«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.
«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 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,» 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 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 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—»