Read Galactic Diplomat for Free Online Page A

you—”
    “I know; that’s none of our concern.”
    “On your way out,” Magnan said as Retief turned to the door,
“ask Miss Gumble to bring in the Gourmet catalog from the Commercial Library. I
want to check on the specifications of the Model C Banquet synthesizer.”
     
    An hour later, nine hundred miles from Ceres and fast
approaching the Jolly Barge Hotel, Retief keyed the skiff’s transmitter.
    “CDT 347-89 calling Navy FP-VO-6.”
    “Navy VO-6 here, CDT,” a prompt voice came back. A flickering
image appeared on the small screen. “Oh, hi there, Mr. Retief. What brings you
out in the cold night air?”
    “Hello, Henry. I’m estimating the Jolly Barge in ten minutes.
It looks like a busy night ahead. I may be moving around a little. How about
keeping an eye on me? I’ll be carrying a personnel beacon. Monitor it, and if I
switch it into high, come in fast. I can’t afford to be held up. I’ve got a big
meeting in the morning.”
    “Sure thing, Mr. Retief. We’ll keep an eye open.”
     
    Retief
dropped a ten credit note on the bar, accepted a glass and a squat bottle of
black Marsberry brandy, and turned to survey the low-ceilinged room, a former
hydroponics deck n ow known as the Jungle
Bar. Under the low ceiling, unpruned Ipomoea batatas and Lathyrus odoratus vines sprawled in a tangle that filtered the light of the
S-spectrum glare panels to a muted green. A six-foot trideo screen salvaged
from the wreck of a Concordiat transport blared taped music in the style of two
centuries past. At the tables heavy-shouldered men, in bright-dyed suit liners
played cards, clanked bottles, and carried on shouted conversations.
    Carrying the bottle and glass, Retief moved across to an
empty chair at one of the tables.
    “You gentlemen mind if I join you?”
    Five unshaved faces turned to study Retief’s six foot three,
his closecut black hair, his non-committal grey coverall, the scars on his
knuckles. A red-head with a broken nose nodded. “Pull up a chair, stranger.”
    “You workin’ a claim, pardner?”
    “Just looking around.”
    “Try a shot of this rock juice.”
    “Don’t do it, Mister. He makes it himself.”
    “Best rock juice this side of Luna.”
    “Say, feller—”
    “The name’s Retief.”
    “Retief, you ever play Drift?”
    “Can’t say that I did.”
    “Don’t gamble with Sam, pardner. He’s the local champ.”
    “How do you play it?”
    The black-browed miner who had suggested the game rolled back
his sleeve to reveal a sinewy forearm, put his elbow on the table.
    “You hook forefingers, and put a glass right up on top. The
man that takes a swallow wins. If the drink spills, it’s drinks for the house.”
    “A man don’t often win outright,” the red-head said
cheerfully. “But it makes for plenty of drinkin’.”
    Retief put his elbow on the table. “I’ll give it a try.”
    The two men hooked forefingers. The red-head poured a tumbler
half full of rock juice, placed it atop the two fists. “OK, boys. Go!”
    The
man named Sam gritted his teeth; his biceps tensed; his knuckles grew white.
The glass trembled. Then it moved—toward Retief. Sam hunched his shoulders,
straining.
    “That’s the stuff, Mister!”
    “What’s the matter, Sam? You tired?”
    The glass moved steadily closer to Retief’s face.
    “A hundred the new man makes it!”
    “Watch Sam; any minute now . . .”
    The glass slowed, paused. Retief’s wrist twitched and the
glass crashed to the table top. A shout went up. Sam leaned back with a sigh,
massaging his hand.
    “That’s some arm you got there, Mister,” he said. “If you
hadn’t jumped just then . . .”
    “I guess the drinks are on me,” Retief said.
    Two hours later Retief’s Marsberry bottle stood empty on the
table beside half a dozen others.
    “We
were lucky,” Sam Mancziewicz was saying. “You figure the original volume of the
planet; say 245,000,000,000 cubic miles. The deBerry theory calls for