“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, bull-dozing 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, playing it over a dry stain on the floor. He knelt and 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.”
* * *
Beta was setting as Retief, with Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to the sentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of the Official Barge Moss Rock.
“A sign of the times,” Whonk said, 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 through its contents.
“Curious,” he said. “What means this?” He held up a stained Fustian cloak of orange and green, a metal bracelet, and a stack of papers.
“Orange and green,” Retief muttered. “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 met 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,” Whonk rumbled. The captive youth thumped his fists and toes futilely against the oldster’s carapace.
“Hang on to him,” Retief said. “He looks like the biting kind.”
“No fear. Clumsy I am, yet I am not without strength.”
“Ask him where the titanite is tucked away.”
“Speak, witless grub,” Whonk growled, “lest I tweak you in two.”
The youth gurgled.
“Better let up before you make a mess of him,” Retief said.
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, his 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.”
“He’s the same one that tried to strike up an acquaintance with me on the bus,” Retief said. “He gets around.”
The youth, scrambling to his hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retief planted a foot on the dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at the bare back of the Fustian.
“By the Great Egg!” Whonk exclaimed, tripping the captive 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 and 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 . . . one tripped, sprawling on his face. Retief, whirling the metal bar that he had thrust between the Fustian’s legs, slammed it against the skull of another, who shook his head, then 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, dented but still mobile.
Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. “Tough heads those 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 suspicion somebody of importance was scheduled for a boatride 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. “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-looking 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 sub-sonic 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,” Magnan said 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 to speak to the Fustian, “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 Retief, “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 over-ripe dung-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. “Nine feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—”
Magnan rose, tapping on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, to them, supersonic vibrations, and looked at each other muttering. Magnan tapped louder. The minister drew in his head, his eyes closed. Some of the Fustians rose and 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.