"What kind of diplomat are you?" he snarled.
"The modern variety. Throat-cutting, thumb-screws, poison and stiletto work were popular in Machiavelli's time; nowadays we go in more for the administrative approach—but the cigar-end still has its role."
"Look, we can come to an agreement—"
"What's the Birthday Cake?" Retief snapped.
"I'm in a position to do a lot for you!"
"Last chance—"
"It's the official Residence of the Manager-General!" Taine screeched, writhing away from the cigar.
"Where is it? Talk fast!"
"You'll never get close! There's a seven-foot wall and by this time the grounds are swarming with Sozier's men."
"Nevertheless, I want to know where it is—and the information had better be good. If I don't come back, you'll have a long wait."