“What does the naked-back here?” a deep voice barked 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 drawing; he hissed in anger.
“Doddering hulk!” he snapped at the ancient, moving toward them. “May you toss in nightmares! Put aside the plans!”
“My mistake,” Retief said. “I didn’t know this was a secret project.”
The youth hesitated. “It is not a secret,” he muttered. “Why should it be a secret?”
“You tell me.”
The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in the Fustian 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,” Retief said. “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. “They 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 them before 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, pocketing the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featured Groacian with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyed the hut, then started toward it.
“That’s the military attaché of the Groaci Embassy,” Retief said. “I wonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?”
“Naught that augers 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 said, moving 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.
* * *
It was an hour along in the second dark of the third cycle when Retief left the Embassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. He flipped on a light and found a note 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, stationed himself in a corner of it, and watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise 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 first-noon sun, but the thought failed to keep the chill off.
Two youths clambered up on the moving platform and walked purposefully toward Retief. He moved off the rail, watching them, his 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,” Retief said. “Don’t crowd me.”
The two stepped close, their slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out a foot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the over-age juvenile, and threw his weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, then 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, and watched his would-be assailants lumber down off their car and move heavily off, their 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. And the term obsolete was a relative one. A ship which had been out-moded 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 Retief 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. Taking a multi-bladed tool from his pocket, Retief tried various fittings in the lock; it snicked open and 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, and looked over into a ring of bundles. The aged Fustian lay inside the ring, a heavy sack tied over his head. Retief dropped down beside him, sawed at the tough twine, and pulled the sack free.
“It’s me, old fellow,” he said, “the nosy stranger. Sorry I got you into this.”
The oldster threshed his gnarled legs, rocked slightly, then 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 bottom-most 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,” the Fustian said, “he would provide fuel to the Fire-Devil.”
“The Groaci again,” Retief said. “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.