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

"Well, of course, if you don't feel you can handle it . . ." Magnan looked solemn.
Retief looked at him, smiling faintly. Magnan's tactics had been rather obvious. Here was one
of those nasty jobs which could easily pass in reports as routine if all went well; but even a slight
mistake could mean complete failure, and failure meant war; and the agent who had let it happen
would be finished in the Corps.
There was danger in the scheme for Magnan, too. The blame might reflect back on him.
Probably he had plans for averting disaster after Retief had given up. He was too shrewd to leave
himself out in the open. And for that matter, Retief reflected, too good an agent to let the situation
get out of hand.
No, it was merely an excellent opportunity to let Retief discredit himself, with little risk of
any great credit accruing to him in the remote event of success.
Retief could, of course, refuse the assignment, but that would be the end of his career. He
would never be advanced to the rank of Minister, and age limitations would force his retirement
in a year or two. That would be an easy victory for Magnan.
Retief liked his work as an officer-agent of the Diplomatic Corps, that ancient supranational
organization dedicated to the contravention of war. He had made his decision long ago, and he
had learned to accept his life as it was, with all its imperfections. It was easy enough to complain
about the petty intrigues, the tyrannies of rank, the small inequities. But these were merely a part
of the game, another challenge to be met and dealt with. The overcoming of obstacles was Jame
Retief's specialty. Some of the obstacles were out in the open, the recognized difficulties inherent
in any tough assignment. Others were concealed behind a smoke-screen of personalities and
efficiency reports; and both were equally important. You did your job in the field, and then you
threaded your way through the maze of Corps politics. And if you couldn't handle the jobтАФany
part of itтАФyou'd better find something else to do.
He had accepted the assignment, of course, after letting Magnan wonder for a few minutes;
and then for two months he had buried himself in research, gathering every scrap of information,
direct and indirect, that the massive files of the Corps would yield. He had soon found himself
immersed in the task, warming to its challenge, fired with emotions ranging from grief to rage as
he ferreted out the hidden pages in the history of the exiled Cavaliers.
He had made his plan, gathered a potent selection of ancient documents and curious objects; a
broken chain of gold, a tiny key, a small silver box. And now he was here, inside the compound
of the Grand Corrida.
Everything here in these ways surrounding and radiating from the Field of the Emerald
CrownтАФthe arena itselfтАФwas devoted to the servicing and supplying of the thousands of First
Day contenders in the Tournament of the Lily, and the housing and tending of the dwindling
number of winners who stayed on for the following days. There were tiny eating places, taverns,
inns; all consciously antique in style, built in imitation of their counterparts left behind long ago
on far-off Lily.
"Here you are, Pop, first-class squire," called a thin red-haired fellow.
"Double up and save credits," called a short dark man. "First Day contract . . ."
Shouts ran back and forth across the alleylike street as the stall keepers scented a customer.
Retief ignored them, moved on toward the looming wall of the arena. Ahead, a slender youth
stood with folded arms before his stall, looking toward the approaching figure on the black horse.
He leaned forward, watching Retief intently, then straightened, turned and grabbed up a tall
narrow body shield from behind him. He raised the shield over his head, and as Retief came
abreast, called "Battle officer!"
Retief reined in the horse, looked down at the youth.
"At your service, sir," the young man said. He stood straight and looked Retief in the eye.
Retief looked back. The horse minced, tossed his head.
"What is your name, boy?" Retief asked.