“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, “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 Magnan, “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 overripe stench-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. “Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—”
Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, to them, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering. Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Some of the Fustians rose, 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,” blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine.
“Too bad the glass gave out,” said Retief. “In another minute you’d have cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word in sideways. There’s a matter you should know about—”
“Your attention, please,” Magnan said, rising. “I see that our fine young guest 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.”
Retief tugged at Magnan’s sleeve. “Don’t introduce me yet,” he said. “I want to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know.”
“Well,” murmured Magnan, 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 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,” he 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, approached the guest of honor. He watched as the newcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival.
Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth. Slock stared at him, drew back.
“You know me, Slock,” said Retief loudly. “An old fellow named Whonk told you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember? It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you’re building.”
IV
With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry as the Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clear of the floor.
“Glad you reporters happened along,” said Retief 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!”
“The Ministry’s overdue for a purge,” snapped Retief. 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?” said Magnan. “But that was—Retief! This is idiotic. Slock himself was 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 this fellow Slock, once he’d served their purpose.”
“Well, don’t stand there,” yelped Magnan over the uproar. “If Slock is the ring-leader of a delinquent gang…!” He moved to give chase.
Retief grabbed his arm. “Don’t jump down there! You’d have as much chance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest.”
Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. “We can get through now,” Whonk called. “This way.” He lowered himself to the floor, bulled through to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed in Whonk’s wake.
In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave a code letter. No reply. He tried another.
“No good,” he said after a full minute had passed. “Wonder what’s loose?” 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
