"I warned you off," he snapped. "You came anyway." He leaned forward and slammed a fist down on the desk. "You're used to throwing your weight around, but you won't throw it around here! There'll be no spies pussyfooting around Glave!"
"Looking for what, Mr. Sozier?"
"Call me General!"
"Mind if I sit down?" Retief pulled out a chair, seated himself and took out a cigar. "Curiously enough," he said, lighting up, "the Corps has no intention of making any embarrassing investigations. We deal with the existing government, no questions asked." His eyes held the other's. "Unless, of course, there are evidences of atrocities or other illegal measures."
The coal-chip eyes narrowed. "I don't have to make explanations to you or anybody else."
"Except, presumably, the Glavian Free Electorate," Retief said blandly. "But tell me, General—who's actually running the show?"
A speaker on the desk buzzed. "Hey, Corporal Sozier! Wes's got them two hellions cornered. They're holed up in the Birthday Cake—"
"General Sozier, damn you! and plaster your big mouth shut!" He gestured to one of the uniformed men standing by.
"You! Get Trundy and Little Moe up here—pronto!" He swiveled back to Retief. "You're in luck. I'm too busy right now to bother with you. You get back over to the port and leave the same way you came—and tell your blood-sucking friends the easy pickings are over as far as Glave's concerned. You won't lounge around here living high and throwing big parties and cooking up your dirty deals to get fat on at the expense of the working man."
Retief dribbled ash on Sozier's desk and glanced at the green uniform front bulging between silver buttons.