is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, this information could be catastrophic. You’ll memorize it before you leave this building.”
“I’ll carry it, sealed,” Retief said. “That way nobody can sweat it out of me.”
Magnan started to shake his head.
“Well,” he said. “If it’s trapped for destruction, I suppose—”
“I’ve heard of these Jorgensen’s Worlds,” Retief said. “I remember an agent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard with cards and dice. Never played for money, though.”
“Umm,” Magnan said. “Don’t make the error of personalizing this situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its natural course, as always.”
“When does this attack happen?”
“Less than four weeks.”
“That doesn’t leave me much time.”
“I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as Aldo Cerise. You’ll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest of the way.”
“That’s a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don’t make it?”
Magnan looked sour. “Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is not misplaced.”
“This antiac conversion; how long does it take?”
“A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of some sort.”
Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets inside.
“Less than four hours to departure time,” he said. “I’d better not start any long books.”
“You’d better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination,” Magnan said.
Retief stood up. “If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.”
“The allusion escapes me,” Magnan said coldly. “And one last word. The Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen’s Worlds; don’t get yourself interned.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Retief said soberly. “In a pinch, I’ll mention your name.”
“You’ll be traveling with Class X credentials,” Magnan snapped. “There must be nothing to connect you with the Corps.”
“They’ll never guess,” Retief said. “I’ll pose as a gentleman.”
“You’d better be getting started,” Magnan said, shuffling papers.
“You’re right,” Retief said. “If I work at it, I might manage a snootful by takeoff.” He went to the door. “No objection to my checking out a needler, is there?”
Magnan looked up. “I suppose not. What do you want with it?”
“Just a feeling I’ve got.”
“Please yourself.”
“Some day,” Retief said, “I may take you up on that.”
II
Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend “ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY.” A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching Retief from the corner of his eye.
Retief glanced at him.
The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and spat it on the floor.
“Was there something?” he said.
“Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group,” Retief said. “Is it on schedule?”
The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. “Filled up. Try again in a couple of weeks.”
“What time does it leave?”
“I don’t think—”
“Let’s stick to facts,” Retief said. “Don’t try to think. What time is it due out?”
The clerk smiled pityingly. “It’s my lunch hour,” he said. “I’ll be open in an hour.” He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.
“If I have to come around this counter,” Retief said, “I’ll feed that thumb to you the hard way.”
The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief’s eye, closed his mouth and swallowed.
“Like it says there,” he said, jerking a thumb at the board. “Lifts in an hour. But you won’t be on it,” he added.
Retief looked at him.
“Some…ah…VIP’s required accommodation,” he said. He hooked a finger inside the sequined collar. “All tourist reservations were canceled. You’ll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line ship next—”
“Which gate?” Retief said.
“For…ah…?”
“For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen’s Worlds,” Retief said.
“Well,” the clerk said. “Gate 19,” he added quickly. “But—”
Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare sign reading To Gates 16-30.
“Another smart alec,” the clerk said behind him.
* * * *
Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found a covered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered man with a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpled gray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.
“Lessee your boarding pass,” he muttered.
Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.
The guard blinked at it.
“Whassat?”
“A gram confirming my space,” Retief said. “Your boy on the counter says he’s out to lunch.”
The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged back against the handrail.
“On your way, bub,” he said.
Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove a right into the guard’s midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled and
