“Oh, forgive me,” Magnan blurted, dabbing at the wine.
“Too bad the glass gave out,” Retief said. “In another minute you’d have cleared the hall—and then maybe I could have gotten a word in. You see, Mr. Minister,” he said, turning to the Fustian, “there is a matter you should know about . . .”
“Your attention, please,” Magnan said, rising. “I see that our fine young guest of honor 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, and—”
Retief tugged at Magnan’s sleeve. “Don’t introduce me yet,” he said. “I want to appear suddenly—more dramatic, you know.”
“Well,” Magnan murmured, 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 moved from his place, made his way forward, 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,” Magnan 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 and approached the guest of honor. He watched as the newcomer paused behind Slock, who was busy returning the stares of the spectators and did not notice the new arrival.
Retief pushed through the crowd and stepped up to face the Fustian youth. Slock stared at him, drawing back.
“You know me, Slock,” Retief said loudly. “An old fellow named Whonk told you about me, just before you tried to saw off his head, remember? It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you’re building.”
With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry as Whonk pinioned him from behind, lifting the youth clear of the floor.
“Glad you reporters happened along,” Retief said 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.”
“That Ministry’s overdue for a purge,” Retief said. 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?” Magnan said. “But that was—Retief! This is idiotic. The SCARS themselves were scheduled 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, openmouthed.
“The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual,” Retief said. “They intended to dispose of these lads after they got things under way.”
“Well, don’t stand there,” Magnan yelped. “Do something! If Slop is the ringleader of a delinquent gang—” He moved to give chase himself.
Retief grabbed his arm. “Don’t jump down there,” he called above the babble of talk. “You’d have as much chance of getting through there as a jack rabbit through a threshing contest. Where’s a phone?”
Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. “We can get through now,” Whonk called. “This way.” He lowered himself to the floor and bulled through to the exit. Flash bulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed in Whonk’s wake.
In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, and gave a code letter. No reply. He tried another.
“No good,” he said after a full minute had passed. 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. Flat shadows lay 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; and 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. 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 continue on to the police station,” Retief said. “I want to play a hunch. But don’t take too long. I may be painfully right.”
“What—?” Magnan started.
“As you wish, Retief,” Whonk said.
The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumped down and 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.” Stepping down from the lighted entry, he took up a position behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaring white light without heat. Retief shivered.
There was a sound in the near entrance, 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, was headed off by the battling titans, turned and made for the opposite side of the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeing Groacian.
“Well, Yith,” he said, “how’s tricks . . . ? You should pardon the expression.”
“Release me, Retief!” the pale-featured creature lisped, his throat bladder pulsating in agitation. “The behemoths vie for the privilege of dismembering me.”
“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 conspirator?” Retief said. “Now keep quiet . . . and you may get out of this alive.”
The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to the ground. The smaller Fustian lay on its back, helpless.
“That’s Whonk, still on his feet,” Retief said. “I wonder who he’s caught—and why.”
Whonk came toward the Moss Rock dragging the supine Fustian. 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.” Stepping out, he hailed Whonk.
Puffing like a steam engine, Whonk pulled up before him. “Hail, 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 to—”
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, and hauled him back to Whonk.
“It’s up to you, Whonk,” he said. “I know how important ceremonial revenge is to you Fustians.”