Diplomat at Arms (14 page)

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.”

“Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks
brittle, and I’m tempted to test it.”

“Don’t start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel
with those snappers.”

“Last chance,” said Retief. Skaw stood poised, open pincers
an inch from Retief’s eyes.

“Show him your papers, you damned fool,” the captain said
hoarsely. “I got no control over Skaw.”

The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in
the same instant Retief half turned to the left, leaned away from the alien,
and drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbous knee-joint.
Skaw screeched, floundered, greenish fluid spattering from the burst joint.

“I told you he was brittle,” Retief said. “Next time you
invite pirates aboard, don’t bother to call.”

“Jesus, what did you do! They’ll kill us!” the captain
gasped, staring at the figure flopping on the floor.

“Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat,” Retief said. “Tell him
to pass the word; no more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels in
Terrestrial space.”

“Hey,” Chip said. “He’s quit kickin’.”

The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He
leaned close, sniffed.

“He’s dead.” The captain stared at Retief. “We’re all dead
men. These Soetti got no mercy.”

“They won’t need it. Tell ’em to sheer off; their fun is
over.”

“They got no more emotions than a blue crab—”

“You bluff easily, captain. Show a few guns as you hand the
body back. We know their secret now.”

“What secret? I—”

“Don’t be dumber than you gotta, Cap’n,” Chip said. “Sweaties
dies easy; that’s the secret.”

“Maybe
you got a point,” the captain said, looking at Retief. “All they got’s a
three-man scout. It could work.”

He went out, came back with two crewmen. They circled the
dead alien, hauled him gingerly into the hall.

“Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti,” the captain said,
looking back from the door. “But I’ll be back to see you later.”

“You don’t scare us, Cap’n,” Chip called as the door closed.
He grinned at Retief. “Him and Mr. Tony and all his goons. You hit ’em where
they live, that time. They’re pals o’ these Sweaties. Runnin’ some kind o’
crooked racket.”

“You’d better take the captain’s advice, Chip. There’s no
point in your getting involved in my problems.”

“They’d of killed you before now, mister, if they had any
guts. That’s where we got it over these monkeys; they got no guts.”

“They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.”

“They
don’t scare me none.” Chip picked up the tray. “I’ll scout around a little and
see what’s goin’ on. If the Sweaties figure to do anything about that Skaw
fella they’ll have to move fast; they won’t try nothin’ close to port.”

“Don’t worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they
won’t do anything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.”

Chip looked at Retief. “You ain’t no tourist, mister. I know
that much. You didn’t come out here for fun, did you?”

“That,” said Retief, “would be a hard one to answer.”

Retief awoke at a tap on his door.

“It’s me, mister: Chip.”

 “Come on in.”

The chef entered the room, locked the door. “You shoulda had
that door locked.” He stood by the door, listening, then turned to Retief.

“You want to get to Jorgensen’s pretty bad, don’t you,
mister?”

“That’s right, Chip.”

“Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw.
The Sweaties didn’t say nothin’; didn’t even act surprised, just took the
remains and pushed off. Mr. Tony and that other crook they call Marbles—they
was fit to be tied. Took the cap’n in his cabin and talked loud at him fer half
an hour. Then the cap’n come out and give some orders to the mate.”

Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.

“Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?”

“He hated Skaw’s guts. But with him it was business. Mister,
you got a gun?”

“A 2mm needler. Why?”

“The orders Cap’n give was to change course fer Alabaster;
we’re by-passin’ Jorgensen’s Worlds. We’ll feel the course change any minute.”

Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out
a short-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.

“Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the
captain’s cabin?”

“This is it,” Chip said softly. “You want me to keep a eye on
who comes down the passage?”

Retief nodded, opened the door, and stepped into the cabin.
The captain looked up from his desk, then jumped up. “What do you think you’re
doing, busting in here—”

“I hear you’re planning a course change, Captain.”

“You’ve got damn big ears.”

“I think we’d better call in at Jorgensen’s.”

“You do, huh?” The captain sat down. “I’m in command of this
vessel. I’m changing course for Alabaster.”

“I wouldn’t find it convenient to go to Alabaster. So just
hold your course for Jorgensen’s.”

“Not bloody likely.” The captain reached for the mike on his
desk, pressed the key. “Power Section, this is the captain,” he said. Retief
reached across the desk, gripped the captain’s wrist.

“Tell the mate to hold his present course,” he said softly.

“Let go my hand, Buster,” the captain snarled. With his eyes
on Retief’s, he eased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief
kneed the drawer. The captain yelped, dropped the mike.

“You busted my wrist, you—”

“And one to go,” Retief said. “Tell him.”

“I’m an officer of the Merchant Service—”

“You’re a cheapjack who’s sold his bridge to a pack of
back-alley hoods.”

“You can’t put it over, hick. The landing—”

“Tell him.”

The captain groaned, keyed the mike.

“Captain to Power Section. Hold your present course until you
hear from me.” He dropped the mike, looked up at Retief. “It’s eighteen hours
yet before we pick up Jorgensen control; you going to sit here and bend my arm
the whole time?”

Retief released the captain’s wrist, turned to Chip. “Chip,
I’m locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what’s going on. Bring
me a pot of coffee every so often. I’m sitting up with a sick friend.”

“Right,
mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he’s slippery.”

“What are you going to do?” the captain demanded.

Retief settled himself in a chair.

“Instead
of strangling you, as you deserve, I’m going to stay here and help you hold
your course for Jorgensen’s Worlds.”

The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark. “Then
I’ll stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feel like dozing off
some time during the next eighteen hours, don’t mind me.”

Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before
him.

“If anything happens that I don’t like,” he said, “I’ll wake
you up with this.”

“Why don’t you let me spell you, mister,” Chip said. “Four
hours to go yet; you’re gonna hafta be on yer toes to handle the landing.”

“I’ll be all right, Chip. You get some sleep.”

“Nope. Many’s the time I stood four, five watches runnin’,
back when I was yer age. I’ll make another round.”

Retief
stood up, stretched his legs, paced the floor, stared at the repeater
instruments on the wall. Things had gone quietly so far, but the landing would
be another matter. The captain’s absence from the bridge during the highly
complex maneuvering would be difficult to explain . . .