Gamblers World | Page 8

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. Well, 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, lit another. He snorted angrily.
"Okay; what's your idea?" he asked after a moment.
"You know what Petreac is getting in the way of imports as a result of
the agreement?"
"Sure. A lot of junk."
"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 Monomeg drives."
"Like I said. A lot of junk."
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," Retief said. "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 smoothie made his
pitch." Zorn looked at his watch.
"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."

V

"You'd better stay here on this terrace out of the way until I've spread
the word," Zorn said. "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," he said. "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," Zorn said. "Just stay clear of the kitchen, or you'll get
your throat cut." He sniffed at his dope-stick. "What's keeping Shoke?"
he muttered.
Magnan stepped to a tall glass door, eased it open and poked his head
through the heavy draperies. As he moved to draw back, a voice was
faintly audible. Magnan paused, head still through the drapes.
"What's going on there?" Zorn rasped. He and Retief stepped up behind
Magnan.
"--breath of air, ha-ha," Magnan was saying.
"Well, come along, Magnan!" Ambassador Crodfoller's voice snapped.
Magnan shifted from one foot to the other then pushed through the
drapes.
"Where've you been, Mr. Magnan?" The Ambassador's voice was
sharp.

"Oh ... ah ... a slight accident, Mr. Ambassador."
"What's happened to your shoes? Where are your insignia and
decorations?"
"I--ah--spilled a drink on them. Sir. Ah--listen...."
The sound of an orchestra came up suddenly, blaring a fanfare.
Zorn shifted restlessly, ear against the glass.
"What's your friend pulling?" he rasped. "I don't like this."
"Keep cool, Zorn," Retief said. "Mr. Magnan is doing a little
emergency salvage on his career."
The music died away with a clatter.
"--My God," Ambassador Crodfoller's voice was faint. "Magnan, you'll
be knighted for this. Thank God you reached me. Thank God