Diplomat at Arms (7 page)

“I’m Retief, CDT, Acting Chargé,” he said. “Which of you
gentlemen is Manager-General Corasol?”

*
* *

Corasol was a tall, wide-shouldered man of fifty, with shrewd
eyes, a ready smile, capable-looking hands, and an urbane manner. He and Retief
sat at a table at one side of the large room, under a maze of piping, tanks and
valves, Corasol poured amber fluid into square glass tumblers.

“We spotted you by the blazer,” he said. “Baby blue and gold
braid stand out in a crowd.”

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.”

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.”