by Keith Laumer
“If we don’t act promptly,” Magnan said, “the Groaci Embassy may well anticipate us. They’re very active here.”
“That’s an idea,” said Retief. “Let ’em. After awhile they’ll go broke instead of us.”
“Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can’t actually order you to step forward. However….” Magnan let the sentence hang in the air. Retief raised one eyebrow.
“For a minute there,” he said, “I thought you were going to make a positive statement.”
Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “I don’t think you’ll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive,” he said.
“I like the adult Fustians,” said Retief. “Too bad they have to lug half a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery would help.”
“Great heavens, Retief,” Magnan sputtered. “I’m amazed that even you would bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race’s unfortunate physical characteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity.”
“Well, of course your experience of the Fustian mentality is greater than mine. I’ve only been here a month. But it’s been my experience, Mr. Ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. Otherwise you, for example, would be tripping over your beard.”
Magnan shuddered. “Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian.”
Retief stood. “My own program for the day includes going over to the dockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner the Fustians are putting together that I want to look into. With your permission, Mr. Ambassador…?”
Magnan snorted. “Your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me, Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working with Youth groups—would create a far better impression.”
“Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good idea to find out a little more about them,” said Retief. “Who organizes them? There are three strong political parties here on Fust. What’s the alignment of this SCARS organization?”
“You forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak,” Magnan said. “Politics mean nothing to them…yet.”
“Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in a two-horse world like Fust? Normally they’re concerned with nothing but business. But what has Fust got that they could use?”
“You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance,” said Magnan. “Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaci are barely ahead of them.”
“Barely,” said Retief. “Just over the line into crude atomics…like fission bombs.”
Magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. “What market exists for such devices on a world at peace? I suggest you address your attention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studying the social patterns of the local youth.”
“I’ve studied them,” said Retief. “And before I meet any of the local youth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack.”
II
Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed the chancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-car and leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicle trundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards.
It was a cool morning. A light breeze carried the fishy odor of Fusty dwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustians lumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audibly wheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them, shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of the flat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on his back, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through the shipyard gates, creaked to a halt.
“Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed,” he said in Fustian. “Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste.”
Retief climbed down, handed him a coin. “You should take up professional racing,” he said. “Daredevil.”
He crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed. Boards creaked inside. Then the door swung back.
A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapace peered out at Retief.
“Long-may-you-sleep,” said Retief. “I’d like to take a look around, if you don’t mind. I understand you’re laying the bedplate for your new liner today.”
“May-you-dream-of-the-deeps,” the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpy arm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist. “The youths know more of bedplates than do I, who but tend the place of papers.”
“I know how you feel, old-timer,” said Retief. “That sounds like the story of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for the vessel? I understand it’s to be a passenger liner.”
The oldster nodded. He shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled out a sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. Retief stood silently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines….
“What does the naked-back here?” barked a deep voice behind Retief. He turned. A heavy-faced Fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at the open door. Beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into Retief.
“I came to take a look at your new liner,” said Retief.
“We need no prying foreigners here,” the youth snapped. His eye fell on the drawings. He hissed in sudden anger.
“Doddering hulk!” he snapped at the ancient. “May you toss in nightmares! Put by the plans!”
“My mistake,” Retief said. “I didn’t know this was a secret project.”
The youth hesitated. “It is not a secret project,” he muttered. “Why should it be secret?”
“You tell me.”
The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in the Fusty gesture of uncertainty. “There is nothing to conceal,” he said. “We merely construct a passenger liner.”
“Then you don’t mind if I look over the drawings,” said Retief. “Who knows? Maybe some day I’ll want to reserve a suite for the trip out.”
The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. “Went for his big brother, I guess,” he said. “I have a feeling I won’t get to study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them?”
“Willingly, light-footed one,” said the old Fustian. “And mine is the shame for the discourtesy of youth.”
Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafed through the drawings, clicking the shutter.
“A plague on these youths,” said the oldster, “who grow more virulent day by day.”
“Why don’t you elders clamp down?”
“Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new. Unknown in my youth was such insolence.”
“The police—”
“Bah!” the ancient rumbled. “None have we worthy of the name, nor have we needed ought ere now.”
“What’s behind it?”
“They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plot mischief.” He pointed to the window. “They come, and a Soft One with them.”
Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featured Groaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyed the hut, then started toward it.
“That’s the military attache of the Groaci Embassy,” Retief said. “I wonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?”
“Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust,” the oldster rumbled. “Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions.”
“I was just leaving,” Retief said. “Which way out?”
“The rear door,” the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. “Rest well, stranger on these shores.” He moved to the entrance.
“Same to you, pop,” said Retief. “And thanks.”
He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices were raised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate.
