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

other went over his head, shifted his grip in midair, and as the dark man fell heavily in front of
him, the snap of the spine could be heard loud in the stillness. The battle was over, and the blond
victor rose to his feet amid a roar of applause.
Retief turned to Fitzraven. "Time for us to be going, Fitz," he said.
The squire jumped up. "As you command, sir; but the ceremony is quite interesting. . . ."
"Never mind that; let's go." Retief moved off, Fitzraven following, puzzled.
***
Retief descended the steps inside the stands, turned and started down the corridor.
"This way, sir," Fitzraven called. "That leads to the arena."
"I know it," Retief said. "That's where I'm headed."
Fitzraven hurried up alongside. What was the old man going to do now? "Sir," he said, "no
one may enter the arena until the tourney has been closed, except the gladiators and the officials.
I know this to be an unbreakable law."
"That's right, Fitz," Retief said. "You'll have to stop at the grooms' enclosure."
"But you, sir," Fitzraven gasped . . .
"Everything's under control," Retief said. "I'm going to challenge the champion."
***
In the Imperial box, the Emperor Rolan leaned forward, fixing his binoculars on a group of
figures at the officials' gate. There seemed to be some sort of disturbance there. This was a piece
of damned impudence, just as the moment had arrived for the Imperial presentation of the Honors
of the Day. The Emperor turned to an aide.
"What the devil's going on down there?" he snapped.
The courtier murmured into a communicator, listened.
"A madman, Imperial Majesty," he said smoothly. "He wished to challenge the champion."
"A drunk, more likely," Rolan said sharply. "Let him be removed at once. And tell the Master
of the Games to get on with the ceremony!"
The Emperor turned to the slim dark girl at his side.
"Have you found the Games entertaining, Monica?"
"Yes, sire," she replied unemotionally.
"Don't call me that, Monica," he said testily. "Between us there is no need for formalities."
"Yes, Uncle," the girl said.
"Damn it, that's worse," he said. "To you I am simply Rolan." He placed his hand firmly on
her silken knee. "And now if they'll get on with this tedious ceremony, I should like to be on the
way. I'm looking forward with great pleasure to showing you my estates at Snowdahl."
The Emperor drummed his fingers, stared down at the field, raised the glasses only to see the
commotion again.
"Get that fool off the field," he shouted, dropping the glasses. "Am I to wait while they haggle
with this idiot? It's insufferable. . . ."
Courtiers scurried, while Rolan glared down from his seat.
Below, Retief faced a cluster of irate referees. One, who had attempted to haul Retief bodily
backward, was slumped on a bench, attended by two surgeons.
"I claim the right to challenge, under the Charter," Retief repeated. "Nobody here will be so
foolish, I hope, as to attempt to deprive me of that right, now that I have reminded you of the
justice of my demand."
***
From the control cage directly below the Emperor's high box, a tall seam-faced man in black
breeches and jacket emerged, followed by two armed men. The officials darted ahead, stringing
out between the two, calling out. Behind Retief, on the other side of the barrier, Fitzraven
watched anxiously. The old man was full of surprises, and had a way of getting what he wanted;
but even if he had the right to challenge the Champion of the Games, what purpose could he have