by Keith Laumer
Three youths came from behind the sheds.
“Well,” Retief said. “It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight. Where’s your pal?” he said to the advancing trio. “The sticky little bird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckers holding the bag, I’ll bet.”
“Shelter behind me, Retief,” said Whonk.
“Go get ’em, old-timer.” Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars. “I’ll jump around and distract them.”
Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians. They fanned out…and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retief whirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian’s legs, slammed it against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned on Retief…and bounced off the steel hull of the Moss Rock as Whonk took him in full charge.
Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustian on the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departed hastily, seriously dented but still mobile.
Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. “Tough heads these kids have got. I’m tempted to chase those two lads down, but I’ve got another errand to run. I don’t know who the Groaci intended to blast, but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduled for a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite is enough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her.”
“The plot is foiled,” said Whonk. “But what reason did they have?”
“The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn’t know about this gambit.”
“Which of these is the leader?” asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youth with a horny toe. “Arise, dreaming one.”
“Never mind him, Whonk. We’ll tie these two up and leave them here. I know where to find the boss.”
* * * *
A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scanned the tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by the giant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttered a hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled the air: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music.
Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. “Sorry to be late, Mr. Ambassador.”
“I’m honored that you chose to appear at all,” said Magnan coldly. He turned back to the Fustian on his left.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Minister,” he said. “Charming, most charming. So joyous.”
The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. “It is the Lament of Hatching,” he said; “our National Dirge.”
“Oh,” said Magnan. “How interesting. Such a pleasing balance of instruments—”
“It is a droon solo,” said the Fustian, eyeing the Terrestrial Ambassador suspiciously.
“Why don’t you just admit you can’t hear it,” Retief whispered loudly. “And if I may interrupt a moment—”
Magnan cleared his throat. “Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived, perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies.”
“This group,” said Retief, leaning across Magnan, “the SCARS. How much do you know about them, Mr. Minister?”
“Nothing at all,” the huge Fustian elder rumbled. “For my taste, all Youths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow a carapace to tame their irresponsibility.”
“We mustn’t lose sight of the importance of channeling youthful energies,” said Magnan.
“Labor gangs,” said the minister. “In my youth we were indentured to the dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge.”
“But in these modern times,” put in Magnan, “surely it’s incumbent on us to make happy these golden hours.”
The minister snorted. “Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon me and pelted me with overripe stench-fruit.”
“But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,” cried Magnan. “Their essential tenderness—”
“You’d not find a tender spot on that lout yonder,” the minister said, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, “if you drilled boreholes and blasted.”
“Why, that’s our guest of honor,” said Magnan, “a fine young fellow! Slop I believe his name is.”
“Slock,” said Retief. “Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—”
Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, to them, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering. Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Some of the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose. Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and green wine gushed on the tablecloth.
“What in the name of the Great Egg!” the Minister muttered. He blinked, breathing deeply.
“Oh, forgive me,” blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine.
“Too bad the glass gave out,” said Retief. “In another minute you’d have cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word in sideways. There’s a matter you should know about—”
“Your attention, please,” Magnan said, rising. “I see that our fine young guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committee will be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr. Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for the pleasure of sponsoring this lovely group.”
Retief tugged at Magnan’s sleeve. “Don’t introduce me yet,” he said. “I want to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know.”
“Well,” murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, “I’m gratified to see you entering into the spirit of the event at last.” He turned his attention back to the assembled guests. “If our honored guest will join me on the rostrum…?” he said. “The gentlemen of the press may want to catch a few shots of the presentation.”
Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room, took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras.
“How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more the great pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS,” he said, talking slowly for the benefit of the scribbling reporters. “We’d like to think that in our modest way we’re to be a part of all that the SCARS achieve during the years ahead.”
Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two low steps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as the newcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival.
Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth. Slock stared at him, drew back.
“You know me, Slock,” said Retief loudly. “An old fellow named Whonk told you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember? It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you’re building.”
IV
With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry as the Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clear of the floor.
“Glad you reporters happened along,” said Retief to the gaping newsmen. “Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy. The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foreman at the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed. The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followed by a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearby worlds…for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo.”
Magnan found his tongue. “Are you mad, Retief?” he screeched. “This group was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth!”
“The Ministry’s overdue for a purge,” snapped Retief. He turned back to Slock. “I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that was planned for today. When the Moss Rock blew, a variety of clues were to be planted where they’d be easy to find…with SCARS written all over them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affair squarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy…whose sponsorship of the SCARS had received plenty of publicity.”
“The Moss Rock?” said Magnan. “But that was—Retief! This is idiotic. Slock himself was sched
uled to go on a cruise tomorrow!”
Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his grip loosened…and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, butting his way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnan watched, open-mouthed.
“The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual,” Retief said. “They intended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he’d served their purpose.”
“Well, don’t stand there,” yelped Magnan over the uproar. “If Slock is the ring-leader of a delinquent gang…!” He moved to give chase.
Retief grabbed his arm. “Don’t jump down there! You’d have as much chance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest.”
Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. “We can get through now,” Whonk called. “This way.” He lowered himself to the floor, bulled through to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed in Whonk’s wake.
In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave a code letter. No reply. He tried another.
“No good,” he said after a full minute had passed. “Wonder what’s loose?” He slammed the phone back in its niche. “Let’s grab a cab.”
