Read Online Diplomat at Arms by Keith Laumer - Free Book Online Page A

Retief snorted, dropped the arrow and started up.
     
    Twenty feet above ground level, the wide windows of the third
floor sun terrace presented a precarious handhold as Retief swung back a foot,
kicked in a panel. Inside, he dimly made out the shape of a broad carpeted
room, curving out of sight in both directions. There were wide-leafed tropical
plants in boxes, groups of padded chairs, low tables with bowls of fruit.
Retief made his way past them, found an inner door, went into a dark hall. At
the far end, voices exchanged shouted questions. Feet pounded. A flicker of
light from a hand lantern splashed across the wall, disappeared. Retief found a
stair, went up it noiselessly. According to Taine, the elevator to the top
floor apartment should be to the left—
    Retief flattened himself to the wall. Footsteps sounded near
at hand. He moved quickly to a doorway. There was a murmur of voices, the
wavering light of lanterns. A party of uniformed men tiptoed past a cross
corridor, struggling under the weight of a massive log, two feet in diameter
and twelve feet long.
    “ . . . on signal, hit it all together.
Then . . .” someone was saying.
    Retief waited, listening. There was the creak of a door, the
fumbling of awkwardly-laden feet on a stair, hoarse breathing, a muffled curse.
    “ . . . got my fingers, ya
slob . . .” a voice snarled.
    “Shaddup!” another voice hissed.
    There was a long moment of silence, then a muffled
command—followed an instant later by a thunderous crash, a shout—cut off
abruptly by a ponderous blam! followed instantly by a roar like a burst dam,
mingled with yells, thumps, crashes. A foamy wash of water surged along the cross
corridor, followed a moment later by a man sliding on his back, then another,
two more, the log, fragments of a door, more men.
    In the uproar, Retief moved along to the elevator, felt over
the control panel, located a small knurled button. He turned it; the panel came
away. He fumbled cautiously, found a toggle switch, flipped it. A light sprang
up in the car; instantly, Retief flipped the light switch; the glow faded. He
waited. No alarm. Men were picking themselves up, shouting.
    “ . . . them broads dropped a hundred
gallon bag of water . . .” someone complained.
    “ . . . up there fast, men. We got the
door OK!”
    Feet thumped. Yells sounded.
    “No good, Wes! They got a safe or something in the way!”
    Retief silently closed the lift door, pressed the button. With
a sigh, the car slid upward, came to a gentle stop. He eased the door open,
looked out into a dim-lit entrance hall. Footsteps sounded beyond a door. He
waited, heard the clack of high heels crossing a floor. Retief stepped out of
the car, went to the door, glanced into a spacious lounge with rich furniture,
deep rugs, paintings, a sweep of glass, and in an alcove at the far side, a
bar. Retief crossed the room, poured a stiff drink into a paper-thin glass, and
drained it.
    The high-heeled steps were coming back now. A door opened.
Two leggy young women in shorts, with red-gold hair bound back by ribbons—one
green, one blue—stepped into the room. One held a coil of insulated wire; the
other carried a heavy-looking grey-enameled box eight inches on a side.
    “Now, see if you can tinker that thing to put out about a
thousand amps at two volts, Lyn,” the girl with the wire said. “I’ll start
stringing . . .” her voice died as she caught sight of Retief.
He raised his glass. “My compliments, ladies. I see you’re keeping yourselves
amused.”
    “Who . . . who are you?” Lyn faltered.
    “My name’s Retief; your father sent me along to carry your
bags. It’s lucky I arrived when I did, before any of those defenseless chaps
outside were seriously injured.”
    “You’re not . . . one of them?”
    “Of course he’s not, Lyn,” the second girl said. “He’s much
too good-looking.”
    “That’s good,” Lyn said crisply. “I didn’t want to