"Like I said. A lot of junk."

Retief leaned back, looking sardonically at Zorn, "Here's the gimmick,
Zorn," he said. "The Corps is getting a little tired of Petreac and
Rotune carrying on their two-penny war out here. Your privateers have a
nasty habit of picking on innocent bystanders. After studying both
sides, the Corps has decided Petreac would be a little easier to do
business with. So this trade agreement was worked out. The Corps can't
openly sponsor an arms shipment to a belligerent. But personal
appliances are another story."

"So what do we do--plow 'em under with back-yard cultivators?" Zorn
looked at Retief, puzzled. "What's the point?"

"You take the sealed monitor unit from the washer, the repeller field
generator from the lamp, the converter control from the cultivator, et
cetera, et cetera. You fit these together according to some very simple
instructions. Presto! You have one hundred thousand Standard-class Y
hand blasters. Just the thing to turn the tide in a stalemated war
fought with obsolete arms."

"Good lord!" Magnan said. "Retief, are you--"

"I have to tell him," Retief said. "He has to know what he's putting his
neck into."

"Weapons, hey?" Zorn said. "And Rotune knows about it?"

"Sure they know about it. It's not too hard to figure out. And there's
more. They want the CDT delegation included in the massacre for a
reason. It will put Petreac out of the picture; the trade agreement will
go to Rotune; and you and your new regime will find yourselves looking
down the muzzles of your own blasters."

Zorn threw his dope-stick to the floor with a snarl.

"I should have smelled something when that Rotune smoothie made his
pitch." Zorn looked at his watch.

"I've got two hundred armed men in the palace. We've got about forty
minutes to get over there before the rocket goes up."

V

"You'd better stay here on this terrace out of the way until I've spread
the word," Zorn said. "Just in case."

"Let me caution you against any ... ah ... slip-ups, Mr. Zorn," Magnan
said. "The Nenni are not to be molested--"

Zorn looked at Retief.

"Your friend talks too much," he said. "I'll keep my end of it. He'd
better keep his."

"Nothing's happened yet, you're sure?" Magnan said.

"I'm sure," Zorn said. "Ten minutes to go. Plenty of time."

"I'll just step into the salon to assure myself that all is well,"
Magnan said.

"Suit yourself," Zorn said. "Just stay clear of the kitchen, or