Retief Unbound (11 page)

"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.

"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, open-mouthed.

"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."

"Mercy!" Yith hissed, his
eye-stalks whipping in distress. "I claim diplomatic immunity."

"No diplomat am I," Whonk
rumbled. "Let me see; suppose I start with one of those obscenely active
eyes." He reached . ..

"I have an idea," Retief
said brightly. "Do you suppose- just this once—you could forego the
ceremonial revenge if Yith promised to arrange for a Groacian Surgical Mission
to de-carapace you elders?"

"But," Whonk protested,
"those eyes; what a pleasure to pluck them, one by one—"

"Yess," Yith hissed,
"I swear it; our most expert surgeons . . . platoons of them, with the
finest of equipment."

"I have dreamed of how it
would be to sit on this one, to feel him squash beneath my bulk. . . ."

"Light as a whissle feather
shall you dance," Yith whispered. "Shell-less shall you spring in
the joy of renewed youth. . .."