LITMIR.BIZ

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“I wonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?”

      “Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust,” the oldster rumbled. “Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions.”

      “I was just leaving,” Retief said. “Which way out?”

      “The rear door,” the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. “Rest well, stranger on these shores.” He moved to the entrance.

      “Same to you, pop,” said Retief. “And thanks.”

      He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices were raised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate.

      * * * *

      The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left the Embassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. He flipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight:

      “Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at first dark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressive Sponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage, arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of your intransigence.”

      Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Just time to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creep back.

      Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a corner and watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline. The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sun and the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray.

      Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour he would be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, but the thought failed to keep the chill off.

      Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully toward Retief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.

      “That’s close enough, kids,” he said. “Plenty of room on this scow. No need to crowd up.”

      “There are certain films,” the lead Fustian muttered. His voice was unusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and moved awkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.

      “I told you once,” said Retief. “Don’t crowd me.”

      The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out a foot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threw his weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fell heavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the other Youth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied. The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard another vehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car, tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.

      So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight. They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault, after running a copy for the reference files.

      And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXV battle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat Naval Arm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. The term “obsolete” was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded in the armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk in the Eastern Arm.

      But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one present but himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderly Fustian hadn’t told them anything.

      At least not willingly….

      Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until the flat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for the shipyard.

      * * * *

      The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position. Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The old fellow had put up a struggle.

      There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retief followed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door of a warehouse.

      Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, the workmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep in their siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried various fittings in the lock. It snicked open.

      He eased the door aside far enough to enter.

      Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handle of the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemed out of alignment…and the dust had been scraped from the floor before it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked over into a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The aged Fustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head.

      Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twine and pulled the sack free.

      “It’s me, old fellow,” Retief said. “The nosy stranger. Sorry I got you into this.”

      The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fell back. “A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers,” he rumbled. “But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth, Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments.”

      “How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I’d better get some help.”

      “Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here,” said the old Fustian. “It would be your life.”

      “I doubt if they’d go that far.”

      “Would they not?” The Fustian stretched his neck. “Cast your light here. But for the toughness of my hide….”

      Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear of thick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, a sound like a seal coughing.

      “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,” said the Fustian. “He would provide fuel to the Devil himself.”

      “The Groaci again,” said Retief. “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, bulldozed 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, played it over a dry stain on the floor. He knelt, 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

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