Retief Unbound (10 page)

"The police—"

"Bah," the ancient
rumbled. "None have we worthy of the name, nor have we needed them before
now."

"What's behind it?"

"They have found leaders. The
spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plot mischief." He pointed to the
window. "They come, and a soft-one with them."

Retief, pocketing the camera,
glanced out the window. A pale-featured Groacian with an ornately decorated
crest stood with the youths, who eyed the hut, then started toward it.

"That's the military attaché
of the Groaci Embassy," Retief said. "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 said, moving 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.

It was an hour along in the second
dark of the third cycle when Retief left the Embassy technical library and
crossed the corridor to his office. He flipped on a light and found a note
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,
stationed himself in a corner of it, and watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise
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 first-noon sun, but the
thought failed to keep the chill off.

Two youths clambered up on the
moving platform and walked purposefully toward Retief. He moved off the rail,
watching them, his 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," Retief
said. "Don't crowd me."

The two stepped close, their slit
mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out a foot, hooked it behind the scaly leg
of the over-age juvenile, and threw his weight against the cloaked chest. The
clumsy Fustian tottered, then 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, and watched his would-be assailants lumber down off
their car and move heavily off, their 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. And 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 Retief
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. Taking a multi-bladed tool from his pocket, Retief
tried various fittings in the lock; it snicked open and 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 flight, climbed up on the bales, and
looked over into a ring of bundles. The aged Fustian lay inside the ring, a
heavy sack tied over his head. Retief dropped down beside him, sawed at the
tough twine, and pulled the sack free.

"It's me, old fellow," he
said, "the nosy stranger. Sorry I got you into this."

The oldster threshed his gnarled
legs, rocked slightly, then 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," 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 whirling 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."