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."