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, 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.