"Keith Laumer - Retief !" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

to bring up his arm, to pull free of the old man's grasp. The crowd of customers, the squad of
police, stood silently, staring, uncertain of what was going on. Retief stood steady; the officer
strained, reddened. The old man's arm was like cast steel.
"I see you are using your head, Captain," Retief said. "Your decision not to attempt to employ
force against a peer was an intelligent one."
The cop understood. He was being offered an opportunity to save a little face. He relaxed
slowly.
"Very well, uh, sir," he said stiffly. "I will assume you can establish your identity properly;
kindly call at the commandant's office in the morning."
Retief released his hold and the officer hustled his men out, shoving the complaining Ensign
ahead. Fitzraven caught Retief's eye and grinned.
"Empty pride is a blade with no hilt," he said. "A humble man would have yelled for help."
Retief turned to the barman. "Drinks for all," he called. A happy shout greeted this
announcement. They had all enjoyed seeing the police outfaced.
"The cops don't seem to be popular here," the old man said.
Fitzraven sniffed. "A law-abiding subject parks illegally for five minutes, and they are on him
like flies after dead meat; but let his car be stolen by lawless hoodlumsтАФthey are nowhere to be
seen."
"That has a familiar sound," Retief said. He poured out a tumbler of vodka, looked at
Fitzraven.
"Tomorrow," he said. "A big day."
A tall blond young man near the door looked after him with bitter eyes.
"All right, old man," he muttered. "We'll see then."
***
The noise of the crowd came to Retief's ears as a muted rumble through the massive pile of
the amphitheater above. A dim light filtered from the low-ceilinged corridor into the cramped
office of the assistant Master of the Games.
"If you know your charter," Retief said, "you will recall that a Battle Commander enjoys the
right to observe the progress of the games from the official box. I claim that privilege."
"I know nothing of this," the cadaverous official replied impatiently. "You must obtain an
order from the Master of the Games before I can listen to you." He turned to another flunkey,
opened his mouth to speak. A hand seized him by the shoulder, lifted him bodily from his seat.
The man's mouth remained open in shock.
Retief held the stricken man at arm's length, then drew him closer. His eyes blazed into the
gaping eyes of the other. His face was white with fury.
"Little man," he said in a strange, harsh voice, "I go now with my groom to take my place in
the official box. Read your Charter well before you interfere with meтАФand your Holy Book as
well." He dropped the fellow with a crash, saw him slide under the desk. No one made a sound.
Even Fitzraven looked pale. The force of the old man's rage had been like a lethal radiation
crackling in the room.
The squire followed as Retief strode off down the corridor. He breathed deeply, wiping his
forehead. This was some old man he had met this year, for sure!
Retief slowed, turning to wait for Fitzraven. He smiled ruefully. "I was rough on the old
goat," he said. "But officious pipsqueaks sting me like deerflies."
They emerged from the gloom of the passage into a well-situated box, to the best seats in the
front row. Retief stared at the white glare and roiled dust of the arena, the banked thousands of
faces looming above, and a sky of palest blue with one tiny white cloud. The gladiators stood in
little groups, waiting. A strange scene, Retief thought. A scene from dim antiquity, but real,
complete with the odors of fear and excitement, the hot wind that ruffled his hair, the rumbling
animal sound from the thousand throats of the many-headed monster. He wondered what it was