Read Retief at Large for Free Online Page B

dinghy. If you get out
there right away, you'll catch them before the evening binge has developed
fully."
     
                "I
take it that's your diplomatic way of telling me mat I'm now a process
server." Retief took the papers and tucked them into an inside pocket.
     
                "One
of the many functions a diplomat is called on to perform in a small consular
post. Excellent experience. I needn't warn you to be circumspect. These miners
are an unruly lot—especially when receiving bad news."
     
                "Aren't
we all." Retief rose. "I don't suppose there's any prospect of your
signing off that claim so that I can take a little good news along, too?"
     
                "None
whatever," Magnan snapped. "They've been made a most generous offer.
If that fails to satisfy them, they have recourse through the courts."
     
                "Fighting
a suit like mat costs money. The Sam's Last Chance Mining Company hasn't got
any."
     
                "Need
I remind 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 skiffs 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 now 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 shouted.
     
                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
unshaven faces turned to study Retief's six foot three, his close cut black
hair, his non-commital gray coverall, the scars on his knuckles. A redhead 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 every 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