had to move hastily. But by the time I invite observers in to see for themselves, everything will be running smoothly. I can even afford to let Corasol and the others go—I’ll have hostages for his good behavior.”
“You’ve been wanting to boast about it to someone who could appreciate your cleverness, I see. Sozier must be an unappreciative audience.”
“Sozier’s a filthy pig—but he had his uses.”
“What do you plan to do now?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself—but I think the best solution is simply break your arm for now. You should be easy to control then. It’s quite simple; I merely apply pressure, thus . . .”
“Judo is a very useful technique,” Retief said. “But in order to make it work, you have to be a pretty good man . . .” He moved suddenly, shifting his position. Taine grabbed, holding Retief’s arm by the wrist and elbow, his own arm levering Retief’s back, back . . . Retief twisted onto his side, then his back. Taine grunted, following the movement, straining. Slowly, Retief sat up against Taine’s weight. Then, with a surge, he straightened his arm. Taine’s grip broke. Retief came to his feet. Taine scrambled up in time to meet a clean uppercut.
“Ah, there you are,” Retief said as Taine’s eyes fluttered and opened. “You’ve had a nice nap—almost fifteen minutes. Feeling better?”
Taine snarled, straining against the bonds on his wrists.
“Gold braid has its uses,” Retief commented. “Now that you’re back, perhaps you can answer a question for me. What’s the Birthday Cake?”
Taine spat. Retief went to stand over him.
“Time is growing short, Mr. Taine. It will be dawn in another two hours. I can’t afford the luxury of coaxing you. You’d better answer my question.”
“You won’t get away with this.”
Retief looked at the glowing end of his cigar. “This won’t be subtle, I agree—but it will work . . .”
“You’re bluffing.”
Retief leaned closer. “In my place—would you hesitate?” he asked softly.
Taine cursed, struggled to break free, eyes on the cigar.
“What kind of diplomat are you?” he snarled.
“The modern variety; throat-cutting, thumb-screws, poison and stiletto work were popular in Machiavelli’s time; nowadays we go in more for the administrative approach—but the cigar-end still has its role.”
“Look—we can come to an agreement—”
“What’s the Birthday Cake?” Retief snapped.
“I’m in a position to do a lot for you—”
“Last chance—”
“It’s the official Residence of the Manager-General!” Taine screeched, writhing away from the cigar.
“Where is it? Talk fast!”
“You’ll never get close! There’s a seven-foot wall and by this time the grounds are swarming with Sozier’s men—”
“Nevertheless, I want to know where it is—and the information had better be good. If I don’t come back, you’ll have a long wait.”
Taine groaned. “All right. Put that damned cigar away. I’ll tell you what I can . . .”
* * *
Retief stood in the shadow of a vine-grown wall, watching the five-man guard detail at the main gate to the Residence grounds. The bluish light of the Glavian satellite reflected from the rain-pocked street, glinted from the leaves of a massive tree ten yards from the gate. The chill in the air cut through Retief’s wet clothes; the men at the gate huddled, hands in pockets, coat collars turned up, backs to the wind—and to Retief. He moved silently forward, caught a low branch of the tree, pulled himself up. The men at the gate exchanged muttered remarks. One lit a cigarette. Retief waited, then moved higher. The guards talked in low voices, edged closer to the shelter of the gate-house. Retief lowered himself onto the wall, dropped down onto the sodden lawn, crouched, waiting. There was no alarm.
Through the trees the dark shape of the house loomed up, its top story defiantly ablaze with lights. Retief moved off silently, from the shadow of one tree to the next, swinging in an arc that would bring him to the rear of the great round structure. He froze as the heavy footfalls of one of Sozier’s pickets slogged past five yards from him, then moved on. The glow of a camp-fire flickered near the front of the house. Retief could make out the shapes of men around it—a dozen or two, at least. Probably as many more warmed themselves at each of the other fires visible on the grounds—and most of the rest had doubtless found dryer shelter in the lee of the house itself.
Retief reached the conservatory at the rear of the house, studied the dark path leading to the broad terrace, picked out the squat shape of the utilities manifold behind a screen of shrubbery. So far, Taine’s information had been accurate. The next step was to—
There was a faint sound from high above, followed by a whoosh!— Then, with a sharp crack, a flare appeared overhead, rocking gracefully, floating down gently under a small parachute. Below it, inky shadows rocked in unison. In the raw white light, Retief counted eighteen men clinging to handholds on the side of the house, immobile in the pitiless glare. Above them, a face appeared, then a second, peering over the edge of the fourth-story gallery. Both figures rose, unlimbering four-foot bows, fitting arrows to strings—
Whok! Whok! Two men lost their holds and fell, yelling, to slam into the heavy shrubbery. A second flight of arrows found marks. Retief watched from the shadows as man after man dropped to flounder in the wet foliage. Several jumped before the deadly bows were turned on them. As the flare faded, the last of the men plunged down to crash among their fellows. Retief stepped out, ran swiftly to the manifold, forcing his way among the close-growing screen, scrambled to its top. His hand fell on a spent arrow. He picked it up. It was a stout wooden shaft twenty inches long, terminating in a rubber suction cup. Retief snorted, dropped the arrow and started up.
* * *
Twenty feet above ground level, the wide windows of the third floor sun terrace presented a precarious handhold as Retief swung back a foot, kicked in a panel. Inside, he dimly made out the shape of a broad carpeted room, curving out of sight in both directions. There were wide-leafed tropical plants in boxes, groups of padded chairs, low tables with bowls of fruit. Retief made his way past them, found an inner door, went into a dark hall. At the far end, voices exchanged shouted questions. Feet pounded. A flicker of light from a hand lantern splashed across the wall, disappeared. Retief found a stair, went up it noiselessly. According to Taine, the elevator to the top floor apartment should be to the left—
Retief flattened himself to the wall. Footsteps sounded near at hand. He moved quickly to a doorway. There was a murmur of voices, the wavering light of lanterns. A party of uniformed men tiptoed past a cross corridor, struggling under the weight of a massive log, two feet in diameter and twelve feet long.
” . . . on signal, hit it all together. Then . . .” someone was saying.
Retief waited, listening. There was the creak of a door, the fumbling of awkwardly-laden feet on a stair, hoarse breathing, a muffled curse.
” . . . got my fingers, ya slob . . .” a voice snarled.
“Shaddup!” another voice hissed.
There was a long moment of silence, then a muffled command—followed an instant later by a thunderous crash, a shout—cut off abruptly by a ponderous blam! followed instantly by a roar like a burst dam, mingled with yells, thumps, crashes. A foamy wash of water surged along the cross corridor, followed a moment later by a man sliding on his back, then another, two more, the log, fragments of a door, more men.