* * * *
In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a low cloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. The three mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight of his immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.
“Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth we bludgeoned aboard the Moss Rock,” he sighed. “Soon will I be forced into retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as I will rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-daily feedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is no pleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismal outlook for one’s next thousand years!”
“You two carry on to the police station,” said Retief. “I want to play a hunch. But don’t take too long. I may be painfully right.”
“What—?” Magnan started.
“As you wish, Retief,” said Whonk.
The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumped down, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stood vacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.
“That’s the trouble with a peaceful world,” Retief muttered. “No police protection.” He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up a position behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaring blue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he’d guessed wrong….
There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.
Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, had reappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. A small figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headed off by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite side of the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeing Groaci.
“Well, Yith,” he said, “how’s tricks? You should pardon the expression.”
“Release me, Retief!” the pale-featured alien lisped, his throat bladder pulsating in agitation. “The behemoths vie for the privilege of dismembering me out of hand!”
“I know how they feel. I’ll see what I can do…for a price.”
“I appeal to you,” Yith whispered hoarsely. “As a fellow diplomat, a fellow alien, a fellow soft-back—”
“Why don’t you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk?” said Retief. “Now keep quiet…and you may get out of this alive.”
The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to the ground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure was on its back, helpless.
“That’s Whonk, still on his feet,” said Retief. “I wonder who he’s caught—and why.”
Whonk came toward the Moss Rock dragging the supine Fustian, who kicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind the sentry box. “Better sit tight, Yith. Don’t try to sneak off; I can outrun you. Stay here and I’ll see what I can do.” He stepped out and hailed Whonk.
Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. “Sleep, Retief!” He panted. “You followed a hunch; I did the same. I saw something strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. I watched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a dead carapace! Now many things become clear.”* * * *
Retief whistled. “So the Youths aren’t all as young as they look. Somebody’s been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!”
“The Soft One,” Whonk said. “You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw. Produce him now.”
“Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won’t do you any good—”
Whonk winked broadly. “I must take my revenge!” he roared. “I shall test the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured up by the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!”
Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feet away, hauled him back to Whonk.
“It’s up to you, Whonk,” he said. “I know how important ceremonial revenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere.”
“Mercy!” Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. “I claim diplomatic immunity!”
“No diplomat am I,” rumbled Whonk. “Let me see; suppose I start with one of those obscenely active eyes—” He reached….
“I have an idea,” said Retief brightly. “Do you suppose—just this once—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised to arrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?”
“But,” Whonk protested, “those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, one by one!”
“Yess,” hissed Yith, “I swear it! Our most expert surgeons…platoons of them, with the finest of equipment.”
“I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel him squash beneath my bulk….”
“Light as a whissle feather shall you dance,” Yith whispered. “Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—”
“Maybe just one eye,” said Whonk grudgingly. “That would leave him four.”
“Be a sport,” said Retief.
“Well.”
“It’s a deal then,” said Retief. “Yith, on your word as a diplomat, an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you’ll set up the mission. Groaci surgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments. It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. And in return, Whonk won’t sit on you. And I won’t prefer charges of interference in the internal affairs of a free world.”
Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of the borrowed carapace, struggled to his feet…in time for Whonk to seize him, lift him high and head for the entry to the Moss Rock.
“Hey,” Retief called. “Where are you going?”
“I would not deny this one his reward,” called Whonk. “He hoped to cruise in luxury. So be it.”
“Hold on,” said Retief. “That tub is loaded with titanite!”
“Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me a vengeance.”
Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the ramp and disappeared within the ship.
“I guess Whonk means business,” he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp, all five eyes goggling. “And he’s a little too big for me to stop.”
Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.
“What did you do with him?” said Retief. “Tell him you were going to—”
“We had best withdraw,” said Whonk. “The killing radius of the drive is fifty yards.”
“You mean—”
“The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep.”
* * * *
“It was quite a bang,” said Retief. “But I guess you saw it, too.”
“No, confound it,” Magnan said. “When I remonstrated with Hulk, or Whelk—”
“Whonk.”
�
�—the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I’ll most certainly complain to the Minister.”
“How about the surgical mission?”
“A most generous offer,” said Magnan. “Frankly, I was astonished. I think perhaps we’ve judged the Groaci too harshly.”
“I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it,” said Retief. “And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groups are on the way out.”
Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. “I—ah—have explained to the press that last night’s—ah—”
“Fiasco.”
“—affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenable position. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and the presumed death of, uh, Slop.”
“The Fustians understand,” said Retief. “Whonk wasn’t kidding about ceremonial vengeance.”
“The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,” said Magnan. “I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: less formal….”
“The Moss Rock was bound for Groaci,” said Retief. “She was already in her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive on schedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display. I think that should be all the aide the Groaci’s memoires will need to keep their tentacles off Fust.”
“But diplomatic usage—”
“Then, too, the less that’s put in writing, the less they can blame you for, if anything goes wrong.”
“That’s true,” said Magnan, lips pursed. “Now you’re thinking constructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet.” He smiled expansively.
“Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me.” Retief stood up. “I’m taking a few weeks off…if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. My pal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing is good.”
“But there are some extremely important matters coming up,” said Magnan. “We’re planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—”
“Count me out. All groups give me an itch.”
“Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats are ourselves a group.”
“Uh-huh,” Retief said.