; * * * *
The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left the Embassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. He flipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight:
“Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at first dark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressive Sponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage, arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of your intransigence.”
Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Just time to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creep back.
Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a corner and watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline. The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sun and the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray.
Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour he would be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, but the thought failed to keep the chill off.
Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully toward Retief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.
“That’s close enough, kids,” he said. “Plenty of room on this scow. No need to crowd up.”
“There are certain films,” the lead Fustian muttered. His voice was unusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and moved awkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.
“I told you once,” said Retief. “Don’t crowd me.”
The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out a foot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threw his weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fell heavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the other Youth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied. The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard another vehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car, tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.
So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight. They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault, after running a copy for the reference files.
And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXV battle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat Naval Arm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. The term “obsolete” was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded in the armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk in the Eastern Arm.
But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one present but himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderly Fustian hadn’t told them anything.
At least not willingly….
Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until the flat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for the shipyard.
* * * *
The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position. Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The old fellow had put up a struggle.
There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retief followed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door of a warehouse.
Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, the workmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep in their siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried various fittings in the lock. It snicked open.
He eased the door aside far enough to enter.
Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handle of the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemed out of alignment…and the dust had been scraped from the floor before it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked over into a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The aged Fustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head.
Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twine and pulled the sack free.
“It’s me, old fellow,” Retief said. “The nosy stranger. Sorry I got you into this.”
The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fell back. “A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers,” he rumbled. “But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth, Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments.”
“How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I’d better get some help.”
“Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here,” said the old Fustian. “It would be your life.”
“I doubt if they’d go that far.”
“Would they not?” The Fustian stretched his neck. “Cast your light here. But for the toughness of my hide….”
Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear of thick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, a sound like a seal coughing.
“Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Then they trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weapons to complete the task.”
“Weapons? I thought it was illegal!”
“Their evil genius, the Soft One,” said the Fustian. “He would provide fuel to the Devil himself.”
“The Groaci again,” said Retief. “I wonder what their angle is.”
“And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their full intentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, the block and tackle.”
Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered it into position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away. The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered…then flopped on his chest.
Slowly he got to his feet.
“My name is Whonk, fleet one,” he said. “My cows are yours.”
“Thanks. I’m Retief. I’d like to meet the girls some time. But right now, let’s get out of here.”
Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp, bulldozed them aside. “Slow am I to anger,” he said, “but implacable in my wrath. Slock, beware!”
“Hold it,” said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. “What’s that odor?” He flashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. He knelt, sniffed at the spot.
“What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now?”
Whonk considered. “There were drums,” he said. “Four of them, quite small, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, the Groaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the first period they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge Moss Rock.”
“The VIP boat. Who’s scheduled to use it?”
“I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movements after I have settled a score with certain Youths.”
“We’d better follow this up first, Whonk. There’s only one substance I know of that’s transported in drums and smells like that blot on the floor. That’s titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uranium pile.”
III
Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to the sentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of the official luxury space barge Moss Rock.
“A sign of the times,” said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter. “A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept away to sleep.”
“Let’s go aboard and take a look around.”
They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough box stood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant note in the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it.
“Curious,” he said. “What means this?” He held up a stained cloak of orange and green, a metal bracelet, papers.
“Orange and green,” mused Relief. “Whose colors are those?”
“I know not.” Whonk glanced at the arm-band. “But this is lettered.” He passed
the metal band to Retief.
“SCARS,” Retief read. He looked at Whonk. “It seems to me I’ve heard the name before,” he murmured. “Let’s get back to the Embassy—fast.”
Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound…and turned in time to duck the charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him and fetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warm embrace.
“Nice catch, Whonk. Where’d he sneak out of?”
“The lout hid there by the storage bin,” rumbled Whonk. The captive youth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster’s carapace.
“Hang onto him,” said Retief. “He looks like the biting kind.”
“No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength.”
“Ask him where the titanite is tucked away.”
“Speak, witless grub,” growled Whonk, “lest I tweak you in twain.”
The youth gurgled.
“Better let up before you make a mess of him,” said Retief. Whonk lifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thump that made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at the elder, mouth snapping.
“This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for the killing,” said Whonk. “In his repentance he will tell all to his elder.”
“That’s the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintance with me on the bus,” Retief said. “He gets around.”
The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retief planted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at the bare back of the Fustian—
“By the Great Egg!” Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he tried to rise. “This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him!”
Retief looked at the scarred back. “I thought he looked a little old. But I thought—”
“This is not possible,” Whonk said wonderingly. “The great nerve trunks are deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise the carapace and leave the patient living.”
“It looks like somebody did the trick. But let’s take this boy with us and get out of here. His folks may come home.”
“Too late,” said Whonk. Retief turned.
