LITMIR.BIZ

      Chips cascaded down the chute, filled the box before Retief, spilled on the floor. The crowd yelled.

      Retief released the grip and withdrew his arm at the same instant that the lead block slammed down.

      “Good lord,” Magnan said. “I felt that through the floor.”

      Retief turned to the broad-shouldered man.

      “This game’s all right for beginners,” he said. “But I’d like to talk a really big gamble. Why don’t we go to your office, Mr. Zorn?”

      * * * *

      “Your proposition interests me,” Zorn said, grinding out the stump of his dope stick in a brass ashtray. “But there’s some angles to this I haven’t mentioned yet.”

      “You’re a gambler, Zorn, not a suicide,” Retief said. “Take what I’ve offered. The other idea was fancier, I agree, but it won’t work.”

      “How do I know you birds aren’t lying?” Zorn snarled. He stood up, strode up and down the room. “You walk in here and tell me I’ll have a task force on my neck, that the Corps won’t recognize my regime. Maybe you’re right. But I’ve got other contacts. They say different.” He whirled, stared at Retief.

      “I have pretty good assurance that once I put it over, the Corps will have to recognize me as the legal government of Petreac. They won’t meddle in internal affairs.”

      “Nonsense,” Magnan spoke up. “The Corps will never deal with a pack of criminals calling themselves—”

      “Watch your language, you!” Zorn rasped.

      “I’ll admit Mr. Magnan’s point is a little weak,” Retief said. “But you’re overlooking something. You plan to murder a dozen or so officers of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne along with the local wheels. The corps won’t overlook that. It can’t.”

      “Their tough luck they’re in the middle,” Zorn muttered.

      “Our offer is extremely generous, Mr. Zorn,” Magnan said. “The post you’ll get will pay you very well indeed. As against the certain failure of your planned coup, the choice should be simple.”

      Zorn eyed Magnan. “Offering me a job—it sounds phony as hell. I thought you birds were goody-goody diplomats.”

      “It’s time you knew,” Retief said. “There’s no phonier business in the Galaxy than diplomacy.”

      “You’d better take it, Mr. Zorn,” Magnan said.

      “Don’t push me, Junior!” Zorn said. “You two walk into my headquarters empty-handed and big-mouthed. I don’t know what I’m talking to you for. The answer is no. N-I-X, no!”

      “Who are you afraid of?” Retief said softly.

      Zorn glared at him.

      “Where do you get that ‘afraid’ routine? I’m top man here!”

      “Don’t kid around, Zorn. Somebody’s got you under their thumb. I can see you squirming from here.”

      “What if I let your boys alone?” Zorn said suddenly. “The Corps won’t have anything to say then, huh?”

      “The Corps has plans for Petreac, Zorn. You aren’t part of them. A revolution right now isn’t part of them. Having the Potentate and the whole Nenni caste slaughtered isn’t part of them. Do I make myself clear?”

      “Listen,” Zorn said urgently, pulling a chair around. “I’ll tell you guys a few things. You ever heard of a world they call Rotune?”

      “Certainly,” Magnan said. “It’s a near neighbor of yours. Another backward—that is, emergent—”

      “Okay,” Zorn said. “You guys think I’m a piker, do you? Well, let me wise you up. The Federal Junta on Rotune is backing my play. I’ll be recognized by Rotune, and the Rotune fleet will stand by in case I need any help. I’ll present the CDT with what you call a fait accompli.”

      “What does Rotune get out of this? I thought they were your traditional enemies.”

      “Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got no use for Rotune; but our interests happen to coincide right now.”

      “Do they?” Retief smiled grimly. “You can spot a sucker as soon as he comes through that door out there—but you go for a deal like this!”

      “What do you mean?” Zorn looked angrily at Retief. “It’s fool-proof.”

      “After you get in power, you’ll be fast friends with Rotune, is that it?”

      “Friends, hell! Just give me time 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.”

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