Rock,” he sighed. “Soon will I be forced into retirement. Then 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. And 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 carry on to the police station,” said Retief. “I want to play a hunch. But don’t take too long. I may be painfully right.”
“What—?” Magnan started.
“As you wish, Retief,” said Whonk.
The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumped down, 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.” He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up a position behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaring blue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he’d guessed wrong….
There was a sound in the near distance, 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. Headed off by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite side of the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeing Groaci.
“Well, Yith,” he said, “how’s tricks? You should pardon the expression.”
“Release me, Retief!” the pale-featured alien lisped, his throat bladder pulsating in agitation. “The behemoths vie for the privilege of dismembering me out of hand!”
“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 skunk?” said Retief. “Now keep quiet…and you may get out of this alive.”
The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to the ground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure was on its back, helpless.
“That’s Whonk, still on his feet,” said Retief. “I wonder who he’s caught—and why.”
Whonk came toward the Moss Rock dragging the supine Fustian, who kicked vainly. 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.” He stepped out and hailed Whonk.
Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. “Sleep, 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—”
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, hauled him back to Whonk.
“It’s up to you, Whonk,” he said. “I know how important ceremonial revenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere.”
“Mercy!” Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. “I claim diplomatic immunity!”
“No diplomat am I,” rumbled Whonk. “Let me see; suppose I start with one of those obscenely active eyes—” He reached….
“I have an idea,” said Retief brightly. “Do you suppose—just this once—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised to arrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?”
“But,” Whonk protested, “those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, one by one!”
“Yess,” hissed Yith, “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—”
“Maybe just one eye,” said Whonk grudgingly. “That would leave him four.”
“Be a sport,” said Retief.
“Well.”
“It’s a deal then,” said Retief. “Yith, on your word as a diplomat, an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you’ll set up the mission. Groaci surgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments. It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. And in return, Whonk won’t sit on you. And I won’t prefer charges of interference in the internal affairs of a free world.”
Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of the borrowed carapace, struggled to his feet…in time for Whonk to seize him, lift him high and head for the entry to the Moss Rock.
“Hey,” Retief called. “Where are you going?”
“I would not deny this one his reward,” called Whonk. “He hoped to cruise in luxury. So be it.”
“Hold on,” said Retief. “That tub is loaded with titanite!”
“Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me a vengeance.”
Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the ramp and disappeared within the ship.
“I guess Whonk means business,” he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp, all five eyes goggling. “And he’s a little too big for me to stop.”
Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.
“What did you do with him?” said Retief. “Tell him you were going to—”
“We had best withdraw,” said Whonk. “The killing radius of the drive is fifty yards.”
“You mean—”
“The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep.”
* * * *
“It was quite a bang,” said Retief. “But I guess you saw it, too.”
“No, confound it,” Magnan said. “When
