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.
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."