Diplomat at Arms by Keith Laumer Page A

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